Love, Hate and Other Filters Page 11

  “Sorry, Mom.” I’m not going to argue that our new dishwasher is connected to the garbage disposal so we don’t have to be all old school about loading the dishes.

  There were little cracks in the parental college resolve last night and I know what Hina would advise, so I try to channel her patience and understanding of my parents’ anxieties.

  My dad is at the table drinking chai. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my parents steal another one of those silent, meaningful looks at each other. My dad gives my mom a wan smile.

  “If you’re going to be on your own, you can’t eat off dirty plates. God help you.” My mom shakes her head.

  “On my own? You mean—” I turn to look at my mom who just shrugs. “Dad? Does that … I can go … to NYU?”

  My dad nods once.

  I’ll remember this nod forever.

  I turn from the sink, wipe my hands on my jeans, and wrap my arms around his neck and whisper a thank-you. I look at my feet. They are still on the floor. I don’t know how this is possible.

  My dad strokes my hair. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed that to happen. It grounds me. I am here; this is happening.

  I walk back to the sink to hug my mom.

  My dad clears his throat. “Your mom is right. Just because you’re going to be far away doesn’t mean you can eat off filthy dishes and what not.”

  I have a feeling we are not talking about clean dishes anymore, but I add extra dish soap to the sponge to get every speck of food off the plates, just in case. I nod and let my dad continue.

  “When you’re in the dorm, you will treat it just like you are in this house. All the same rules apply. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Dad.” I smile, nod, and continue loading the dishes.

  “That means you are going there to study, and that’s it.”

  “We want you to make friends, too,” my mom adds. “Nice ones. Girls. And maybe you can join the Muslim Students Association. You know, Yasmeen told me all about the one at her college. She organized their Eid party. It sounds perfect for you. You could film all the events.”

  I bite my tongue. Literally, I bite down on the tip of my tongue to stop the words that are about to roll off it. My muscles tense, but I keep a smile on my face. “That’s a great idea, Mom.”

  My mom turns to my dad and nods, clearly pleased with herself.

  “Maya, your mom and I are giving you permission to go to NYU, but don’t think this means you can go behind our backs again. No more surprises.” My dad pauses and gives my mom that silent look again that tells her to continue while he leaves the kitchen. Just before he walks out, he kisses me on the top of the head. Approval.

  “You understand what your dad is saying, right? You’re growing up. You need to be careful, especially when you’re on your own. Especially with … boys. You see what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, Mom. I promise. I’ll focus on my studies. No surprises. I’ll make you proud.”

  I don’t know what else to say because of course I’m going to go out, and I hope there will be boys or a boy at least. Maybe even one here. But my assurances appease my mom, even if they feel false to me. I will study. I do hope I make them proud. But this is my first taste of adventure, and as Kareem might say, I’m going to carpe the hell out of every diem. Maya Aziz, beyond Batavia. I can’t wait to tell Kareem I did it. And Phil. I want to tell him, too.

  But I’ll think about that awkwardness later. For now, I want to revel in the happiness that fizzes inside me. New York. New life. My parents’ change of heart has to be a sign of good things to come—maybe Phil’s not in my future, but my other dreams can be. They already are.

  I tell my mom I can finish up in the kitchen. But she doesn’t move. When I turn to look at her, she’s gazing at me with tears welling in her eyes.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, beta. You’re growing up. Hina was right. You are a wonderful young woman. May God grant you a long life and every happiness.”

  I step over to her and hug her, my soapy hands dripping on the floor.

  She steps back. “I have to take the nazar off you.”

  “Mom, it’s okay. No one gave me the evil eye. I’m good.” My whole life, any time I had any sort of school achievement, or even when I get what my mom refers to as “compliments of envy,” or especially when I would suddenly get sick, my mom would take the nazar off. Sometimes preemptively.

  Don’t fight her on her superstitions, I say to myself. WWHD? What would Hina do? Hina would quietly give my mom this little victory to assuage her concerns. I walk over to the fridge, take out an egg, and hand it to my mom.

