An Infidel in Paradise (16 page)

“I can’t imagine why Mustapha even took you into that room,” continues his mother. “It would have been much more direct just to come down the hallway.”

“Really,” I say. “That certainly is a mystery.”

His mother gives me a sharp look and then cracks another Mustapha smile.

“Did you know he’s engaged to Aisha?” she asks.

The abrupt change of topic catches me off guard, and I pick up a linen tea napkin and begin pressing it into tight folds to hide my confusion. Zenny taught me napkin folding. I used to do it for all my mom’s dinners and receptions. I begin fashioning a cat’s paw. It took me weeks to learn this one, but Zenny insisted on naming every failed attempt, claiming they were more attractive than the original. Later, I started making my own designs. She enthused over every one.

“Mustapha’s and Aisha’s fathers were childhood friends,” she says. I begin working on a napkin bull, complete with horns.

“It seemed like fate when we had Musa and they had Aisha so soon after. We agreed on the betrothal shortly after Aisha’s birth. Of course, we wouldn’t force them to marry if it wasn’t their choice, but they’re well suited, don’t you think?”

She waits for me to answer, but adding feet is difficult with such a small napkin. I have to concentrate.

Finally, she gives up. “Musa’s father and I were a love match. It was quite the scandal at the time, but we still asked permission from our families. We wouldn’t have married without permission.”

I use the edge of the teaspoon to work down small folds for the feet.

“You see, the important thing for us is the support of our families. I think that’s why marriage in our culture is usually successful and marriage in Western cultures usually isn’t. Without family support, there’s no one to help when a couple runs into problems and no one to hold them accountable either. It’s too easy to just give up.”

My bull is finished, but it’s missing eyes. I rest it on my knee, wondering what it would be like to go through life as a blind bull. I really want to give it eyes.

I look up to see Mrs. Khan watching me. She gives me such a kind smile that I have to look away.

“There’s a woman who sits at the gates of our compound, begging,” I say, still staring at my bull, who cannot stare back. “Her face looks like it’s melted. In fact, it has melted. My mom said the woman’s in-laws
poured acid on her because they weren’t happy with her dowry. They scarred her for life and threw her out of the house because they didn’t get enough money for her.” I look up then, and our eyes meet.

“That does happen,” says Mustapha’s mother. “But good families don’t behave that way. You know, we have a lot of poor, uneducated people here.”

I look around the beautiful room, at the opulent furnishings, the servant in the corner, and I drop my eyes to my blind bull.

“My parents are separated,” I say, curling its horns like the ones on the bulls I see by the roadside every day on the way to school.

“Musa told me,” she says quietly.

I stand up. “Thank you for the tea.” I place my blind bull on the table in front of her.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Not quite,” I demur, but I don’t tell her what’s missing. She asks the servant to take me to Mustapha and thanks me for a pleasant chat.

“W
here were you?” Angie hurls herself at me as the servant shows me into the room. I stumble slightly but lean into her embrace for just a second. Mustapha raises an amused eyebrow, but I really don’t care.

“Well, finally we can get down to work,” he says, as if it’s my fault we’ve been delayed.

We’re in some kind of entertainment room. Ali and Faarooq are sprawled on the floor, playing a video game on one of the largest flat screens I’ve ever seen. Beyond them is a pool table, air-hockey, Ping-Pong, and various smaller tables, presumably for board games.

Ali briefly turns away from the game to wave at me but then cries out in frustration as Faarooq seizes the opportunity to deal a deathblow to his character. He doesn’t have long to mourn, however, because his character reappears immediately, one life gone, but ready to start another. If only it were that simple.

“Faarooq,” Mustapha commands, “we need to practice now.”

I expect an argument, but Faarooq pushes “pause” and sets down the controller. Ali stands and stretches, his polo shirt hiking up over his round belly. He pulls it back down and flops on a large overstuffed sofa. Angie takes my hand like she’s afraid I’ll disappear again and drags me over to an armchair facing the sofa. We squeeze into it together, which is surprisingly comfortable thanks to Angie’s elfin proportions.

“Has everyone learned their lines?” Mustapha asks, but I’m the only one he’s looking at.

“It’s a stupid script,” I say. Angie makes a small disapproving noise, but I ignore her. “It wasn’t fair of you to write a script when I was absent.”

“Well,” says Mustapha, a teasing grin on his face as he walks over to the sofa and flops down next to Ali, “you weren’t technically absent. You were skipping class.”

“That’s beside the point,” I snap.

“No, that
is
the point when it affects our grade.” Faarooq sits up, folding his long legs in front of him like a spider.

“Maybe we should write a new script,” says Ali, glancing at Angie for approval.

Mustapha looks from Ali to Angie and back again before he gives me a small wink. I’m pretty sure my heart stops for several seconds.

“We’re not starting all over,” says Faarooq, glaring at me.

I drag my eyes away from Mustapha to glare back at him.

“What’s the script about?” asks Angie.

“A racist American girl,” Faarooq says with a smirk.

“How many times do I have to tell you I am not American?” I don’t bother correcting the racist dig.

“Well, it’s not about you, is it?” says Faarooq.

“Yeah, right.” I begin chewing the cuticle on my index finger.

“Did you guys have any other ideas?” Angie asks in a conciliatory voice.

