Misfit in Love Page 2

  His voice.

  Haytham’s voice is unbelievable.

  Deep, melodic, passionate.

  I can’t stop my head from swiveling. He’s sitting on the gazebo steps, the kids gathered around him, and when he notices me, he lifts a pretend hat and continues singing.

  Maybe I should choose a lighter, fresher color hijab to wear after my shower, instead of the raggedy black one I was going to wear today around the house and to go into town to see Mom.

  I mean, I don’t even have a lighter, fresher color scarf in the stuff I brought here, but I can check my stepmother Linda’s closet. She doesn’t wear hijab, but she has a massive wardrobe with tons of accessories. And she’s always cool with me borrowing stuff—even without asking.

  As I walk across the second-floor landing to knock on the master bedroom door, Muhammad emerges from his room. “Sarah’s downstairs in the basement. She said she wants to see you about something.”

  “Okay, but then I might be late to go see Mom.”

  “Mom’s not getting in until five—she made a stop on her way. Check your messages.” Muhammad looks at me carefully. “You okay? With the laddoos laughing at you like that?”

  “They apologized. And gave me a cupcake.”

  “Oh yeah, Haytham made those for their drive over. Sarah said he packed the car with his baked goods.”

  “That was a good cupcake.”

  Why is Muhammad peering at me more carefully now?

  “Hey, listen—be careful around Haytham, okay? Especially since he’s staying here in the guesthouse. Him, Sarah, and Dawud.”

  I turn from Dad and Linda’s bedroom door to face him. “Why? What do you mean, be careful?”

  “I mean just know that he’s… really unaware of his magnetic qualities. On people.” Muhammad laughs.

  “You mean, he’s a player?” I don’t let my heart sink. Because this is officially good news.

  Haytham is a player. Which is UGH. So I’m on firm ground—not one iota near falling for a gorgeous, baking, chivalrous, singing player. Who’s great with kids.

  “No way, no, of course not!” Muhammad looks alarmed. “Never. He’s the president of his MSA. Or he was last year. And he’s studying Islamic studies.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” I frown. As if any of it proves anything. The monster who attacked me two years ago was considered a “pious good boy” at the mosque.

  “I know, but in this case it does. He’s legit. The man doesn’t fool around at all. And is serious about stuff like that.”

  “Oh.” I wonder if my face looks as contorted as my heart feels. It felt tons better when Haytham could be written off. Because I write off people like that immediately—people who pretend to be saintly.

  “I mean Sarah’s told me he’s gotten into things where people have thought he was interested in them when he wasn’t. And it’s all because he’s cool and kind, you know?”

  “Oh my God, Muhammad!” I open the master bedroom door, anger mixing with embarrassment. “Do you really think I think he likes me? I just met him! Plus, I don’t even find him interesting in that way?”

  “I thought you might have, you know, fallen for the you know what.” He points at his brow. “ ’Cause I noticed the way you looked at that forehead. In the lake. It was in awe, Janna.”

  I go inside and close the door in his face.

  Siblings know all the unmentionables about you.

  * * *

  Somehow I find myself in the third-floor bathroom.

  I have no idea why I gathered my clothes from my second-floor bedroom and bypassed its beautifully appointed en suite bathroom and lifted my feet up the steps to the alcove guest bedroom.

  It is steamy, but the fogged-up mirror is slowly clearing. At the edges, not the middle.

  Are those words?

  Someone’s written something onto the mirror, into the fog.

  The weight of your soul

  Joined with its many kindreds

  Will light upon

  The rest of the verse disappears into the now reappearing mirror.

  I look at my reflection in the clearing parts.

  My face is lit by the light of intrigue, the beginnings of fascination.

  On top of being a kid tamer and a baker and a singer, he’s a poet, too?

  I can’t wait until Nuah gets here tomorrow.

  * * *

  After my shower I find Sarah in the basement, in the storage room, counting boxes of something. She immediately wraps me in a hug. “Janna! Assalamu alaikum, my Janna!”

