Four eids and a funeral, p.9
Four Eids and a Funeral, page 9
“What?” I let slip.
“I can help with the mural for the Islamic Center. You need an artist for it, right?” he asks.
“I thought you weren’t interested in painting a mural for the community?” I say, still confused.
Said shrugs. “Well, now I am. I figured I’m home for the summer and I have a lot of free time, so why not? And…” He pauses and glances at me, and my chest is still doing that annoying fluttering thing. “I was thinking about it, and my memories here weren’t all bad, actually.”
I do nothing, say nothing. I just wait for him to finally utter the words April Fools’ even though April was months ago and Said doesn’t look like he’s trying to prank me.
For some reason, he actually wants to paint the mural … and for some reason, I’m considering his offer. Ms. Barnes would probably be delighted at the idea of us working together. Between Laddoo and this, it seems that somehow, her plan to bring us together is working even from the afterlife.
I feel a tug in my chest at the thought of her.
A mural might not change the mind of Mayor Williams, but it might help everyone else in town see how important the Islamic Center still is. That, along with the petition idea Safiyah suggested, could be enough to stop the demolition plans. I just (a) need to figure out how to actually create a petition, and (b) I need to find a way to be near Said again without wanting to hit him squarely in his douche face.
I’m not sure that I can even trust Said, but it’s not like I know any other artists or can pay an artist for that matter. At this point I’ll have to accept all the free help I can get.
I sigh. “When can you get started?”
9
PALS BEFORE GALS
Tiwa
Petitioning is a lot harder than it looks.
A day after the Save the Islamic Center plan was hatched, I’m armed with petition forms printed out from the New Crosshaven local governing website and a renewed sense of hope.
In theory it all seems pretty straightforward.
Print out a standard form that people around town can sign.
Once said form reaches more than one hundred signatures, submit it to the town hall.
The powers at the town hall (namely Mayor Williams) review it and then that’s that. We have our Islamic Center back.
Only, in reality, petitioning requires more than just printing off forms and getting signatures. It involves actually knocking on more than one hundred doors and speaking to neighbors I’ve only ever seen in passing or smiled at awkwardly in the bread aisle at the supermarket.
And as someone who isn’t all that fond of other human beings or wide-scale social interaction, this feels like my worst nightmare. This whole ordeal might have been less anxiety inducing if it wasn’t for the fact that Safiyah was abandoning me last minute.
“I’m not abandoning you,” Safiyah says while trying to use a straightener to curl her hair in the small standing mirror in the corner of my bedroom. She arrived sometime this morning so that she could scour through my wardrobe for clothes.
“What do you call this, then? I think the dictionary definition of abandonment definitely covers leaving your friend of many years to face the town—alone I might add—while you go on a date with your crush. What happened to pals before gals?” I say, sitting on the floor by my bed with two clipboards in my lap, and a ball of yarn and a crochet hook in my hands as I watch the traitor get ready.
I’m mostly joking. I’m happy for Safiyah, really. The part of me that isn’t joking is the part scared shitless about the prospect of facing up to all my neighbors alone.
“Firstly, I can’t believe you actually said pals before gals, and secondly, it’s not a date,” Safiyah says, applying ChapStick to her lips now. “I’m helping Ishra with her college applications.”
“I thought you guys were the same age?” I ask as I attempt to crochet a line.
“We are. She just took a gap year to look after her grandma and save for college, and now she needs help with applications,” Safiyah says. “But don’t worry, you won’t be alone. I have arranged backup for you.”
“Who?” I mutter.
Safiyah hesitates before answering and I know immediately who it is.
“Said—but before you protest, you should know that I told him to be on his best behavior.”
It’s bad enough that I have to spend time with him because of the mural, and now this? I wonder what Safiyah offered him in exchange.
“Whatever, I guess beggars can’t be choosers,” I say.
“That’s the spirit, Tee,” Safiyah says, before standing up and turning to face me. “What do you think? Do I look like I’m trying too hard? I want to seem like I stumbled out of bed like this, and happen to look flawless but with zero effort.”
I take in Safiyah’s bouncy curls, the unhinged expression on her face, and the overly steamed summer dress she swiped from my closet, and I nod thoughtfully.
“You’ve succeeded, totally effortless,” I say.
She breathes out, relieved. “Thank goodness. I’m going to head off; good luck with the petition and try not to maim my brother. My mom will miss him dearly if you kill him.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Okay, I’ll try. For Auntie.”
“Thank you,” she says, and then adds, “I told Said to meet you by Walker at noon by the way.”
“Sounds great,” I say dryly.
Between being stuck with Said and the prospect of hours of forced social interaction with relative strangers, I can already tell that this is going to be a long day.
* * *
Said is where Safiyah said he’d be: outside the Walker Center, staring off into the sky. Almost like he’s anticipating something.
A passerby might think Said is studying the weather, or watching out for a passing plane. But I know exactly what he’s looking for: the man in the moon.
Obviously not an actual man in the moon, just a cloud shaped like him.
When we were kids Said would often stare off into the sky, trying to find shapes in the clouds. He used to tell me that if you stared long enough, you might just see something out of the ordinary. For him, it was the moon guy.
