Misfit in Love Read online

  I brought a notebook with me for “notes.” But I snuck a copy of the latest Ms. Marvel inside.

  I open the comic now to the first page as Sarah lectures to catch me up on what she, Haytham, and Dawud already discussed on their drive up.

  Once in a while she paces the gazebo and then pauses to look out into the distance at Dad’s house, the huge white behemoth with columns in the front and back that everyone in our family unironically calls the White House.

  I can see Sarah so well as the professor she’s studying to become.

  Phrases like “color intervention at the party-rental place” and “paying off the ’Arrys” and “changing the balloon artist’s task to entertaining the children and not doing the decorating” float around me as I move my capped pen across the comic panels describing Kamala Khan’s latest escapades.

  It’s a good distraction, because once in a while Haytham tries to include me in the proceedings, and I’m studiously avoiding looking at him.

  Because he’s dangerous.

  He came to the gazebo meeting holding Sarah’s five clipboards fanned out to serve as a tray for a plate of more cupcakes.

  “Hey, Janna,” he said. “I saw that you liked the cupcake, so I brought the rest. These have messed-up icing. But now that I’ve won you over to my baking, you’ll overlook that, right?” His eyebrows had curled up almost against each other in eagerness.

  I nodded, my heart sinking at his uncalled-for cuteness, and, thus compelled, I reached out for another cupcake, glad I had brought comics to read as a shield against him.

  At the end of the meeting we get a clipboard each with instructions—Sarah gets two—and I scramble out of the gazebo in my eagerness to go read quietly in my room. I have a bit of time before I go see Mom in town.

  * * *

  In my room, I fling my green clipboard on the bedside table and flop into bed. Immediately two books fall off the other side.

  I’m okay admitting I sleep with books. They collect in an almost-body-shaped mass beside me, one that I can hug, and I love it.

  Books are tidy and contained and bring closure. Sometimes not full closure, but there’s an arriving at a destination that’s perfect.

  Why can’t life be like that? And, really, why can’t love be like that?

  School is, and that’s why it makes sense to me. It’s ordered and has a beginning and an end, and the in-between is split up by studying for this or handing these three assignments in to make up this much of your grade.

  I can’t wait for college to start, to bring that order back into my life.

  I reach for my phone and scroll through my personal guest list for the wedding.

  Arriving on Saturday are some of my people and their plus-ones:

  1. Sandra and her date: her grandmother, Ms. Kolbinsky. Sandra is good without having the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing going on in her life. And Ms. Kolbinsky is the best. (She already promised to bring me a container of her spicy Polish samosas.)

  2. My partner-in-nerd, Soon-Lee, and her boyfriend, Thomas, the only forever couple from middle school that has lasted. They already have their own wedding date “circled” ten years from now.

  3. Coming on Friday for the henna party: Sausun, this girl (way older than me, already done college) I edit YouTube videos for, for her extremely popular Niqabi Ninjas channel, and her plus-one, her older sister. Basically, Sausun saved her sister from a nightmare marriage, and now Sausun is not into marriages or coupling for herself at all, only into making sure her sister heals.

  (Though Sausun did say in a recent Niqabi Ninjas episode that she wants to find someone in this vast universe—and she emphasized universe because she wasn’t ruling out aliens or jinns—who one day could be worthy of her. Someone who loved her personality, didn’t care that she covered her face as a niqabi and so didn’t put an emphasis on how she looked, who would be a good parent to the four kids she wants to have one day. “Thus far, I’ve never met worthy parent material. Truly. But there are unexplored parts of the ever-expanding universe, so I continue holding out hope—but only a sliver of it,” she ended the segment with.)

  4. Also coming on Friday, of course, is Tats, short for Tatyana, my best friend, and her mysterious plus-one. Who I’m super confused about. I haven’t seen Tats for the three weeks I’ve been at Dad’s, but there’s no way she hooked up with someone new who I don’t know. Whenever I text her WHO WHO WHO, she changes the subject or replies with something wedding related (like we’re picking out a suit now) but random at the same time. And I just want to pull her long, glorious hair in retaliation for each cryptic message. But she’s in Eastspring, and I’m enjoying the good life under blue skies, so she’s too far away to beat up effectively.

