Cornered (6 page)

“It's cruel!” Maggie says. “Even if someone was out to get you, though I can't imagine why, to do it like this is so . . . low and dumb and so . . . not chivalrous.”

“Jesus, Maggie, this isn't one of your Merlin fantasy books. There's no chivalry in high school!”

Danny, Maggie's sometimes boyfriend, puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head, which means they must be on again. “Shab-a-dub-dub,” he says to me. “What's up with that photo? Who is that guy?”

“He's my uncle.”

“Is he some kind of cleric?”

“No.”

“Nor is he al-Qaeda,” Maggie says.

“You're sure, right?” Danny says, winking at me.

“Yes, I'm sure.” I wish I didn't sound so defensive, but I can't help it.

The rest of the morning is torture. It's easy to tell who's received the e-mail and who hasn't; the ones who have either stare at me, or, if they know me, ask me the same things Danny did. It's my uncle, visiting from Pakistan. He's not a cleric. He was the vice president of a pharmaceutical company. He's not really that religious; he just likes the beard. Some find it funny; some feel sorry for me. “But you look so normal,” Paige says to me. Ali, who I don't know very well but who's also Muslim, tells me one of his uncles in Kerala looks a lot like Chacha jaan. Jacob asks me how they even let my uncle in the country, and some sophomore I don't even know asks me if
I'm from Afghanistan.

By the time I get to gym, I never want to say the words “uncle” and “Pakistan” again, and thankfully Mr. Polk has set up a circuit course, so I don't have to talk to anyone. I push myself really hard, hoping the physical exertion will distract me from everything that's been going on. And it works, sort of, until I reach the squats station. I hate squats because they're hard and it's scary to watch your thighs double in size as you go down. Somewhere around squat ten, the first tear falls.
For God's sake, pull it together, Shabnam. Don't you dare cry in the middle of gym class.
Mr. Polk blows the whistle, signaling us to move to the next station, and I hope no one can tell that it's not only sweat I'm wiping off my face with my T-shirt.

After gym I'm in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet in the stall, where it's safe, trying to figure out what I should do. My biggest fear is that Natasha has more planned for me, that she has even more photos and who knows what she'll do with them—post them on the Internet maybe, and then some parent would see them and tell my parents. Or, since it's the era of “if you see something, say something,” the FBI might come knocking on our front door. If my parents found out, my dad would flip and the principal would get involved. There would be an investigation and maybe my parents would find out it all started because of my kiss with Oliver and then I don't even
know
what they would do. The possibilities are terrifying.

Two girls come in laughing. They pee, flush, meet at the sinks.

“I'm going to surprise Adam by shaving it all off,” one says. “Or I was thinking I could do an A.”

“An A? That's so cheesy.”

A phone beeps. “This is the second time I got this e-mail.”

“You mean the photo of that girl with that guy who looks like a terrorist? I saw it. Why would you go around with someone like that?”

“Maybe it's her father.”

“If my father looked like that, I'd move out.”

“Maybe it's her boyfriend.”

Laughter.

“I think I saw her at Aidan's party on Saturday.”

“She was there?”

“Yeah, I remember that hair.”

“Someone should tell her to straighten it.”

“Seriously.”

Silence. Then, more quietly, “Someone's been in that stall the whole time.”

I tense, hold my breath.

“They're probably taking a dump.”

More laughter. I stay perfectly still, my cheeks burning with shame and wishing that this was one of Maggie's books, where the stall would turn into a portal and I'd be transported to a better world. One with chivalry. There's the sound of the paper towels being pulled, and the squeak of the door, and finally the bathroom's empty again.

I have to end this, before it gets any worse. I can't make the
photo that's out disappear, but I can talk to Natasha, ask her to forget all this and to please not take this any further. I'll get down on my knees if I have to. Except I can't do it at school; if I actually have to humiliate myself by begging, I want it to be in private.

• • •

Illuminated waterfalls flank the entrance to Harmony Woods, the development where Natasha lives. The plots are so big it takes a minute to drive from one meticulously landscaped lawn to the next. Natasha's house is different from the others; it's modern and boxy, made of steel and a lot of glass that you can't see it at all from the road, which suits me fine.

After I ring the bell, a little girl answers. She's clutching a stuffed stegosaurus and a red bowtie hair clip is slipping out of her whitish-blond hair. “Yes?” she says.

The door opens wider. It's Natasha. She has another little girl in her arms who's an exact replica of the one who answered the door, minus the stegosaurus. Natasha puts the girl down. “Go play,” she says to the twins, but neither of them move.

“I don't want to play,” stegosaurus twin says.

“Eleanor has something to show you in the kitchen,” Natasha says.

“Eleanor smells,” the other girl says.

“She's making butterscotch cookies. You better go before all the dough is gone,” Natasha tells them. They run off giggling
and Natasha steps outside. “What are you doing here?” she says. “I didn't say you could come to my house.”

“I . . .”
Come on. You can do this. 1, 2, 3, go.
“I wanted to talk to you.”

“We've got nothing to talk about.”

“I know you sent the e-mail.”

Natasha folds her arms over her velour hoodie. I take comfort in the small red zit on the narrow bridge of her nose; the only thing marring an otherwise flawless complexion. “I may have seen you with that . . . that man at the mall. But I didn't send any e-mail.”

She isn't going to admit it. Why would she? It doesn't matter anyway. I came here for a reprieve, not an admission. “Okay. What I wanted to talk to you about—what I wanted to tell you, I mean, is that I'm sorry.”

She raises her thin eyebrows. “Sorry about what?”