  She carefully takes it in her right hand and sweeps it over my head while she recites a quiet prayer asking God to remove the evil eye and keep me under his protection. The whole ritual takes barely takes two minutes, and it gives her peace of mind.

  She smiles and hands me the egg. “Now go put it outside in the pot with the jasmine plant. I’ll bury it later. Be careful—”

  “I got it, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  My mom goes to join my dad in the living room.

  I start for the back door, but I lose my footing and slip on the sudsy water I dripped all over the floor when I hugged my mom. I throw my arms out to balance myself so I don’t fall on my ass. I’m impressed with my catlike recovery, but sticky egg white and yolk drip down my fingers because in my effort not to fall, I’ve crushed the egg in my hand. I can imagine my mom’s freak-out if she’d witnessed this sacrilege, so I quickly wash off in the sink and sweep up any remaining eggshell and dump it into the sink. I turn the water on and run the garbage disposal. My mom got the calm that came with the ritual, so I’m not going to tell her about this. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

  Cautiously he slides out of his parking spot.

  The moment before, just before. He panics.

  She makes him hesitate.

  A small, dark-haired girl holding her mother’s hand, looking up at her, a smile like sunshine, her dress red as a poppy bursting against green grass.

  Collateral damage.

  Sweat drips off the hook of his nose.

  He bites his cheek. Hard. Blood fills his mouth.

  At least now, they will know his name.

  His right foot bears down hard on the accelerator.

  Chapter 12

  Violet fills the ride to school with spring break tales of kissing Parisian boys and exploring the villages of the Côte d’Azur. I nibble on the rose-scented macarons she brought me from Paris. But for once, I share stories, too. Good ones. Great ones. Life-altering ones. The stuff origin stories are made of. I devour the last macaron as we turn down senior hall.

  That’s when I see Amber and Kelsey, two of Lisa’s best friends, leaning against my locker, arms crossed in front of their chests. Scowling. They both wear their matching cinnamon-brown manes in perfect, shiny ponytails that would make my mom weep with joy. We’ve been in school together since sixth grade, and in that entire time, I’ve probably exchanged fifteen words with both of them combined. If that. You can usually find them huddled with Lisa every morning, laughing or gossiping until Lisa breaks away to walk to class with Phil. When they see me, their scowls only deepen; they both straighten up.

  My laughter comes to an abrupt halt.

  Amber steps forward with one hand on her jutting right hip as Violet and I approach my locker. She stares down at me. “You know what I think?” she begins.

  “That your parents shouldn’t have given you a stripper name?” Violet responds.

  I stifle an anxious chuckle because Violet always has my back. But sometimes she escalates before I even know if the situation calls for escalation.

  Amber’s mouth opens to a perfect “O” of surprise.

  I put my hand on Violet’s elbow and pull her back a couple inches. “What do you guys want?” I ask. I notice we are drawing the attention of a few people in the hall. Luckily it’s still a bit early, so senior
hall isn’t at full capacity.

  Amber clears her throat and tries again, face sour, jaw tight. “Maya, don’t even think about going to prom with Phil.”

  I laugh out loud. I expected them to hurl home-wrecker insults at me, so this is actually a relief. “That’s why you came over here. All shirty?”

  “What’s ‘shirty’?” Kelsey asks, disgusted.

  Violet speaks up before I can respond. “It’s none of your damn business who Maya goes to prom with.”

  “Wait. Why are you even bringing this up? Isn’t Phil taking Lisa to prom?” I ask. My heart starts beating faster.

  Amber and Kelsey look at each other nervously. Amber shrugs and lowers her voice. “They broke up.”

  The news strikes me like an anvil. Truly, I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or ready myself for a shit storm. Maybe both. Violet doesn’t immediately respond, either, so I know she’s in at least as much shock as me.

  Kelsey fills the silence. “Phil promised Lisa he wouldn’t go to prom with anyone else. So Maya can’t go with him.” She pauses, straightens her shoulders, and adds, “We came to warn you.”

