Rebels by Accident (18 page)

“So I started freaking out a little. I mean, how do you not breathe? But the whole time people still chanted and yelled at a police blockade. This one guy charged the police line and they beat him…they beat him and kept beating him.

“It got so bad, Sittu.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Then they shot a boy right in front of me.”

“Oh my God,” I say, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach.

“He wasn't much older than us.”

“Muhammad?”

“
Habibti
, there are many thousands of young men at Tahrir Square,” Sittu says. “But
insh'allah
, he's fine.”

“He was so close to me I could've reached out and touched his face.” Deanna blinks to clear away the tears. “He sank to his knees, and for a second, I thought he was going to pray. It almost looked like he was smiling. But then he fell forward. He'd been shot in the back.”

Sittu squeezes Deanna's hand.

“I didn't even hear the shots, Sittu. I was right next to him, and I didn't even hear the shots!” Deanna and Sittu just stare at each other, like maybe they're reading each other's minds, as tears stream down their faces.

It's a long time before Sittu speaks, and when she does, she says, “This will be with you for a long time. I'm sorry for that. But you will be okay, Deanna.”

Deanna shakes her head. “All I could think was, ‘When the bullet goes through my head, will it hurt?'”

I feel like I can't breathe. Deanna rests her head on Sittu's chest, and I smear the tears across my face. I hope Sittu's right and Deanna feels better after telling us about what happened, but I can't imagine how after all she saw.

“Then I ran and ran and ran until I was far away from the smoke and chanting. I didn't know what to do, so I just kept asking people how to get to the mall until I found it.” She pauses. “That's when I found out you really were in the hospital. The waiter at the café said you were here. I'm sorry. I should have come when Hassan told me.” She wipes the last of her tears on her sleeve. “Who's Muhammad?” Deanna asks, sounding more like herself.

I don't answer her, not yet ready to change the subject.

“A guy?” Deanna demands. “What guy? Why don't I know about this?” I'm saved by a nurse.

She hits the button that stops the beeping on Sittu's monitor, then adjusts the Velcro strap around her finger. But when she looks at the numbers on the monitor, she frowns and seems worried in a way that she wasn't before. She says to me, “Please, she must rest. The doctor will be here soon.”

“I didn't mean to cause you any problems,” Deanna says to Sittu.

The nurse turns her attention to Deanna and me, and says, “Please leave. You are disturbing her.”

“No, my granddaughters stay,” Sittu says, grabbing the IV line attached to her arm. “Or I'll pull this right out.”

“Please don't.” I reach out to stop her.

“Madam, please.”

The nurse reaches out to her too, but Sittu lifts her arm with the IV line dangling from it and says, “I mean business.”

“I'll get the doctor,” the nurse says. She's pretending not to be angry, but I know she'd have slammed the door behind her if she could. It's not that kind of door though; it just swings open and closed, like a saloon door in the Wild West.

“Sittu, I'm sorry we upset you,” I say, guiding Sittu's arm back to her side.

Deanna nods.

“I'm angry you both disobeyed me, but I'm proud you followed your hearts.”

Technically, I followed Deanna, not my heart, but when Deanna gives me a look with those eyes of hers, I can see she's beaming inside. We both did what we needed to do, and we both did the right thing. Besides, Deanna truly is a part of my heart.

Sittu tugs at one of Deanna's curls and asks her, “What's going on with you and Hassan?”

“There's nothing going on.” It may be easy for Deanna to keep a straight face, but she sucks at playing dumb.

Both Sittu and I shake our heads, and I say, “Give us a break.”

“Well, I—” Deanna stops talking and looks over toward the door.

“The girl we saw him with is his sister,” I blurt out, finally remembering why she's upset with Hassan.

“That was his sister?” Deanna asks. Her voice sounds as if she wants to believe me, but she still doesn't.

“Sittu, do you know Hassan's sister?”

“Yes, she's a smart girl,” Sittu says, “with a lot of courage. Did you meet her?”

“I did, but Deanna didn't.”

“Ahhh! Now I see,” Sittu says as she widens her eyes. “It's a case of mistaken identity.”

“He's not interested in me, anyway,” Deanna says.

Sittu pulls Deanna's chin down until their eyes meet, then gives Deanna's chin a little shake. “If you can't see from the way that boy looks at you that he's, as you would say, into you, then you are not the smart girl I thought you were.”

Sittu sighs dramatically, drops her hand into her lap, and shakes her head. “
Habibti
.”

“Yes?” I say.

“I mean this
habibti
.” Sittu looks at Deanna. Maybe she should start calling us
Habibti
One and
Habibti
Two. Or
Habibti
Waahid
and
Habibti
Itnein
.

“I really do like him.”