“I had one,” says Ali. “This Pakistani guy is in love with this American. Sorry, Emma, I mean Canadian.”

Does this have to be the one time he gets that detail right?

“That sounds like fun,” enthuses Angie, and Ali gives her such a love-struck look I feel sorry for him. She is so out of his league.

“So they have to get permission from his mother and maiden aunt,” he continues boldly, ignoring the huffing coming from Faarooq’s direction.

“What a great idea,” Angie exclaims, ignoring the huffing coming from my direction. I’ve changed my mind on Ali’s chances, though; these two are made for each other.

“We’ve already decided on our script,” insists Faarooq.

“I don’t know,” says Mustapha. “I think Ali’s idea sounds like fun.”

There’s a tense silence as Mustapha and Faarooq look at each other.

Faarooq looks away first. “Fine,” he says.

The next two hours pass quickly as we pull together a story. It turns out Ali has hidden talents, and he immediately takes charge, scripting and directing at the same time. Angie is an enthusiastic audience, laughing and making suggestions from the sidelines, and even Faarooq cracks a smile when Ali, playing the mother, quizzes me on my cooking skills. Turns out, cinnamon toast and cheese omelets don’t cut it in the local marriage market.

Mustapha seems intent on being the perfect host. I have to keep reminding myself he has a girlfriend and a scary mother, but resisting Mustapha when he’s trying to be charming is as easy as outrunning a tsunami. Every smile is like another wave crashing over me. In the end, all I can do is tread water and hope I don’t get smacked in the head with a fish. So it’s totally understandable that I don’t recognize a trap when our practice is winding down and he asks if we’d all like to see his horses.

It takes us a good ten minutes, at a brisk pace, to cross the grounds to the stables. We pass at least five groundskeepers, but all I’m thinking about is why Mustapha’s family doesn’t buy a freaking golf cart. I’m all for the beauty of nature, but I’m about to pass out
from heatstroke by the time we get to the paddock, which explains why his second maneuver slides right by me. I don’t even notice that Faarooq’s dropped way behind, and Ali has taken Angie in hand and disappeared into the barn. I’m too busy resting against a fence pole, trying not to vomit.

“You’re still adjusting to the heat,” says Mustapha.

Several smart retorts flit through my head, but at this moment, I just can’t be bothered. I rest as my breath returns to normal.

“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he says.

It’s like a douse of cold water. I straighten and look around for Angie. Even Faarooq might be welcome, but I see we are indeed alone.
Uh-oh
. I look at him warily.

“We got off to a bad start,” he continues.

He waits for me to say something, but I don’t know where he’s going with this and I’m not going to risk saying something that could make things worse.

“What you said the other day about being new and feeling that Aisha didn’t like you …”

I have to literally bite my tongue to refrain from interjecting my own thoughts on Aisha.

“I hadn’t seen it from your point of view.” He pauses again and looks at me with his forest green eyes.

It occurs to me that if I let myself get drawn into those eyes, I sure as hell better leave a trail of bread crumbs.

“So I want to start over.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s holding out his hand and a good half a minute more before I figure out what he wants me to do with it. I take it and watch his earnest expression transform into a smile that lights a fire behind those eyes. I realize there’s no longer any point in worrying where I’m headed, because I’m already lost. And I smile back.

A
gainst my advice, Mom spent most of yesterday tracking down the girl who didn’t invite Mandy to her party and the rest figuring out how to inveigle an invitation. Today, Sunday, is the big day, and Mandy got her invite this morning. But instead of putting on her best jeans and skipping out the door, present in hand and a grateful smile on her face, she stomped up to her room and locked herself in. Mom has spent a good twenty minutes threatening and cajoling from the outside, but like I’ve said many times, Mandy is one stubborn little kid and no way was that door going to open.

What Mom doesn’t understand is that her good intentions decimated Mandy’s already shaky social status. Mandy might have an invitation, but if she went to that party, she’d better be a piñata because she’d be in for one hell of a beating. Far better to wait till Monday when at least lessons would provide an occasional distraction from the shunning, gossiping, and name-calling.

I listen to Mom go on at Mandy until I can’t listen anymore, then I come out of my room and tell Mom the way it is. I try to be respectful. She was only trying to help, but it doesn’t change the fact that all the kids from Mandy’s class, not to mention the kids from our own compound, have made my sister their new target. It would have been so much better if Mandy had stayed invisible.

“She can’t go to the party, Mom,” I explain in my most reasonable voice. “The other kids are angry at her for squealing to you. They don’t want her there.” We stand outside Mandy’s door, and I’m sure she’s listening to every word. I just hope she appreciates me taking a bullet for her because Mom is really annoyed.

“But she was invited,” Mom insists, willfully missing the point. “I spoke to Kirsty’s mother. She said it was just an oversight and Mandy was welcome to come.”

“Kirsty’s mother might have said yes,” I say calmly, “but trust me, she is not invited. She’d be as welcome at that party as a toothache.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Mom groans, annoyed. She raps again on Mandy’s door. “The point is, she can’t hide in her room every time she has a problem. That’s no way to get through life.”

“She’s not trying to get through life, Mom, just the weekend, and – with any luck – third grade.” I’m leaning against the wall opposite Mandy’s room, wanting nothing more than to slink back to my own.