An Infidel in Paradise (24 page)

“Tahira and I care about you just as much. You should trust us. You should trust me.” She takes my hand again and squeezes it. “I might be able to help.”

“He kissed me,” I blurt, realizing only after I’ve said it how much I wanted to tell someone.

“No!” gasps Leela.

I immediately regret telling her. “It’s no big deal,” I say hurriedly.

“Of course it’s a big deal,” she says, her face creased in concern, like I’ve just confided to being molested.

“Really, it’s not. It was just a kiss.”

“There is no such thing as
just a kiss
,” she says, though I’d be willing to bet she’s never been kissed. “And besides,” she goes on, “he’s engaged.”

I was wondering when that would come up. Now that it has, I’m curious to see how long it will take her to realize what a slut I am.

“He had no business taking advantage of you like that. He needs to be spoken to. I’m tempted to do it myself, but I think it’s better if Tahira talks to Faarooq. Faarooq will straighten him out.”

“No,” I say hastily.
God no
.

“It didn’t mean anything,” I say, trying to sound
reasonable. “And he already apologized.”

“But he’s
still
flirting with you,” she points out.

I don’t answer, and her comment hangs in the air.

“I’ll talk to him myself,” I say finally. “Tonight, at his party.”

Leela doesn’t look convinced. I brush past her and head for the door anyway. She reluctantly follows me, but I stop short just outside. Mustapha is lurking in the hallway. I really hope he didn’t overhear our conversation. Leela comes out and gives Mustapha a decidedly unfriendly look.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Just washing my hands,” he says smoothly.

She hesitates, perhaps because Mustapha makes no move to return to the dining room.

“We’ll be right along,” he says. “I just need a word with Emma.”

“I think you’ve had enough time alone with Emma, don’t you?”

I take a step back as the two square off. Mustapha is as awkward, casting nervous looks in my direction, as Leela is resolute, her cold gaze never shifting from his face. I watch with morbid fascination as his color rises and wonder where the superficial girl with the bangle-mania disappeared to.

I suspect Mustapha’s wondering the same thing.

“I just need a minute,” he says, attempting a winsome smile. But his voice cracks, spoiling the effect.

“It’s okay, Leela,” I say.

She continues to glower at Mustapha. “One minute,” she says. “I’m timing you.” She stalks past him into the dining room.

“I better make this fast,” he says with a smile, relaxed now that she’s gone. I wish he wasn’t so sure of himself, but I can’t stop myself from smiling back, even though it’d be so much cooler to be all reserved and standoffish. Leela’s totally right. He’s practically engaged, and he
said
we were just friends.

“I know that man in the market scared you, even if you’ll never admit it.” He pauses, like he thinks maybe I will admit it. But he had it right the first time.

“I didn’t want
that
to be the thing you remember from this day because it’s not the thing I’ll remember. I really enjoyed being with you, Emma.” He stops again.

I don’t know what to say. The guy in the market was scary, but the rest of the day was good – great, actually. I enjoyed every minute with Mustapha, but he still has a girlfriend.

“So I got you something else to remember this day by.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small felt-covered box. He opens it, and there resting on a white silk cushion is my leaping lion pendant. My heart leaps right along with it. I look up at the beautiful boy who is now holding the pendant, so gently, just like he’s holding my heart, and when he leans in to fasten it around my neck, my only thought is that I wish he would kiss me.

“I think our time must be up,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say, but what I think is, maybe our time is just beginning.

“M
om will be home any second.”

I glare at my brother as he stands with one foot out the open doorway.

“She isn’t here now.” I state the obvious. “I have somewhere to go tonight too, you know.” I don’t add that although he always has somewhere to go, this is unprecedented for me. It would be a good argument, but even I’m not that pathetic.

“You have the driver,” he says in such a reasonable voice it makes me burn. “And you’re going to a party. It’s not like it’s a big deal if you’re a few minutes late. If I don’t go now, I’ll miss my ride. Michelle’s friends are already waiting for me at her place. They’ll leave without me.”

“So what? Then you and Michelle can stay home and make out. It’s what you’re going to do anyway. What difference does it make where you do it?”

He exhales loudly. “You’re not being fair, Emma. I agreed to you having the driver tonight. You can go the
minute Mom gets here. Text her again. I’m sure she’s on her way.”

“I texted her five minutes ago. She was waiting on a call from Canada but said I should go ahead.”

“Well, there you go. Why are we arguing?”

“Because she said
I
should go ahead, not
you
!”

“She’ll be here soon, and I can’t wait. I’m already late.” He slips out, shutting the door firmly behind him. I consider running after him and dragging him back in, but the fact is, one of us has to wait, and I do have the driver. But I am worried about how long Mom’s phone call will take. I slump into the living room and flick on the TV.

An hour later, I’ve put on my makeup and tried on a dozen or so combinations of shirts and jeans, with Mandy belligerently ensconced on my bed, watching. By nine o’clock, when I realize I’m going to have to put her to bed, I’m in no mood for the bedtime-story argument.

I sit on the edge of my bed and try Mom again on her cell phone. Mandy is wriggling into the pink T-shirt I just gave her. It was a gift from Mom on my last birthday, but I’ve never worn it. I don’t wear pink, which Mom would know if she’d ever once gone shopping with me. My call goes straight to voice mail and I close the phone, not bothering to add another message to the four I’ve already left.