  Sarah Mahmoud, my sister-in-law-to-be, is beautiful, kind, and completely determined in a steely, iron-grip CEO kind of way, while radiating positivity. Even her clothes beam joy—right now she has on a bright mustard-colored shirt over jeans, topped with an even brighter chiffon-mustard scarf, perfectly peaked at the top of her head à la the latest hijab style, round sunglasses resting atop it all.

  Her entire vibe all the time is Joy to the World (That I Plan on Dominating)!

  “Wait, you didn’t go into the room next door, right?” I say, worried she saw the way Linda and I decorated it for the henna party tomorrow night. It’s a surprise we organized under the supervision of Linda’s friend, Ms. Mehta, who’s super into the latest desi decor and fashions. She showed us how to throw the “most authentic mehndi party ever,” which included draping lots of brightly colored, long, sheer saris all over the walls, with twinkling lights in between them. My arms are still tired from all the work yesterday.

  But, I have to say, Yay for Ms. Mehta! Linda and I aren’t well versed in desi things, since she’s from a Greek family and I didn’t learn any culture, with parents from two distinct backgrounds. Dad’s family is originally Indian, and Mom’s is Egyptian, but they were both born in America. So we really needed the “education” Ms. Mehta gave us; though, honestly, after a while, my mind got tired from hearing all the “rules” for a proper henna party according to her.

  I went along with it all because of my love for Sarah. I wanted to surprise her with something spectacular, something theatrical, even though she’s Syrian American, Arab, and not desi herself. Even if she doesn’t understand all the mehndi party traditions, I’m banking on the drama factor to wow her.

  Honestly, she’s been like a sister to me from the moment I confided my pain about the assault to her, so she needs to be blessed with an abundance of mirrored cushions artfully arranged, and a slew of Persian rugs littered with fake flickering candles.

  “Why would I go in there? There’s a big sign on that door that says ‘No Sarahs Allowed,’ ” she says, her laugh turning to a frown as she opens a box to reveal bright blue party horns.

  “What are those for?” I rifle my hands through the tassely, crinkly foil in the box, frowning too.

  Sarah hefts another box up that’s labeled For Decorating and reveals its contents. “Look at this. Balloons. For making animals.”

  “Like a clown does?”

  Sarah nods and stares at me in pain. “This is why I came up early. With my brother and my cousin Haytham. You met Haytham, right? From Arkansas?”

  “Yep. I sure did.”

  “We drove up the minute I handed in my final assignments, Janna. Because I found out only this week that things have gotten out of hand.” Sarah frowns full blown now and directs it at me. “And you didn’t even stop it.”

  “Me?” I make a scowly face back at her, confused. “Didn’t stop what?”

  “How crazy this wedding has become. It was just supposed to be a simple nikah. A family-and-friends thing by the lake. That’s what your dad said.” She suddenly sounds like a completely different Sarah, frustrated and despondent. “That’s what he promised back in April. Remember? After the fight?”

  Oh yeah. The fight.

  Chapter Three

  THE FIGHT THAT ALMOST MADE THE NEWS

  Muhammad: I got into law school at Stanford! And since Sarah’s also doing her PhD there, it’s perfect!


  Sarah’s father: Oh no, not so fast, young man.

  Dad: Why? He’s finally settling down to a real degree, after his aimless ways. I even moved out here to the less expensive countryside so that I can help fund his education again. And Janna’s, too.

  Me: Thanks, Dad. Although I got a scholarship to college—but if you’d pay my dorm fees, that would be great!

  Muhammad: We’re talking about me here.

  Sarah: And me.

  Sarah’s mother: There’s no way we will have you two going off to Stanford together without getting your nikah done.

  Dad: Let’s get their nikah done, then.

  Mom: We can have it at the Eastspring mosque with my brother the imam officiating.

  Me: Aw, I love Amu! Yes, I like this idea.

  Sarah’s mother: Yes, let us do the katb el-kitab with just family and friends. At the mosque where the kids met each other.

  Mom: Yes, just warm and casual.

  Me: Yay, so then I can wear jeans!

  Dawud, Sarah’s little brother: Can I wear my Pokémon shirt?