  I prop two pillows behind me and get comfortable to scroll and tap slowly through all of Tats’s social media stories and posts in another attempt to suss out information on this date of hers. A knock interrupts me while I’m rewatching her latest TikTok ode to Billie Eilish, this one for “Ocean Eyes.”

  “Janna?” Sarah’s voice.

  It’s Sarah and Dawud. He blinks at my unhijabbed head as I swing the bedroom door wide for them to enter.

  “Can you give Dawud a ride when you go into town? He’s already made an appointment with the florist Muhammad hired. To ask about the flower ceiling.” She pats his head, and he beams while still staring at my uncovered hair. “I’m proud of him.”

  “Sure.” I grab my scarf from the foot of the bed, where I’d thrown it. “We’d better leave now then. But is he okay with me staying in town for a while? I wanna hang with Mom for a bit.”

  Sarah shoots a questioning glance at Dawud. “You okay with that?”

  “As long as we get back here for the movie night Uncle promised us.” He continues staring at me, almost unblinkingly. “You guys have such an awesome theater in the basement!”

  “Oh yeah, my dad. I have to actually check with him if it’s okay we use one of his cars. He’s sometimes not cool with it.”

  “Just use Haytham’s.” Sarah holds out the keys. “He’s okay with it.”

  I take them and slide them into my tiny backpack purse. “That’s nice of him.”

  “I’ll talk to Muhammad to get the rest of the wedding details. He and Haytham are hanging out on the front porch right now. Perfect place to tease out information!” She lights up. “I already found out the ’Arrys are free tomorrow, so maybe we can get him to switch them to perform at the bachelor party instead of the wedding!”

  Dawud scrutinizes me as I wind the scarf on my head. Geez, hasn’t he seen Sarah put on her hijab before?

  I shoot him a scowl. I hope he’s not one of these creepy eight-year-olds who has a thing for older women. Ugh.

  “You have purple icing on your forehead,” he announces. “And I don’t even know why. Because none of the cupcakes we had at the meeting had purple icing.”

  I look in the mirror. There is purple icing on my forehead. So weird.

  “There was pink icing and blue icing, so they must have mixed together. On your forehead.” He breaks out into a big grin and turns to leave, clipboard in hand.

  I grab my own clipboard and head to the en suite bathroom to take care of my forehead before Haytham sees it.

  Tats texts me while I’m in the bathroom.

  I’m changing my dress for the wedding! When we were looking for a tie for my date I found a dress JUST LIKE THE ONE LINDSAY LOHAN WORE TO THE MTV EUROPE AWARDS!!! But it’s yellow not metallic gold.

  Tats is going through a huge Lindsay Lohan moment. We’ve been watching Lindsay movies every weekend since May. She even dyed her hair ginger. Which means there’s a lot of ginger around her, because Tats has huge hair.

  Can I see a pic of you in the dress? And your date in his tie? I smile at the way I slid that in so deftly. Maybe I’ll finally find out exactly who Tats is bringing to the wedding.

  Is it okay that the dress is above my knees and off my shoulders?

  Avoidance in action.

  Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?

  Because when I go to the mosque with you I don’t dress like that?

  It’s okay. We’re not at a mosque. Something dawns on me. OMG, you and I are going to match the wedding decor now. Blue and yellow.

  Blue and yellow? That’s kinda ew, tbh?

  Don’t worry, Sarah’s here and we’re working hard on the ew factor. Really hard.

  * * *

  Haytham’s car is a Honda Civic, which I’ve never driven in my short six months of driving, so I’m kind of nervous.

  As I prepare to ease it out of the long driveway, he saunters over from the porch and approaches the rear passenger’s-side window, which Dawud has rolled down all the way. “Would you guys be able to pick up some Gatorade? Need it for after bench-pressing. Cool gym your dad has by the way, Janna.” He holds out a fifty. “The blue kind or, if they don’t have it, white. And only Gatorade, please. I’m a purist.”

