Rebels by Accident (14 page)

“I'm a freak. I was a freak back home, and I'm a freak here.”

“You're not a freak. And if you were, so what? Who says freaks aren't cool? I'm a freak too.”

“Okay, Mar, we're cool. It's just some days I hate looking like this.”

“
Stop
it
,” I say. The couple looks at us. “They're closed,” I snap. They walk away.

“Mar, calm down.”

“No, I'm tired of being calm. You're one of the most beautiful, brilliant—no, not one of. You are the most beautiful and brilliant person I know. Are you going to let some guy make you doubt that?”

“Now you sound like me. Mar, you always treat me like I'm all that, and you don't get how scared I am inside, just like you.”

“But, Deanna, you're so much braver than I am. You'll go up to anyone and just start talking to them. You tell people exactly what you think,” I say.

“I have to. Look, I act all tough because I got tired of being bullied. Do you know what it was like at my last school? People think everyone in San Francisco is all hippie and nice, but kids in San Francisco are mean too. Do you think Sphinx Face is an insult? You should have heard the other names I've been called. They all thought I was stuck up and wasn't friendly because I wasn't smiling at them, then when they found out I just can't smile, they felt sorry for me. And no one wants to be friends with someone they feel sorry for.”

“I never felt sorry for you.” I want to say something more to make Deanna feel better, but then I remember why I stopped telling my parents when I was sad—it's exhausting to have people trying to cheer you up.

“Hey.” Deanna grabs my hand. “Thanks. Really.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For getting it. And for thinking I'm perfect when I'm not.”

“You know,” I say, “you may talk tough, but you don't just talk, you act. You have guts. You wanted to go to the protest today. To stand up for what's right. I was the one who was scared, too scared to do the things that matter.”

Deanna sighs. “You should go and find the skate rental guy.”

I nod, thinking how Deanna needs our friendship as much as I do. “I'll be back soon,” I say, clopping away.

“Hey!” Deanna shouts after me.

I turn to face her.

“When you find Mr. Ful, tell him I want a
ful
refund!”

The entrance to the food court is blocked by a huddle of ten girls. They're all about my age, all wearing jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts. They look exactly like the cliques back at my school, except about half of them are wearing hijabs and a few have Arabic writing across their foreheads.
What
a
weird
place
for
a
tattoo
, I think. I'm expecting things to go as they do at home—that is, any minute, someone will hassle me.

“Excuse me,” I say. I'm trying to play it cool. “Do any of you know the guy who runs the skating place?”

When no one answers me, I'm not surprised. It's what I expect. Cliques are cliques in any culture, but then I realize maybe they don't speak English. As I start to wobble away on my skates, one of the girls asks, with a heavy accent, “You're American?”

“Yes,” I say, “visiting my
sittu
.”

“So you are Egyptian.” A girl with curly red hair steps in front of me. It's almost as curly as Deanna's, but not nearly as beautiful.

“Yes,” I say.

“I have family in New Jersey,” she tells me.

“Jersey is nice,” I reply, because I don't know what else to say. The only time I've been to New Jersey was when Baba accidentally drove over the George Washington Bridge on his way out of Manhattan.

“I'm going to visit next summer,” she says.

“That's great,” I say, trying to slip around Miss New Jersey. Maybe one of the food court workers can help me.

“Do you go to university?” a girl with an Arabic tattoo on her forehead asks.

“High school.”

“Do you know
High
School
Musica
l
?” another jumps in.

“I've seen it,” I say, looking over at Deanna on the bench. I would never have admitted it to anyone before, but now I know Deanna saw the Hannah Montana movie, so why not?

“I love it very much.
High
School
Musical
2
is not as good, but not bad.”

“You look older.” Jersey girl is back in my face. “I like your shirt.” I have to look down to see which one I am wearing.

“
Shukran
,” I say.

“
Afwan
.” She smiles, launching into what sounds like the story of her life, all in Arabic.

“Excuse me.” I try to interrupt, but she talks for several more sentences before she pauses to take a breath.

“I don't understand Arabic. Only a few words.”

Jersey girl looks disappointed for a moment, but then she says, “So you will learn. I can teach you Arabic, and you can teach me English.”

“That would be nice,” I say, again not knowing how to respond. These girls have never met me, and they're acting like I'm their cousin visiting from America. I have to admit it's kind of nice to be liked without having to work for it.

“Is that your friend?” High School Musical asks, gesturing toward Deanna. “She doesn't look very happy.”