I’m surprised at how focused he is, his eyebrows scrunched up as he observes the sky.
I guess it’s just a bit weird how much he looks like the Said I knew from when he was ten, pulling the same concentrated expression while watching the clouds.
“Just so you know, it’s creepy to stare at people,” Said says, not breaking his intense staring contest with the sky.
I startle a little, not expecting his voice. I’m still at least ten feet away from him. How in the world did he see me?
“What’s actually creepy is the fact that you apparently have eyes on the sides of your face now like some … alien,” I manage, unsure how to land my point.
He snorts and finally pulls his eyes away from above and over to me.
“What a comeback,” he says with a sarcastic raise of his eyebrow. His mouth twitches ever so slightly. “I’m not an alien, I was simply multitasking. Not very hard to do for some of us.”
I narrow my eyes at him but decide to ignore the jab, though my face still warms. I didn’t come here to argue with him. I came here to save the Islamic Center.
I clear my throat and walk over to him, holding out one of my clipboards and avoiding eye contact with him. “Here’s the petition form. I figured it would be easier if we did some individually and some together. You take these streets here,” I say, pointing down at the list of little neighborhoods dotted around town, “and I’ll do these, and then we can meet up on Rosehill Avenue to tackle that side of town together. Is that all clear?” I ask, looking at his forehead.
Looking directly into Said’s face only makes me angry.
“Sounds simple enough,” Said says, and again I feel him watching me.
I nod, looking down pointedly at my own clipboard. “Okay, I’ll see you in about an hour or so.”
“See you then,” he says.
“See you,” I reply again, not wanting Said to have the final word.
“Later,” he adds.
I look up at him finally, trying not to let my annoyance show. His expression is neutral, but behind his eyes, I can see that this is a game to him too.
“Yes, at Rosehill Avenue,” I say, stepping back now.
“Mhm, the very place,” he replies, moving away too.
“In an hour,” I say.
“Yes, the very time,” he agrees, pulling out his earphones and slipping them in his ears before I can say anything else. “Bye, Tiwa.” He smiles smugly before walking away.
I sigh, looking down at my clipboard filled with rows of empty lines that need to be filled by the end of the day.
“And so the nightmare begins,” I say to myself as I turn in the opposite direction, making my way over to the first street.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I have managed to knock on thirty-two doors, of which twenty-nine actually answered and signed.
Petitioning is not as bad as I’d expected. Still kind of scary but not as much of the nightmare as I’d expected.
“Good luck, dear, hope you get all the signatures you need!” Miss Lewis from number 9 Thorngrove Avenue says, handing me back the clipboard.
“Thanks, Miss Lewis,” I reply, trying to make my smile inviting and appreciative.
I’ve been smiling so much today my face is hurting; it’s clearly a sign I wasn’t built for this.
When the door closes, I look down at the board, counting the signatures.
Thirty-five signatures down, plenty more to go.
I step over Miss Lewis’s rosebushes to door number ten and ring the bell twice.
“Coming!” a gruff voice says from behind the door.
The muscles in my face protest as I put on my winning smile once again.
After a few moments of silence, I hear shuffling before the door finally opens and I’m greeted by a familiar face I recognize from the mosque.
I feel myself relax a little. The last few neighbors weren’t Muslim, and so it took a little more explanation and convincing to get them on board. This should be quicker.
“As-salaam-alaikum, Auntie,” I say brightly.
I wait for her to respond with the usual wa-alaikum-salaam, but it never comes.
Instead she squints up at me, watching my face with a bemused expression.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “As you might already know, the Islamic Center burned down earlier this week, and Mayor Williams has decided that he wants to knock the remaining parts of the building down in order to build new apartments. We are collecting signatures for this petition to put a stop to this and to ask for the Islamic Center to be rebuilt. If you just sign here, you can help get this issue taken to the people in charge at the town hall and hopefully get them to overturn the building plans,” I finish reading from my mental script, holding out the clipboard and pen to the confused auntie.
At first she does nothing, just holds on to the doorframe and glares at me unblinking. Then she nods, taking the clipboard from my hands and reaching out to sign.
“Are there any Muslims involved in this project?” the auntie mutters gruffly.
I can’t tell if she’s asking me or talking to herself, but I feel my shoulders tense and an uncomfortable feeling settle inside.
“Y-yes, um, there are Muslims involved,” I say quickly.
I’m not sure why I don’t just tell her that I’m involved—that I’m Muslim. I thought it was obvious, especially as I’m pretty sure we’ve run into each other at the Islamic Center before.
“Here you go,” the auntie says, handing me back the clipboard without looking at me.
When she goes back inside, I try to shake off the weirdness I feel as I continue down the street, looking for more neighbors to sign the petition.
The next few houses go well; I see another face from the mosque, an auntie who I remember making mishtis during Eid last year. She greets me enthusiastically and asks how I’ve been. I even feel the weirdness inside begin to shrink as I knock on number fifteen. This time I’m met with another familiar face from the mosque.
I pull on my smile and take a deep breath getting ready to recite the same lines, but before I can get a word out, I see the neighbor’s face twist into a distasteful grimace.