  Sarah: But what about everyone we want to see at the wedding? Like our friends from Chicago?

  Sarah’s father: We will do the real wedding next year. The official reception. I’ll host it, and it will be how you like it.

  Sarah: You mean with a tasteful matte-gold-and-gray color scheme?

  Sarah’s mother: Yes, and we’ll fly in all our relatives.

  Mom: Yes, then Teta can fly in, too. For the nikah this year, we’ll share dates and simple food.

  Sarah’s mother: Yes, it will be simple and sweet.

  Mom: I can make basbousa.

  Sarah’s mother: I can order baklava.

  Mom: Then, as a family, we can go out to dinner at a restaurant of the kids’ choosing.

  Dad: I have an idea.

  Everyone: Yes?

  Dad: Why don’t we treat our children properly? Instead of like their union is a sneaky secret? Why don’t we honor them with a real nikah party? I’ll host it on my property with a large backyard overlooking the lake and an adjacent field that can park a lot of cars. Then they’ll know that they’re loved from BOTH sides of the family. What about that?

  Sarah’s father: You think we’re doing the nikah like it’s a shameful secret?

  Sarah’s mother: You think we don’t know how to treat our daughter properly?

  Sarah’s father: Have you even seen the wedding we’re going to throw them next year? How great it’s going to be? How many people we will feed and how beautiful the decorations will be?

  Sarah’s mother: How dare you act like we don’t know how to honor our daughter!

  Linda, my stepmom, Dad’s wife: Oh no, he doesn’t mean that. Right, Haroon?

  Dad: A small nikah in a small mosque is not honoring my son properly!

  Sarah’s father: How could you say we are not honoring properly? We are the most honoring parents ever, right, Sarah?

  Sarah, to Muhammad: I have no idea what’s happening here.

  Dad: Muhammad, would you like to do a nikah at the house by the lake, inviting any and all of the friends you and Sarah would like to see on your special day? Still a simple ceremony but at least honoring your union and guests with a full dinner? With Amu still officiating, of course?

  Muhammad: Actually, that would be nice.

  Sarah’s father: Why did you only ask your son? What about what our daughter has to say?

  Sarah: I think that would be nice too.

  Sarah’s mother, to Sarah: But you didn’t ask us!

  Dad: It’s their nikah. Let them decide!

  Sarah’s father: But you’re deciding this.

  Dad: Like you’re deciding the reception next year!

  Linda: We can have two parties. It will be fun.

  Mom: But how will we plan such a thing so quickly? And afford it?

  Dad: That will all be in my hands. It’s arranged, then. You are hereby invited to a nikah ceremony by the lake that will become a cherished memory for all who attend.

  Sarah’s parents: And then you will see our wedding next year, how great that will be.

  * * *

  “So, in between, your dad gave Muhammad free rein to make it a full-blown wedding. Without me even knowing.” Sarah slides a phone out of the pocket of her jeans. Frown still on her face, she turns it on and clicks and scrolls to find something. “Look. I had to record it for myself when it got wild.”

  She lets out a long sigh before pressing play.

  Muhammad’s voice. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of them, Sarah. The ’Arrys! Larry, Barry, and Gary! Really, I haven’t told you about them before? Look them up on YouTube. They’re hilarious, but also really musical. They have their own band, and the best part is that they’re friends of mine. When guests come in, they’ll sing improvised comments about them, and it’s insanely accurate—and funny! I don’t think they’ve done weddings, but I was thinking it would give off a real relaxed vibe. Sort of go with the whole happy blue-and-yellow color scheme, you know?”

  “Blue and yellow? Like the Pacers, his favorite team?” I look at Sarah. “Is he talking about his bachelor party?”

  She presses pause on the recording and leans against the massive shelving units lining the walls of the storage room. “He’s talking about the wedding. This is from our phone call on Monday.”

  I lift my eyebrows. I really had no idea that Muhammad had actually been running the show.

  I swear I thought Dad had hired a wedding planner.

  “Oh my God. No wonder he asked me and my mom to wear blue. It’s to go with his color scheme.” I shake my head.

  This is bad.