I start to tell her she just can't smile, but then I remember Deanna isn't happy. She's miserable.

“We have to go, and the man who runs the skating rink has our shoes.”

“He disappears all the time,” Jersey says. “He's probably hanging out over at the
kushari
shop, at the other end. Do you know
kushari
?”

“The lentil, rice, and pasta dish,” I say.

“My brother will take you. Omar,
yalla
.” She waves at the group of guys who'd been watching me skate. From the way they are moving their hands and raising their voices, they seem to be arguing about something. Not one of them looks over at us, so I have no idea which one is Omar.

She turns to me. “We never made introductions. Safi.” She extends her hand to me.

“Mariam,” I say taking her hand.

“A pleasure,” she says as we shake. Then she introduces me to all the other girls. Pointing to each one, she says their names: Hoda, Mona, Hala. By the fourth girl, I've lost track of who is who, but I keep shaking and responding, “A pleasure.”

“Omar!” Safi calls again. This time, one of the guys looks up. He's about my height and definitely the cutest one in the group. Actually, he's one of the cutest guys I've ever seen. He's so hot he could be on the cover of one of Deanna's romance novels.

“
Yalla
,” she says, waving him over.

He gives her a why-are-you-bothering-me? shrug.

“He drives me so crazy. The youngest is always spoiled.”

“I'm the youngest,” Hoda says. At least, I think it's Hoda.

“Exactly my point.” Safi laughs, and the other girls, including Hoda, join in.

“Pardon me, Mariam. I will be right back,” she says, and before I can stop her, she's marching over to her brother. I can't hear what she's saying, but from the way all of the guys step back, it's clear she's being taken seriously.

“What happened with Omar?” one of the girls asks Hoda. “Are you not together?” I wonder whether she's talking in English because she's being polite or because she wants me to know the deal.

“Always politics,” Hoda says. “Yes, it's important, but it would be nice if he took a minute to say how beautiful my eyes are.” She and the other girls laugh so hard and loud, all of the guys stare.

“What did I miss?” Safi asks, returning with Omar trailing behind her.

“
Ahlan
.” Omar nods to the group, but from the way he stares at Hoda, it's clear their breakup wasn't what he wanted and their relationship isn't quite over.

“Omar, this is Mariam, from…?”

“New York.” I turn to him and extend my hand, but he's still so focused on Hoda, he doesn't notice. Embarrassed, I quickly drop my hand to my side.

“I appreciate your help,” I say, “but I'm sure I can find the man from the skate rental on my own. No problem.”

Both Omar and Safi click their tongues, the same way my parents do when they don't want to say a simple no, but an are-you-out-of-your-mind? no, a no-freaking-way no.

“You'll never find him,” Omar tells me. “He's always hiding out, playing backgammon in the back of the store. Come, I'll take you.”

“We have to leave,” Safi says. “But we hope to meet again, Mariam.”

“How will I get downtown?” Omar asks his sister.

“I told you we only have two cars.” I can't imagine how they will fit all these girls into two cars. “Take the bus with your friends.”

“The bus—” He mumbles something in Arabic.

“And take this.” She hands him a flyer with Arabic writing on it.

“I know where people are meeting,” he says, handing it back. “Are you going?” He looks at Hoda.

“You know my parents,” she says.

“They should be going too!” Omar says. “This is a time when we all need to stand together.”

“
Khalas
!
” Safi says, shaking her head. “Save it for when you get to the protest.”

“Come.” He motions to me with his head. We start to walk, and I stumble into him. He grabs my arm to steady me. “You are a lot smoother on the ice,” he says, and I think I see a smile.

“I'm sorry. I forgot I was wearing these.”

When we get to the
kushari
place, Omar says, “Wait here.”

My ankles hurt so badly from walking, I have to take off the skates. I sit down at a table to unlace them. I feel so much better, it's totally worth looking like an idiot as I walk around in my socks. I tie the laces together and sling them over my shoulder.

When Omar comes out, he says, “He's at the shawarma place. Come on, we have to hurry.” He starts to walk, but after a few steps, he stops, looking down at my feet. “Nice socks,” he says, then resumes at a pace even faster than before.

“I'm really sorry for taking up your time.”

“Don't worry about it. There are just fewer rides because two people who were supposed to drive canceled at the last minute. No guts.”

“You're going to Tahrir Square,” I say.

“Where else?” He walks faster. I'm sliding around in my stocking feet and can barely keep up.

“Hey.” He stops. “Do you have a car?”

I shake my head.