“I'm sorry . . .” I hesitate. Now that I have her attention, I have to say the right thing. What should I be sorry for—no, what would she
like
me to be sorry for? Should I apologize for momentarily disturbing the high school hierarchy? And then I realize what it is she really wants.

My kiss.

So I give in. “I'm really sorry I kissed Oliver that night. It's just that he's so cute and popular and out of my league that when I saw him drunk at the party I . . . I took advantage of him without even thinking. I'm sorry. It was totally wrong of me.”

There. I said it. I feel a little queasy, and I
definitely
feel like
crying, but I'm fighting the tears, because what little dignity I have left does not want Natasha to see me cry.

“It was wrong of you,” she says, nodding. My confession has pleased her. “Well, I really hope you learned your lesson.”

“I have.” This time, I'm not lying. I've learned some lessons all right. To make sure to distance myself from anyone who looks too Muslim. How easy it is to sacrifice your pride. “Anyway, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Everyone makes mistakes. Stick to guys on your own level and I'm sure you'll find someone.” Natasha's smiling at me now, the way you smile when you get a letter from a child you've sponsored for fifty cents a day. She thinks she's being magnanimous. Let her believe it. Just please let her move on.

“Yeah. I will.” I take a deep breath. “But . . . I'm really embarrassed about that photo and I don't know what to do—what guy is ever going to want to date me after seeing that?”

“Oh, don't worry about it. I'm sure everyone will forget about it soon,” she says. It may not be an outright promise, but it's the best I'll get.

The stegosaurus twin comes outside and announces, “She's not making cookies! She's making lima beans. I hate lima beans more than taxes.”

“You don't even know what taxes are, silly.” Natasha scoops the girl up in her arms. “Say bye.”

The girl waves her dinosaur at me. “Bye-bye!”

“Bye.”

The door shuts.

I've never felt so alone, or so worthless.

• • •

The sun is starting to set by the time I walk into the kitchen. “Where were you?” my mother asks. “You didn't pick up your phone.”

“Spanish club meeting ran late.”

My mother doesn't question this. She's not the suspicious type. “When Chacha jaan and Abba get back from their walk Chacha jaan is taking us to Red Lobster.”

“Red Lobster? Are you serious?”

“I know,” my mother says. “I was going to cook, but it's Chacha jaan's last night with us and he wants to take us out. Plus your father feels like shrimp.”

My father feels like shrimp.
I've had the worst day of my life and all that matters in my house is that my father feels like shrimp. “And what about me? What about what I feel like? Does anyone care about what
I
feel like?” Though I'm trying hard to remain calm, I'm on the verge of exploding. I can't remember the last time I was this upset, when this world seemed this horribly unfair, and all I want to do is scream.

My mother steps forward, concerned. “Shabs?
Kya hua?
What's happened?”

“I've had the worst day of my life, that's what's happened, and it's all because of him!”

“Because of who? Chacha jaan? But what could he have done?”

“Someone at school saw me at the mall with him and now everyone in school thinks I'm related to a terrorist and they were all asking me these ridiculous questions!” Even though it's a relief to tell my mother what happened, I can't tell her the part that hurts the most, that I gave back the best kiss of my life to a girl who doesn't deserve it.

“A terrorist?” My mother's forehead creases with confusion. “I don't understand.”

That's when I finally snap. “That's what Chacha jaan looks like, Amma!” I yell, and my mother recoils at the tone of my voice, but I'm way past caring. “It's embarrassing!
He's
embarrassing! He needs to go to Pakistan and stay there! I don't want to ever be seen with him again! I don't want to be seen with any of you!” I kick my backpack. Pens spill out of it, and I kick those too.

“Shabnam.”

I turn around to see my father and Chacha jaan standing in front of the door to the garage, which I've of course forgotten to shut. I've never seen my father so angry, and Chacha jaan, he looks stunned, and hurt, and also sad—like he feels sorry for me—which upsets me more. I've had enough of people's sympathy. And anyway, how dare
he
feel sorry for me! He doesn't even know me.

“Apologize to Chacha jaan,” my father orders.

There's no way I'm apologizing to anyone else, not today, and especially not to him. So I run away, out of the kitchen, down the hall and up the stairs, and slam my bedroom door. I
know my mother is going to start knocking in two minutes but an hour goes by and nothing. Nobody. By the time my mother arrives, I've stopped bawling and my fury has been subdued by remorse and shame. Though I still don't ever want to be seen with Chacha jaan, I feel terrible that he had to hear me shouting it.

“Are you okay, Shabs?” My mother approaches the bed slowly, like she's worried I might lash out again.

I pull the covers over my head. “Go away.”

She doesn't say anything, just starts pressing each of my toes, starting with my left pinky. This is how I learned to count to ten in Urdu when I was little. “Chacha jaan left. Abba's taken him to a hotel next to the airport. He'll catch his flight to Karachi straight from there tomorrow. Abba didn't want him to go, but Chacha jaan, he insisted.”

So Chacha jaan was finally gone. I ought to be rejoicing, but instead I feel sick. I didn't want him to go like this. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd stayed the night, since I'm planning on never leaving my room anyway. He must really hate me. He must think I'm an awful brat.

“He left something for you.” My mother reaches into the pocket of her slacks and holds up Chacha jaan's
tasbih
. I don't move, so my mother lays it down gently on top of the blanket.

“It used to be his wife's
tasbih
. You never met her, but she was a very kind woman. After I married your father, I stayed for some time at his family's house. I was very nervous being a new bride at the in-laws, but Chacha jaan's wife was so kind to
me. Some of the other people in the house weren't very nice to her, but I never heard her say anything bad about anyone.”