  My brain is still spinning. Violet steps into Kelsey’s personal space; Kelsey stumbles back a step. Violet is at least a couple inches taller than Kelsey and far scarier.

  Now everyone is watching. I feel like I’ve crossed into some surreal world that I can’t wrap my mind around. But right now my only job is to make sure this absurd scene doesn’t turn into some ridiculous faux girl-gang turf war, so I pull Violet away and step in front of her.

  “I have no idea why you felt this strange compulsion to tell me this, but whatever, you did. Now can you get out of the way? I have to get to class.”

  “You can’t go with him,” Amber says. “Final word.”

  Violet’s eyes blaze. “Leave Maya out of your psychodrama, freaks.”

  We watch them turn and walk away, vanishing around the corner.

  Other students turn back to their lockers, and the hall fills again with post-vacation catch-up chatter.

  I quickly scan the hall—no sign of either Phil or Lisa, thankfully.

  Violet and I look at each other, eyes wide. I mouth the words, Oh, my God.

  She gives me this huge grin and a classic eye twinkle. She leans in and whispers, “It’s so on.”

  “Bonjour. Ça va?” Madame DuPont greets us at the door. Her lilting accent never fails to capture the music of the language.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” Violet and I reply. My own accent is always a little too chirpily American.

  The rest of the students file in and take their seats. Madame DuPont walks to the front of the class. “Cette semaine, j’ai une petite surprise pour vous: nous allons regarder un film,” she says, taking a DVD off her desk and popping it in the player. Turning back to the class, she smiles and continues, “Et il y aura un test jeudi.” The class groans. “Je vous presente: Paris, Je T’aime.”

  I check to make sure my phone is turned off. I hate when people forget to turn their phones off during the movies. Nothing pulls you out of your suspension of disbelief faster than a stupid ringtone.

  I’ve missed a text. From Phil. Actually, three of them.

  Phil: I’m sorry about Amber and Kelsey.

  Phil: I should’ve told you.

  Phil: Can we talk?

  Is it possible to be happy and angry at the same time about the same thing?

  I tap Violet on the shoulder and show her my screen, but before I can say anything, the teacher gives me the stink eye. “Mademoiselle Aziz, s’il vous plaît,” she says in a clipped tone as she motions for me to put my phone away. Phil will have to wait. Good.

  Madame DuPont turns off the lights. The movie begins. The soft bluish glow of the television soothes me. I’ve already seen the movie—it’s an anthology, a little collection of vignettes about life in Paris, each taking place in a different quarter of the city. My favorite is the one set in the Fourteenth Arrondissement.

  It’s a short film that follows a middle-aged postal worker on her first trip to Paris. But the conceit of the film is that it feels like a documentary, even though it isn’t. It makes the character’s story so much more poignant. She narrates the whole piece like it’s an essay for a French class. And what I really love about it is the mood. She just feels so alone, like she’s lived her whole life in “quiet desperation” as Thoreau would say, instead of sucking the marrow out of life. And it should be super depressing. It is, kind of. But there’s this little moment, where she feels joy and sadness at the same time, and what she realizes is that you can find life even when you think it eludes you—

  “Lockdown.”

  It’s the principal’s voice, barking over the intercom.

  “All students are to remain in their classes. Teachers, begin lockdown procedures. This is not a drill. The all clear will sound when lockdown is over.”

  Madame DuPont rises from her desk. She hurries to lock the classroom door so it can’t be opened from the outside. We all straighten up from our comfortable movie-watching positions, looking around the room wild-eyed. I am among the “we,” but I am also just me, detached. Everyone speaks at once. Or some of us. I am silent.

  Madame DuPont doesn’t immediately shush us. She runs her hand over her face, trying to conceal her worry as she stands at the door looking out the slim glass window. I sneak a peek around her. A couple security guards rush through the hallways, walkie-talkies in hand.