“What am I going to do with you two?” She sits up a bit straighter in bed. “Okay, so I have a few advices,” Sittu says.

“You mean
advice
?” Deanna asks.

I shake my head at her. “No, she means
advices
.”

“I know the two of you still have a lot to learn about the ways of this world. But
habibti
”—Sittu looks at Deanna again—“losing yourself gets you nowhere but lost.”

Deanna nods like she understands what this means. I think I do. I'm starting to understand Sittu's advices a little better.

“And you,” she says, and I think, Where's my
habibti
? “You are cursed with a little bit too much of your
sittu
in you.”

I have no idea what she means.

“Before you go running out to save someone, make sure she really needs saving.”

Now this, I get.

“But you were being a good friend. And I'm proud of you for that.”

“Thanks, Mariam.” Deanna's eyes are smiling.

“Friends have each other's backs,” I say, beaming.

“I'm not finished with my advices, girls. Remember, the reason two people are attracted to each other sometimes makes as much sense as trying to start your car with a carrot stick. But trying to come between the ignition and the carrot stick will only get you left by the side of the road, so let the heart be what it will be.”

We both nod, and I think of Muhammad. In my head, I say a prayer that he's okay.

“So are you going to take your own advices?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?” Sittu asks. She's even worse than Deanna at playing dumb.

“Ahmed—he's really into you.”

“He's a nice old man who has nothing better to do than sit around in hospital rooms.”

“Whatever you say, Sittu. Whatever you say.” I bend down and kiss her on the cheek.

“So you really think Hassan likes me?” Deanna asks.

“
Ye
s
!
” Sittu and I say as one.

Dr. Nassif comes in with the nurse following her. “So, are we ready?”

“For what?” Sittu asks

“Those tests we talked about.”

“Please stop your craziness!” Sittu coughs for what feels like forever. “I have a little indigestion from lunch, and you want to turn me into a lab rat.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, looking down at her.

“No tests,” Sittu says, coughing so hard now, her face is turning red.

“Sittu!” Deanna and I move to her, but she waves us away.

“Please, come with me,” the nurse says. And this time, I know we don't have a choice.

We follow the nurse to the waiting area. Ahmed's sitting on a gold velvet couch covered in plastic, biting his cuticles. Hassan's banging on a television. The ends of its antenna are wrapped in tinfoil, something I've seen only in old movies.

“Hassan, you okay?” I ask as he bangs away.

Ahmed jumps to his feet. “How is she?”

“She's refusing to let the doctor run tests,” Deanna says.

“That woman is so hardheaded.” Ahmed starts to pace. “Doesn't she know these tests can save her life? I should bring her to the States. I know one of the best cardiologists in the country.”

There's no way Sittu's getting on a plane in her condition, but I don't bother to say it out loud. Besides, I think he's talking more to himself than to us.

“People aren't leaving the square,” Hassan interjects, still pounding on the side of the television. “And protests are happening all over Egypt.” This time, Hassan wallops the TV so hard he almost knocks it off its stand.

“I know you're angry that you're not there,” I say, “but beating on the TV isn't going to help.”

“I'm not beating on the TV because I'm angry,” Hassan says as he pulls on the antenna and rotates it. “I'm just trying to get some reception so we can see what's happening with the protests.” He checks the picture, then moves it again.

Ahmed stops pacing and tells him, “Just turn it off. The government's probably blocked Al Jazeera by now, so the only thing being broadcast is their propaganda.”

Hassan shuts off the television and comes to join Deanna and me when his pocket beeps. He pulls out his phone.

“Is that Muhammad?” I can hear the panic in my voice, and Deanna puts her arm around my shoulders.

“It's my sister,” Hassan says as he reads the text. “This is incredible. People are protesting even in the poorer parts of Egypt, where they don't have access to the Internet or mobiles or anything.”

“Wait—can I borrow your phone?” I ask, reaching out for it. “I really need to call home.”

“It's a pay-as-you-go SIM card deal,” he says, and slides it back in his pocket. “There isn't enough money on it for an international call.”

“Oh—sorry,” I say, feeling like an idiot. Things are hard for people here, and I just assume I can make an international call on his phone. What is wrong with me?

“Use mine,” Ahmed says, handing me a very low-tech-looking phone. It doesn't even have a camera.

“
Shukran
,” I say. Looking down at the keypad, I realize I've never made an international call before.

“Dial zero-zero-one and the number,” Deanna says, dropping her arm from around my shoulders.

I dial, then wait. A recording of a woman's voice speaks to me in Arabic. “What's she saying?” I ask, handing the phone to Hassan.

“The circuits are all busy,” he says. “My sister says journalists from all over the world are at Tahrir Square broadcasting stories about the protests. People must be trying to get through to their families here to find out what's happening.”