  Dawud snatches the bill. “Perfect. This leaves enough for ice cream after.”

  “You guys are getting ice cream, too?” Haytham raises those compelling eyebrows at me, and I fiddle with the keys in the ignition. “I love ice cream.”

  “We are?” I say, shrugging, turning to Dawud.

  “Yeah, that’s why Muhammad thinks we’re going to town, so we have to,” Dawud says, folding up the fifty smaller and smaller.

  “But the ice-cream truck comes by here almost every day. Because of the laddoos.” I close my mouth. Oops, I didn’t want Haytham knowing my endearing name for my little brothers. It feels kind of private.

  “Oh man, I love ice-cream trucks more than ice cream itself!” Haytham laughs. “Did you ever notice the people who drive them fall into two categories: jolly happy souls or mean uncles? But mean uncles holding out ice-cream cones, which is the best.”

  I can’t help laughing. Because it’s true, our ice-cream guy is a mean uncle.

  But…

  “Actually, our ice-cream guy is a mean uncle, but he gets excited and ho-ho-hos when he hands you your ice cream. Like serious Santa-level excited.”

  “I need to see this. When does he come around?” Haytham leans his elbows on the door next to Dawud and peers across at me. “I can get your brothers their ice cream and also get further data for my ice-cream-truck hypothesis.”

  “Usually around seven. But he came by yesterday, so it may not happen today.” I kind of want to stay home now. To wait for the ice-cream truck. With Haytham.

  Of course it’s only to see what he thinks of our ice-cream-truck uncle who completely defies his theory.

  Maybe we can finish everything in town and make it back before seven.

  While slowly rolling the car out onto the road in front of the house, I can’t help glancing in the rearview.

  Haytham is sprawled on the porch hammock, the one I like to read in during the day. But he’s not reading, or even paying attention to Muhammad and Sarah talking at the table nearby. He’s waving at us.

  Chapter Five

  I turn on the car stereo, and after a few piano notes, Haytham’s voice enters the car. “ ‘When I was young on the Fourth of July, I’d go outside and watch the show in the sky…’ ”

  It’s a haunting antiwar song set to a simple piano accompaniment. I listen in silence and then turn to Dawud. “That was amazing.”

  “It’s Haytham’s entry for the Muslim Voice competition.”

  “Oh, he’s going for that? That’s impossible to win.” I play the song again. “It’s a global competition. Thousands and thousands of entries.”

  “But he’s got a lot of votes! He’s in the top five!” Dawud crosses his arms to say this. “And he’s going to get more. Like you, right? Can you vote for him?”

  “Okay. Because he—it’s really good.” I play it again. The words are amazing. We can bend iron with our prayers at night. “Did he write the song?”

  “No, it’s from one of Haytham’s favorite singers.”

  I nod and play the song a third time, wondering what else there is to learn about Haytham.

  * * *

  It ends up being a fail for Dawud at the florist’s, Ravson’s Ravishing Ready-Blooms.

  The owner, Hope, is all game to discuss details about Muhammad’s floral order until Dawud inquires about pricing for a ceiling of lilies. “Calla lilies,” he specifies.

  “A small ceiling arrangement of yellow callas?” Hope looks curious. She’s a dead ringer for the Disney princess Merida, an older version, so her curious look is slightly scowly. “Or white ones with blue centers? Because you realize I can’t get blue ones, right? Not enough lead time.”

  She talks to him like he’s a CEO in a business suit and not a kid in a blue T-shirt that says S’OREO FOR EATING THE LAST ONE.

  “No, we actually want a big ceiling of…” Dawud pauses and looks at his clipboard. “White flowers only. With green foliage.”

  “But the order said no white flowers. Only a yellow-and-blue sprig for each table and a blue-and-yellow arch for the entrance to the path to the gazebo. I thought the theme was blue and yellow.” She turns from the cash register to look through a wicker basket holding file folders. Her curly and mountainous red hair masks her peripheral vision, so I’m able to make frantic stop motions with my hand to Dawud, unbeknownst to Hope.

  I risk mouthing, She may call Muhammad!

  Dawud looks at me blankly and pushes up his glasses.

