The bathroom is empty, but I duck into a stall anyway. I wonder if every dude with a girlfriend finds himself hiding from her next to a toilet at some point.
Part I
The bathroom is empty, but I duck into a stall anyway. I wonder if every dude with a girlfriend finds himself hiding from her next to a toilet at some point.
For a second, the Fight hangs between us, specter versions of ourselves six months ago facing each other at a campground in Veil Meadows. Noor confessing that she was in love with me. Kissing me.
To Chachu, tardiness is illogical, and if there’ s one thing Chachu hates, it’ s the illogical.
Salahudin usually has dad humor, but that wasn’ t bad. I almost say so. He glances at my face. I want to hide. Or run away. He steps closer.
It will be fine. I wipe my eyes. In a few hours, you’ ll be writing about this in your journal because it will be the past instead of the now, and everything will be fine.
Part II
“Apologies. I was being stupid,” Arsalan says in a rare fit of self- awareness.
Yes, Ama was very nice. Which is why she kept her comments to a minimum whenever Arsalan or his family came up.
I figured that such thoughts would prepare me for her death. They didn’ t.
Brooke stumbled inside the store, taller than us both. Shoulders rounded from a part- time job at the DMV. Eyes blank from a string of shitty boyfriends.
I don’ t have allodynia. Saying I do is shitty since there are people who actually have it and suffer. But it’ s the only thing that gets people to back off. How else do I explain that Ama’ s hugs felt like home, but a stranger’ s tap feels like an attack? That when Noor touched my arm today, it fizzed electric in the best way, but a tussle on the soccer field can make me nauseous? That if I accidently touch another person, I’ m fine, but if they do the same, I want to cannon them into the stratosphere?
“She didn’ t have cancer,” I say. “She had advanced kidney disease. Cancer is mercurial. Sometimes you can beat it and sometimes you can’ t. But Ama could have stayed healthy. She just had to rest and go to dialysis and she didn’ t.”
“Too much to do at the motel,” I say. “Too expensive. We don’ t have health insurance. I should’ ve made her go. Abu should have helped her with the motel. My asshole uncle should have donated a kidney. But none of us did what we should have done.”
Water the flowers. A few hours from dying and that was what she was thinking. Because she adored the Clouds’ Rest. When business was good, she loved talking to the people who came through: the scientists headed to the military base, or the hikers excited about Death Valley, or the artists hunting for inspiration. She fought for years to make the Clouds’ Rest into something she was proud of.
“Well. Shit.” The guy hikes up his pants. “Look, I’ ve got to take the car. That’ s my job. I’ ll hitch her up quiet- like. Make sure we don’ t put a scratch on her. Best I can do. You got the key?”
Noor raises an eyebrow. “How do you think rich people stay rich? By being nice?”
Though I want to pour Abu’ s liquor down the drain, I resist. It won’ t change anything— he’ ll just burn through money buying more. So I water each bottle down a little and shove them in a corner.
Hugging Noor is not easy.
Part III
Though now, even the assholes who’ d cough “camel jockey” when I passed are polite. They want their pills. I want their money.
I never did it, because it felt like I was ceding control. If I left everything to the almighty, then what the hell was I supposed to do?
Lying to the imam. I wonder where that falls on the scale of forgivable to hell- bound.
Salahudin: Ama wasn’ t wrong. Bishop’ s talking about grief. About how when shit is bad for a long time, losing becomes a habit. You could argue she’ s warning us. Telling us that once you get used to losing, you start losing bigger things. Houses, people. Etc. The more you lose, the higher the cost.
Trying to get Noor to talk about her feelings is about as successful as trying to shake down Uncle Faisal for cash.
“Did you just dad- joke me in the middle of my breakdown?”
Then again, she made that comment about impure thoughts last night. Which made me wonder if she had impure thoughts. About me.
They are extremely, very, super impure and mostly about me kissing you. “Um—” My voice is strained and weird. I clear my throat. “You want me to drop you off at home?”
Art’ s occasional profundity always surprises me, especially considering how much of his own product he samples.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “What is this weird hot feeling? Am I blushing? What is the point of being brown if you can blush? Not blushing is literally one of the only perks we get.”
“I don’ t see anything.” I look purposefully toward the ceiling, even though Noor blushing is one of the best things I’ ve ever witnessed, and I’ d give a month of my life to watch the whole thing again.
“I brought karahi over,” Shafiq says, out- Pakistani- ing me.
“This life is jihad— struggle,” Shafiq says. “Sometimes the struggle is more than any sane person can bear. I won’ t judge your father for his jihad, Salahudin. How dare I, when I couldn’ t begin to understand it?”
His plate clatters in the sink. A cupboard opens. A glass clinks. I smell it, that sharp stink I’ ll never get used to, and his sigh of relief, as his memories slide away, a quiet, merciful forgetting.
Part IV
“Ms. McCann, please.” Ashlee’ s mom releases me. “McCann’ s my name and not my thieving ex- husband’ s. Haven’ t seen that bastard in seventeen years and I thank the Lord for it.”
I grab her backpack and it spills open. It’ s always full, but for the first time, I understand why. Her passport is in there, and a change of clothes in a ziplock bag. Gleaming black prayer beads Ama gave her. Another ziplock of cheap granola bars, nuts, and a bottle of water.
“I’ m just saying,” I go on, “that there are some things we shouldn’ t forget, because if we do, then bad people get away with bad shit. And we keep getting hurt.”
Part V
People see what they want to. I’ m sick of hoping that they’ ll see me.
“Good,” Santiago says. “Don’ t. Wish someone had told me that the first time I got thrown in here. Those pendejos mean it when they say anything you say or do will be used against you.”
“Isn’ t that a little racy for an imam?”
Then he hands me the keys and gets in the passenger seat. Before I’ve even closed my door, Abu’s pulled out his flask and taken a long sip.
“Salahudin.” Martin rubs his eyes, and despite his youth, he looks suddenly tired. “My job is to defend you. Even if it hurts your friend. Because you can still have a life, Salahudin. But short of drastic intervention? Noor Riaz is going to prison. The DA’s decided she’s guilty. The faster you accept that, the better your chances are of saving yourself.”
Bags exchange hands and I wonder how long before Art ends up in front of a judge, too.
Probably never. He’s got rich- boy luck.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Ashlee smiles and takes out her phone. “I took a video of Jamie’s little speech the other day. Sent it to Princeton’s dean of admissions. When I didn’t hear back, I figured I should send it elsewhere.” She hands me her phone, open to an article on Feedbait:
RACIST RANT COSTS CALIFORNIA HIGH SCHOOLER HER FUTURE Jamie Jensen, 18, landed in hot water this week when a classmate recorded her unleashing a racist tirade at another student.
Part VI
“With regard to the possession of fentanyl for sale, the court suspends your sentence,” Judge Ortega says. “With regard to the transportation and sale of fentanyl, the court suspends your sentence. With regard to the possession of OxyContin for sale, the court suspends your sentence. With regard to the transportation and sale of OxyContin, the court suspends your sentence. With regard to the possession of heroin for sale, the court suspends your sentence.”
“Do you read, at least?” She looks worried now, like she knew I was too good to be true and I’m about to sprout a second head that will yell science facts at her all day long.
“Not really,” I say. “But . . .” I glance over her shoulder at her books. “Maybe I can start. Could you recommend something? Something that’s . . . an escape?”
“It’s from the Bible,” Santiago says. “I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.”
Soon, the anger fades. Faster than I think it will. Questions replace it. Is he sleeping okay? Is he bored in prison? Is he safe? Has he changed? Does he think about me?