“Of course. God is not smiling on me today,” he says. “This is the place. Be right back.”

I'm really thirsty now, so I follow him inside to get a juice. As I wait in line, I watch the man behind the counter. Wearing a meat-stained apron, he's shaving shawarma with a small saw right onto people's plates.

“Looks delicious,” the guy behind me says. I turn to him. “Hungry?” he asks in a very heavy Egyptian accent.

“Getting juice,” I tell him. He's taller than most of the guys I've seen around here.

“You were the girl skating,” he says.

“What gave me away?” I nudge the skates slung over my shoulder.

“It's your eyes,” he says. “I would never forget eyes so beautiful.”

I know this is a totally cheesy line, but I can't help but smile.

“My name is Muhammad.”

“Mariam.” I extend my hand. “Pleasure,” I say now, used to the routine.

“I tried skating once—more like falling.” He laughs. It's a sweet laugh. An honest laugh. He's not half as cute as Omar, but there is something about this guy I like. “There are some things that just aren't natural,” he says.

“Like an Egyptian on ice,” I say.

“Like anything that requires me to have coordination. I have two left feet and hands. You're American?”

“Yes, from New York.” The line moves forward, and it's my turn to order. “
Itnein
.” I hold up two fingers.

“You must be very thirsty,” Muhammad says.

“One is for my friend.” Deanna is probably starting to freak out. I've been gone for a while.

“
Itnein
—?” The counter guy asks.

I don't know how to say
guava
juice
. “Excuse me”—I turn to Muhammad—“how do you say
two
guava
juices
?”

He steps up to the counter and says, “Two guava juices.”

The guy nods.

“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “I guess he speaks English.”

“Enough to sell his juices.”

“To go,” I say, and the man looks at me like he doesn't understand. “Is it my accent?” I ask Muhammad.

“Takeaway,” Muhammad says to the man, who nods again.

“Thank you—I mean,
shukran
,” I tell Muhammad.

“The pleasure is mine.” He smiles, and one of his front teeth is crooked. Now I think he's twice as cute as Omar. “I've been to New York a few times. It's an amazing city.”

“I live outside New York City,” I say. “It's boring, not amazing like the city.”

“Sounds like the village I'm from,” he says. “Everybody knows your name, and you wish half the people didn't.”

“More than half,” I say, thinking about a lot of the kids at school.

The man puts the juices on the counter. Muhammad pays him before I can even get my hand out of my pocket.

I try to hand him the money. “Thank you, but I can't let you pay.”

“Please, you are a guest in my country. It would make me very happy to do this. I rarely get a chance to practice my English,” he says.

“Your English sounds pretty good to me,” I say.

“So you can practice your Arabic, then,” he says.

“I really can't let you pay.” I try to hand him the money again. He gently pushes my hand away. “
Shukran
.”

“See, you are already practicing your Arabic!” He smiles, showing two deep dimples, and it makes me feel nice. “When I come to your country, you can buy me a juice.”

Is he flirting with me?

Omar comes running out of the back room, shouting something in Arabic to the guy behind the counter, who reaches up and turns on the television.

“Look!” Omar grabs my arm like his team just won the Super Bowl—or here, I guess it would be the World Cup. “Do you see how many people are there?”

“Is that Tahrir Square?”

“Thousands already!” Omar shouts, grinning. I have no idea what the news commentator is saying, but from the way Omar and Muhammad, and everyone else, are smiling, it must be good.

“I must go,” Omar says. “But the guys in back said the ice-skate man has already returned to the booth. So you can get your shoes. It was nice to meet you.” He grabs my hand and shakes it. “You're American, right?”

I nod.

“You should join us. It is important for the world to see Americans support us.” He pauses. “You look too much like an Egyptian. People won't be able to tell you're American. Still, join us. The revolution starts today, and it may not be televised, but it will be tweeted!” he shouts, running out of the store.

“Your expression is very sad now,” Muhammad says, looking into my eyes. “Did you want to go with your friend?”

“Omar? No. It's just my
sittu
—I think if she wasn't worried about me, she would have gone to this,” I say, looking up at the television. The camera is on two small girls, no older than six, holding hands and swinging their arms. They look so happy.

“I have to find her and tell her we should go.” I want to run to the café, but in socks and with the skates banging against my chest, it's just not happening.

“Let me carry these for you,” Muhammad says, picking up the juices from the counter.

“That's okay. I can manage.” I take the juices from him. After two steps, I realize everything will fall—drinks and skates—so I turn to him and say, “
Shukran
.”