“You need to get your pj’s on,” I say, helping Mandy pull the tee down over her belly.

“It’s too tight,” she says with disappointment. She walks to my full-length mirror and examines herself in profile.

“You’re not quite the right shape yet,” I say, coming to stand behind her. “Let me help you get it off.”

“I wish I looked like you. It’s not fair.”

“You do look like me,” I say truthfully. “You just haven’t stretched up yet.”

“I’m fat.” Her jutting lower lip is starting to quiver.

“You have baby fat. It’s not the same thing.”

“Mom was supposed to put me to bed tonight. She promised.”

“I know.” I stand behind her with my hands on her shoulders, and we look at our reflections.

A tear spills down her cheek, and I hate my mother with a blazing passion. It’s not enough that she’s ruining my plans. Mandy’s just a little kid. Mandy still thinks parents can be counted on. I look at my watch for the sixth time in as many minutes. Right now, I should be in the car almost at Mustapha’s. Ahmed, our driver, has been waiting downstairs for more than an hour.

“I want to stay up till she gets home,” Mandy sniffles.

“She’ll be angry if she gets home and you’re not in bed,” I say, though truthfully I don’t think she’ll care if Mandy’s still up or not. My real concern is that I’ve spent the last hour doing a little more than getting dressed and feeling sorry for myself. I’ve come up with a backup plan. I feel guilty just thinking about it, but I can’t get it out of my head.

If I can get Mandy to sleep, I’m going to the party. I’m going to leave her alone in the house and just go. I tell myself that nothing bad can happen. The embassy guards are just outside. If she’s asleep, she can’t get into any trouble – and Mandy’s a sound sleeper. She never wakes in the night, and I’ll be gone only a few hours.

Mom said I could go to this party and I
need
to go. I have to talk to Mustapha about our relationship. Mom’s the one who gave The Ghoul the night off. She promised she’d be home in plenty of time, and now she’s not even picking up her phone. I tell myself all this and still I know it’s wrong to leave my sister. I cross my arms as a shiver runs through me.
Is it fear or anticipation?

“Will you finish Angie’s story?” She struggles out of the shirt as I lift from the bottom.

“I can’t,” I say. It’s hard to believe it was only ten days ago that Angie started that story, less than a week since she left.

“Angie said you would finish it.”

“Angie said a lot of things.”

Like that she would be a friend I could count on. I blink back tears, fold the shirt, and walk over to my dresser, laying it down on the top. Mandy follows me and picks it up, taking it with her as she walks to the door. She stops in the doorway and looks back at me. Her eyes glisten.

“She said sisters always come through in the end.”

“I’ll read you a story,” I say.

“Forget it.” Mandy turns and walks out.

Her footsteps recede down the hall, and as I sink down on my bed, I hear her go into the bathroom and brush her teeth. As usual, she doesn’t shut the door, so I have to listen to her pee. She leaves the bathroom, forgetting to flush or wash her hands. It’s all so ordinary, but I feel this great chasm has opened between us. Maybe it’s just the guilt over the betrayal I’m planning, or my inability to provide sisterly guidance by finishing a story about the nature of boys, but I feel there is nothing in me that can give her comfort at this moment. When I finally get up and go into her room, she has turned off her own light and is under the covers.

“Mandy,” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer. I cross the darkened room and stop next to her bed. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is deep and even, but I’m almost sure she’s just pretending to be asleep.

“Mandy,” I say again in a slightly louder voice.

Still she doesn’t stir.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything.”

Her breathing doesn’t falter.
Are people really that still when they’re sleeping?
I lean over and switch on her night-light, then pick up the pink T-shirt she’s dropped on the floor, fold it, and put it in her dresser drawer. Going over to the AC, I try to check the temperature, but can’t make out the numbers in the dark. I look back at my sleeping sister one last time before leaving the room, careful to leave the door just slightly ajar, the way she likes it.

I hesitate at the top of the stairs, and for a moment, I think I’ll do the right thing and stay home. But Mustapha’s gift is around my neck, and I feel the weight of it like his touch. Before I can change my mind, I sprint down the stairs and out the door. Ahmed is standing in the carport and doesn’t look surprised to see me climb into the car. He listens politely as I explain where he should drop me and that I’ll call him when I want him to come back. He must know that my mom isn’t home yet, as he’s the one who has to pick her up. Maybe he thinks Guul’s still here. It’s probably more than he can imagine that I would leave Mandy alone in the house. He doesn’t say anything as we pull out of the driveway. When we stop at the gates, I wait nervously for an objection from one of the guards. They keep track of our movements. Surely they know there is no one left in the house with my sister, but they wave us through and go back to smoking their bidis.

As we cruise down the road and are waved through the next gate that lets us out of the diplomatic enclave, I take a deep breath, but I don’t know if it’s one of relief or anxiety.

T
he vast lawn of Mustapha’s compound glitters with a zillion fairy lights. Chairs and round tables are set up randomly in the grassy area between his house and the swimming pool. A long banquet table, heaving under plates of food, is at one end, and what looks like a dance floor has been constructed at the other. Dozens of teenagers are milling about, talking or sitting at tables eating. There’s no sign of any adult chaperones. I scan the crowd for someone I know, and it feels like the first day of school all over again. For a moment, I think Angie might magically materialize at my side, but instead it’s Leela who gets up from one of the tables and comes over.