  “He asked Haytham to wear blue too, and God knows how many others. But the true worst is that he hired the ’Arrys to perform this weekend. At my wedding,” she says, scrolling through her phone. She turns it to reveal a YouTube video of three guys in matching plaid shirts and plaid pants with Civil War–era bushy beards. One of them has side whiskers jutting out so long, you can see them sticking out from the back.

  “Oh my God. No.” I grab the phone and watch in mortified fascination as the three guys call out random people sitting at tables, addressing them with cringey jokes. “They make fun of guests?”

  “Muhammad thinks they’re hilarious.”

  “So weird.” I give her back the phone. “I’m sorry you’re marrying him, Sarah.”

  She lets out another sigh that sounds like it’s being strangled by a growl. “Janna, you have to help me take this wedding back from your groomzilla brother!”

  I look at her. And see her pain.

  But the wedding is in two days. “Isn’t it going to be a lot of work?” I whine, thinking of my plans to dedicate all my time to hanging out with Nuah when he arrives.

  “I’ve organized it all. How we’re going to take back this thing,” she assures me.

  “Don’t tell me you brought a clipboard.” I turn to stare at her. Clipboards are Sarah’s thing. Because they help her Get Stuff Done.

  “Hell yeah. Five clipboards, five colors to divide up each task area.” A smile spreads on her face. Obviously at the thought of clipboards.

  I like seeing that smile return.

  I want Sarah to be really happy.

  “Are you excited? I mean, besides this stuff, are you excited about getting married?” I ask, wanting to keep that smile of hers going.

  “Of course! Other than his bad taste, Muhammad is seriously the best, and I can’t wait to make it forever. Insha’Allah.” Her wide grin and slightly blushed cheeks assure me of the truth of her statement as she peers at her phone and starts texting someone. “The minute we met, I knew he was the kindest person I’d ever encountered.”

  Okay, that’s true. Muhammad is extra kind and caring, maybe even over-the-top caring, and he and Sarah make a good match—because they’re both extroverted do-gooders.

  But the part of “making it forever” is giving me pause. Mom and Dad we
ren’t forever. Dad moved on to Linda, which, to be fair, seems to be headed to forever. Maybe.

  Mom is still single. I don’t know what I’d do if Mom decided she was seriously into someone. This one time, a couple of years ago, I found a flyer for a Muslim singles meet-up in her dresser drawer, but nothing came out if it.

  Sigh of relief.

  I don’t want to be alone. And the thought about everyone pairing up around me gives me anxiety.

  The thought of Nuah cures that anxiety right away too—because I know he likes me.

  But then what happens next? Once I tell Nuah I’m interested in him, too? My plan only goes as far as telling him tomorrow before the henna party, before all the other guests arrive.

  But I don’t think I want the next step to be to actually marry him.

  More like I want us to be connected before I go to college. So that I feel—safe? I guess?

  I know that in Islam, you don’t try things out with people—like there’s supposed to be no sex before marriage, so making out and things that potentially lead to sex are a no-no without a nikah—and that you’re supposed to find someone who suits your nature, has your values, and the same goals, and then, voilà, just make it work. That’s how Nuah wants things.

  And I do too. I think.

  So Nuah and I make sense.

  I think.

  Gah, things always make better sense in my head.

  Muhammad and Sarah are lucky. They just happened to meet each other, fall for each other, and make sense to each other immediately. And now they’re making it real.

  I look at Sarah as she continues texting with a frown again, and a sudden burst of love for her takes hold of my heart. “Okay, I’m in. I’ll help you.”

  She looks up, face beaming. “Love you, girl. Welcome to Team Take Back the Wedding. We’re having a meeting in that gazebo in ten minutes, when Muhammad goes to get groceries. Me, you, and Dawud. And Haytham, of course.”

  Chapter Four

  For the gazebo meeting, just to prove I don’t have a thing for anyone (except Nuah, of course), I wear my ol’ raggedy black scarf, flung on my head, the ends lopsided, over an oversize but thin sweatshirt instead of the nice top I’d originally thought of wearing with my super-faded, almost-white jeans.