“At least they haven't cut off phone service yet,” Ahmed says, taking his phone back from Hassan. He begins to pace again and says, “It'll be okay,” but he looks like he's struggling to keep it together. “You can try your father again in a while, but for now, we have to try to get your
sittu
to do what the doctor wants.”

“Who would cut off the phone service? The phone companies?” I ask.

“No. The government,” Ahmed says.

“It's like they think if we can't tweet or update our Facebook pages, we won't demand that Mubarak step down. But it's too late for that. We won't give up,” Hassan says.

“I hope to God my parents aren't watching the news,” I say.

“My mother's probably already called the American consulate,” Deanna replies.

“Thousands are out there protesting. I never thought I'd see this day.” Hassan's smiling so wide, his dimple looks like a crater.

“You can't believe it?” Ahmed stops pacing. “I'm triple your age, and I can't believe Egyptians are finally saying they've had enough. This is going to be bigger than the protests in the seventies. Down! Down with Mubarak!” Ahmed starts chanting and marching around the couch.

“Down! Down with Mubarak!” Hassan joins Ahmed.

“Down! Down with Mubarak!” Deanna joins in too.

I hesitate; just as I'm about to join them, a nurse rushes in. “Please, patients are resting. This is a hospital!”

“How's my grandmother?” I ask.

“The doctor's still with her. Now, please, keep your voices down.” She gives us one last frown before leaving the room.

“That's one tough nurse,” Hassan says.

“Not as tough as Sittu,” I say.

“Ain't that the truth?” Ahmed takes a seat on the couch again.

I sit next to him and look into his eyes. “What are we going to do with her?”

“I don't know,” Ahmed says, taking my hand. “I really don't know.”

Across the room, Hassan takes a step toward Deanna. “Hey,” he says to her, touching her arm.

“Yes,” she says. Her posture reminds me of a puppy waiting for a treat. God, I hope I don't look that pitiful when I'm with Muhammad.

“I just wanted to say…” Hassan pauses.

“You just wanted to say what?”

“I have no right to tell you what you should or shouldn't do.”

“Thank you. I shouldn't have reacted—”

“For God's sake”—Ahmed shakes his head at them—“what's the problem with you two?”

“I don't have a problem,” Deanna says.

“Neither do I,” Hassan adds.

“So why all the dramatics?”

“She thought he dissed her,” I tell Ahmed.

“Mariam!” Deanna says long and loud like a whine. Ahmed looks confused. I start to explain the meaning of
diss
.

“I know what
diss
means,” he says. “What I want to know is why she thinks this.”

“She saw Hassan with another girl, and she thought she was his girlfriend, so she got jealous.”

“Mariam! Will you shut up?”

“No, I'm not going to shut up,” I say, walking over to Hassan and Deanna. “You're both being ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?” Deanna says.

“It's clear you're both totally into each other. Deanna, you got jealous—”

“You were jealous? That was my sister,” Hassan explains.

“I know that now.”

“Hassan, tell us straight out: do you like Deanna?”

Deanna gives me her “you're dead” glare, which she only uses on Beth and Karen.

“I like her very much.” He smiles.

“Really?” Now there's nothing but love in her eyes as she gazes at him.

“Ahmed and I'll give you a minute to yourselves. Is that okay, Ahmed?”

“Anything you say, boss.” Ahmed gets off the couch and steps into the hallway.

“Okay, you have one minute to set things straight between you. Then we have more urgent things to take care of.” I follow Ahmed into the hallway.

We both lean against the wall, and in my head, I begin to count: one Mississippi, two Mississippi… I've counted, like, fifty Mississippis when Ahmed begins to sing quietly, but off-key, some love song about cheating.

I elbow him.

“What? You don't like how I sing the Beatles? It's been at least two minutes,” Ahmed whispers to me.

“Right,” I say, and when I walk back into the waiting room, I can tell that Deanna's faith in romance and happy endings has been restored. She and Hassan are kissing like they're the only two people in Cairo.

I do that pretend-cough thing, but neither of them looks up. Then I say, “Excuse me, guys.” Nothing. It's like I'm back at school—invisible.

“Time to break it up!”

Deanna and Hassan finally break away. They both look at me, but their eyes tell me I'm the last thing on their minds.

“Come on, I need your help now,” I tell them.

“What do you need us to do?” Deanna sounds like she's with me now.

“You have to help me convince Sittu to take those tests. And, Hassan…”

He waits for me to say something, but before I can get the nerve to ask, Deanna jumps in, “Go find your friend Muhammad. Can't you see this girl is totally worried about him?!”

“Okay, I'll start calling around,” Hassan says.

“Hey, boss.” Ahmed walks in the room. “What do you need me to do?”

“Anything but sing,” Deanna and I say in unison. We all laugh, and for one brief moment, life is just that simple.