  Madame DuPont turns off the DVD. The lights stay off.

  “What’s going on?” someone shouts.

  “You know as much as I do.” She switches to English, her voice calm and commanding. “You heard the principal. Now I need all of you to move your desks to the left. It’s going to be close quarters for a while. I want to make sure that no one can see you from the window in the door.”

  Metal desk legs screech against the floor, students bump into one another, backpacks fall with the thud of heavy textbooks. Madame DuPont cuts copy paper in half lengthwise and proceeds to paper over the skinny glass window in the door. She leaves a small flap untaped so she can check out the window if necessary.

  “Why are you doing that?” Brian yells from the back row. He’s usually quiet in class, especially lately. I don’t turn to look. To be honest, I’ve been completely avoiding looking in his direction since that weirdness at the bookstore.

  “So no one can see in to shoot us, duh,” Jessica yells at him from the front row.

  “Ssshh,” Madame DuPont says. “There’s not going to be any shooting. It’s a precaution. Now we’re going to stay in here until we get the all clear. No one leaves and no one comes in, understand?”

  We all nod.

  “We don’t have the facts, so let’s not speculate. The best thing for us to do is stay calm. I’m going to turn the movie back on, and you’ll have more information as soon as I will—when the principal announces it.”

  Madame DuPont hits play on the remote, and the movie resumes.

  I almost lose myself in the dreamy soundtrack until the cacophony of discordant ringtones starts. All at once, everyone has their phones in their faces.

  The uproar is loud and immediate.

  “There’s been a terrorist attack,” one student yells out.

  “It’s in Springfield,” adds another.

  Madame DuPont turns to her computer. A handful of students gather around her desk, searching for more information. One student tries to get reception on the cableless television. The information and misinformation comes in fits and starts. A bomb exploded at the Federal Building in Springfield. Homeland Security has issued a red alert for the entire state of Illinois. There’s a shooter. No, it’s a suicide bomber. A plane is missing. There are dozens of victims. Wrong. Hundreds are dead. It’s a truck bomb. It’s poison gas. The building was leveled. The National Guard is being called up. The army has been deployed. The president has moved to an undisclosed location. All schools and government buildings are on lockdown.
No one is allowed in or out. Parents are at the school doors demanding to get their kids. Police are stationed at the entrances of the high school. There’s a steady flow of news and innuendo, and it’s hard to discern the truth.

  I’m frozen. My fingers curl tightly around my phone.

  The entire room is in chaos, but I see the action as if through the blades of a whirring fan. Disjointed and surreal. My stomach lurches.

  A terrorist attack. Another tragedy. Is there no end? Is this how life will always be? I want to know more, but there is one piece of information I absolutely hope I don’t hear. I whisper a prayer to the universe. “Please, please let everyone be okay. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.”

  I know I’m not the only one hoping for this. I know millions of American Muslims—both religious and secular—are echoing these very same words at this very same moment. I know I’m not a very good Muslim, but I hope my prayers are heard. Prayers for the dead and wounded. Prayers for ourselves. Prayers for peace, hoping that no more lives are lost to hate.

  I’m scared. I’m not just scared that somehow I’ll be next; it’s a quieter fear and more insidious. I’m scared of the next Muslim ban. I’m scared of my dad getting pulled into Secondary Security Screening at the airport for “random” questioning. I’m scared some of the hijabi girls I know will get their scarves pulled off while they’re walking down a sidewalk—or worse. I’m scared of being the object of fear and loathing and suspicion again. Always.

  I remember my parents telling me about how devastating 9/11 was, how those burning buildings and all the posters of missing people are seared in their memories forever. Hina thinks that was the tipping point, when the Islamophobia went mainstream and became fodder for campaign slogans. It left American Muslims to fight for their Americanness and their beliefs. I know what Hina says about all of it, about not giving in to fear. I’m trying to hold onto that.

  Violet touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  I jerk upright. “Yeah. I … I’m worried. I can’t believe—”