  “Muhammad Yusuf is the name on the file. Are you Muhammad Yusuf?” She pushes up her own glasses and stares at Dawud. “Are you the groom?”

  She says this with a steady glance, without irony.

  He shakes his head and points at me. “Nope, that’s her brother.”

  “And where’s Muhammad Yusuf? And the bride, Sarah Mahmoud?” Hope turns to me and finger-stabs the names on the file. “Because this is their wedding order. That I’m delivering in two days.”

  “Oh, we were just thinking of doing a surprise for them. And just wanted pricing on it. Because they both love the idea of a floral ceiling but didn’t think it was in their budget.” I talk quickly and confidently.

  “Ah, so you wanted to do a surprise floral gift?”

  Dawud nods his head enthusiastically.

  “Sorry, we don’t allow that. Too risky to interfere with the wedding plans of the bride and groom.” She turns to put the file back in the wicker basket.

  “But how much would it be? In case they do want to order it?” Dawud is holding a pen poised over his clipboard, and I can’t help but think that he’s learned the determined, decisive ways of his sister.

  “Oh, depends on the flower variety, the number, and kind, as well as size, but anywhere from a thousand for a simple cluster to ten thousand for the full deal.” Hope takes her glasses off to rub her eyes. “And that’s with at least three weeks’ notice. No one can pull off an entire ceiling in three days, sorry to tell you.”

  I swing my backpack to the front and take the car keys out of it. “Thanks so much.”

  But Dawud doesn’t budge. “What if I help? To make it?”

  Hope breaks out into a grin, then gives a full-bodied laugh. “You must really love the bride and groom!”

  “No, I just really, really want a flower ceiling,” he says solemnly, clutching the clipboard to himself.

  “Sorry, dear, I can’t teach you how to be a florist’s assistant in a couple of days.” She continues laughing while tidying up wisps of ribbons and snips of stems on the counter.

  “Dawud, I gotta go meet my mom. Let’s go!” I hiss as nicely as I can. “Thanks, Ms. Ravson!”

  I head to the door and then, seeing Dawud still standing motionless, push it wide open and go right out. Maybe if he thinks I’m driving away, he’ll start moving.

  I’m in the car with the engine running when Dawud runs to the back door and opens it. “She said I can have all the leftover flower and leaf cuttings from all her other orders. So we can make our OWN ceiling.”

  “Oh no,” I say. “No, Dawud. I’m so not doing it.”

  He just writes something on his clipboard, and I see the beginnings of Sarah in him again.

  But he is so not going to boss me around.

  * * *

  Since we arrive at the hotel early, Dawud and I wait in the lobby for Mom.

  It’s a lush lobby meant to mimic nature in a very unorganized way, so there are tons of large plants, fake and real, as well as seating made to look like it was hewn from white birch tree trunks. In the dead center, right before you get to the elevators, there’s a tree that almost reaches the high ceiling, obviously fake, its branches sprouting big fluffy balls of red cotton amid the dark green leaves. I don’t know what that’s about, unless it links with the name of the hotel, the Orchard.

  I’m scrolling through Instagram—Tats posted a picture of her prewedding look—when I see Mom enter through the automated double doors, wheeling a large suitcase behind her.

  I jump and practically run over to hug her.

  She looks so good, her smile, her eyes, her entire face. Like she’s rested—and like I’ve missed seeing her for almost three weeks. We texted and talked on the phone every day, but nothing beats being back in her presence.

  “How are you, sweetums?” She strokes my face and kisses a cheek before ruffling in the pocket of her thin windbreaker to find and hold out a pack of halal gummy bears. The quality, imported-from-a-Muslim-country kind.

  I seize it and am about to rip it open when I remember that I’ll be seeing Nuah tomorrow. Insha’Allah.

  He appreciates real gummy bears.

  I pocket the pack and give Mom another hug before following her to the front desk.

  She has on a white sporty pull-on hijab, the kind she wears when she’s doing a long drive, and, under her light pink jacket, black track pants and an old gray T-shirt with faded words, I DID 10K FOR ALZHEIMER’S.