Next thing I know, the door is slamming shut in my face.
10
DESSERT TO GO
Said
I approach Rosehill Avenue ten minutes late, and I don’t see Tiwa anywhere.
I got here first.
I smile triumphantly, until I hear Tiwa’s voice in the distance. She’s in the middle of a conversation with one of the neighbors. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear Tiwa’s high-pitched voice and see her strained smile.
I knew I would be much better at this than Tiwa. She’s not a people person at all.
I remember in sixth grade, Tiwa always made boys in our class cry because she kept on scowling at them. Josh Donnelly, who was her seatmate that year, even migrated all the way to the other side of class because she made him cry one too many times.
Even now, her smile looks unnatural. I’m too used to her scowling at everyone. Especially me.
She clearly needs my help, and my dazzling personality, so I make my way over to her.
Over her shoulder, I spot the person she’s speaking to. It’s an older auntie, wearing a blue salwar kameez. She looks as comfortable having this conversation as Tiwa. But then her gaze flickers over to me, and her expression changes.
“As-salaam-alaikum!” the auntie says, a sudden smile on her face.
Tiwa whips around to look at me, her eyebrows furrowed together.
“Wa-alaikum-salaam, Auntie,” I say. “My frien—my colleague, Tiwa, and I are just collecting some signatures for our petition to save the Islamic Center. I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the unfortunate fire, and how Mayor Williams is planning to demolish the building to make apartments. We’re trying to do everything in our power to get the Islamic Center rebuilt. It’s such an important part of our community.”
The auntie nods sympathetically, before reaching out for my clipboard. Almost like there was no question about her signing the petition.
I look at Tiwa with a victorious smile.
“It’s so amazing that you’re taking charge of this,” the auntie says as she hands back the clipboard. “Not many people care about the Islamic Center, or the small Muslim community in this town.”
“Don’t worry, Auntie, we’re doing everything that we can,” I say.
“Bahut achchha kaam kar rahe hon. Shabbash!” The auntie ruffles my hair. “Bye, beta,” she says before closing the door. I blink for a moment, wondering why she assumed I spoke Hindi, why she barely even glanced at Tiwa throughout the entire conversation, and why she didn’t even say goodbye to her.
But as we turn away toward the main road, Tiwa is glancing down at her clipboard, like she doesn’t care about the auntie’s strange behavior. “How many houses did you get through?”
“Pretty much all of them,” I say. “You?”
“Yeah, a good amount. But … there were a few who didn’t sign. And there was even one person who slammed the door in my face.” At that, Tiwa just rolls her eyes like she doesn’t care.
I stop in my tracks. “Someone slammed the door in your face?”
Tiwa pauses too, until the two of us are face-to-face. “Yeah, but … it’s not a big deal.” She shrugs. “There was even an auntie who asked if I was Muslim. It happens sometimes.”
I can only blink at her, confused. Nobody slammed the door in my face, and nobody assumed that I wasn’t Muslim. In fact, one of the uncles invited me into the house for a cup of tea, and an auntie even asked if I was single so she could set me up with her daughter.
“What do you mean, it happens sometimes? Like … it happens at the mosque? With aunties you know?” I ask.
“Sometimes…” Tiwa says slowly. “But I think it’s probably because, you know, I don’t wear a hijab. So it’s not easy to tell that I’m Muslim. I try not to think too much about it.”
“Well, I don’t wear a hijab either,” I say with a smile.
Tiwa’s eyes narrow at me and my smile widens. “What, you don’t think I can pull off a hijab?” I ask. And before Tiwa can give me a death glare that can send me to my grave, I add, “I’m joking, obviously. It’s not okay that anybody treats you like that. Especially not Muslim aunties.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m fine. We should really keep going with our petition. We have a lot to get done,” Tiwa says. She glances down at her clipboard again, but she’s lost some of the intensity in her eyes I noticed this morning. She’s obviously not fine.
“Maybe we should take a break and get some food. I’m hungry,” I say.
I expect Tiwa to put up a fight, because that’s our usual way of doing things, but she just sighs and nods. “Okay, sure. Let’s get some food.”
* * *
We end up in a corner booth at Abigail’s bakery, and I suddenly feel like we’ve gone back in time to when we were kids. Tiwa and I used to be obsessed with coming to Abigail’s to share a plate of pineapple-shaped sugar cookies.
We don’t order any sugar cookies to share this time around, though. It would be a bit too weird. Instead, I order halal chicken enchiladas with a side of fries, and a glass of pink lemonade, while Tiwa gets a spinach frittata and a cup of coffee.
“I forgot how good Abigail’s food is,” I say, through a mouthful of enchilada. It’s basically heaven on a plate. Which is exactly why I’m going to drag Julian here when he comes later this summer. He has a bigger sweet tooth than I do, and that’s saying something.
“Yeah, though nothing beats her pastries, obviously,” Tiwa says.
“Obviously,” I agree. “And that’s why we should order dessert after this.”
Tiwa’s lips quirk up, almost like she’s trying really hard not to smile. “We still have more petitioning to do.”
