The Garden of My Imaan (5 page)

Steps to Success

I
made sure I didn’t spend too much time getting ready on Sunday morning. I didn’t want to be late to the Islamic Center again. Lucky for me, the traffic was light and I got to Religion 2 a little early. The room was empty except for Sister Khan.

“On time today,” she said, nodding in approval. “Ma’sha Allah!”

I sat in the last row and waited for my friends. I couldn’t wait to talk to Nafees again. At night, I’d lie in bed and think about her kissing Marcus, the blue-eyed boy with a ponytail. After a while Marcus would change into Josh and Nafees into me. And then I’d get goose bumps all over.

“Scoot over,” a voice said.

I jumped. It was Nafees. “Oh, hi,” I said. “How’s your new boyfriend?”

“Just dandy,” she replied. “How’s yours?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, too bad,” Nafees said. “But don’t give up just yet. You might get lucky some day.”

Amal plopped down beside me, grinning broadly. “Hey, you two!” she chirped.

“Hey yourself,” I said. “What’s up? How did it go?”

“What?”

“You know … that.” I pointed to her hijab. “What did the kids say at your school?”

“Oh this? It was no big deal.” Amal tucked a stray lock of hair back under her green scarf. “They asked a few questions and then everyone went about their business.”

Nafees turned to me. “And exactly what did you think would happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a big change for them, after all.”

“For them?” Amal exclaimed, frowning. “I’m the one in hijab, remember?”

I let that sink in. “You’re right. Weren’t you the tiniest bit nervous?”

“Oh boy!” Nafees grunted, obviously impatient with my question.

Amal stared her down and looked back at me. “A bit,” she confessed. “But by the end of the day my friend said she wasn’t even paying attention anymore!”

“You mean she got used to it?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” Amal said.

Sister Khan rapped on her desk, and we all faced front.

I managed to keep my mind off blue-eyed boyfriends and hijabs by concentrating on the lesson for the day: the importance of the five daily prayers.

Ten minutes before the end of class, Sister Khan told us about the Steps to Success assignment.

Everybody groaned. We had enough going on at school without additional Sunday school work.

“This sounds just as confusing as the independent study project I have to do for Mrs. Doyle,” I grumbled.

“I don’t get it,” Sehr said. “Grown-ups are always thinking they can change kids by giving them stupid projects like this.”

It was getting noisy in the room and Sister Khan rapped on her desk again. “What’s the big problem, people? Why such high drama?”

“This is too hard, Sister Khan!” Heba said. “Why couldn’t we write about Prophet Yusuf and his brothers who threw him in a pit or—?”

“People! Enough!” Sister Khan held up her hand. I could tell she was getting impatient. “This is Ramadan, no? And in Ramadan, we must ponder on how to make ourselves better human beings, no?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts! So, back to the assignment. First step: You will think … hmm … how to make myself
new
? How to
improve
my old self in the month of Ramadan? Second step: When you know, then you will act upon it. Third step: When you finish acting, then you will write a
full
report. Okay? Sufficient explanation?”

Amal, Heba, Sehr, and I exchanged uncomfortable glances and Nafees rolled her eyes. Sister Khan’s English
was pretty good, but sometimes it was hard to understand what she meant.

“Can you maybe give us an example?” Amal ventured.

“Eh? Oh, she wants example. Okay. In Ramadan, what we do? We communicate with Allah, no? We try to get closer to Him, no?”

Everyone nodded.

“
Accha
! Good, good!” Sister Khan said. “So—”

“I think I get it!” I blurted out. “It’s like prayers. They’re a form of communication with Allah, right?”

“Of course, but—,” Sister Khan began.

“Do you want us to keep a record of how many times we pray?” I pressed.

“Yeah!” someone said. “We could make some graphs or something.”

“Graphs?” Sister Khan frowned. “No. No. No graphing. Listen to me, people. I ask for something … something … umm … a little bit deep, no?”

“Deep?”

“Yes! Deep and
meaningful
,” Sister Khan said triumphantly. “
Tcha
! It is not only about numbers and counting and graphs, no?”

So, keeping a quick checklist was out.

“Please give us a clue, Sister Khan,” Amal begged.

“She needs another clue?” Mrs. Khan was beginning to sound annoyed. “All right, all right. Hmm. It is like this … like a trip to a place where it feels good when you are there. No?”

That was a clue?

“Huh?”

“Like going to the movies?” Nafees snickered.

“Like going to get your nails done?”

Sister Khan rapped for silence. “People, people. You must get serious for a change, please?”

Someone asked if we could ask our parents for help.

“Okay. Okay. You will need all the help you can get, it looks like,” Sister Khan conceded. “But first, read these instructions.” She handed out sheets of paper with directions printed on them.

“How long do we get to do this?” I asked.

“You start today, maybe tomorrow. In March, April you finish up. In between you improve all the time. Plenty time to improve!” Sister Khan replied smugly.

“I’m not doing this,” Nafees growled under her breath.

I described Sister Khan’s project to Badi Amma and asked her to help me figure it out.

“Hmm,” she mused, pulling on her chin. “It makes me remember the nice man on TV.”

“What nice man?”

“You know him.” Badi Amma deepened her voice.
“Make the clothes nice and clean. Buy New and Improved Tide!”

“What?”

Badi Amma laughed. “I learn a lot from TV,” she said.

“Get serious, Badi Amma!” I cried. “What does TV have to do with this?”

My great-grandmother smiled. “It is simple. This teacher wants a new and improved you. Very smart lady, that one!”

“She’s not that smart,” I grumbled. “She’s not even a real teacher. She’s only a volunteer. Besides, what’s wrong with me? I’m fine the way I am!”

“What you want me to tell you then?” Badi Amma asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sister Khan said something about communicating with Allah. Maybe you can help me with that.”

Badi Amma hawked and spit into the disgusting can she kept close to her bed. I understood she needed to clear her lungs, but I still thought it was gross.

“Then sit down and write Allah nice letters,” Badi Amma said, swiping a napkin across her chin.

“That’s crazy!” I said.

“You ask, I give advice, but you don’t take my advice,” Badi Amma said. “So next time don’t ask.”

The doorbell rang. Badi Amma peered through the curtain. “Little Veenee is here,” she announced.

“Hi, Buddy Ma!” Winnie chirped as soon as I opened the door. “What’s new?”

“My chest still barks like a dog when I cough,” Badi Amma answered.

“I’m sorry! Make sure you don’t get sick again, okay?”

“Come, I show you what I keep on my mirror.” Badi Amma shuffled toward her room and motioned for us to follow.

“Look,” she said, gesturing at the mirror over her dresser.

“Gee, you still have the get-well card I sent you,” Winnie said. “Buddy Ma, you’re the best! I’m going to make you another one, okay?”

“Little Veenee, you the best. You are
acchi bacchi
.”

Winnie turned to me. “What did she call me?”

“She called you a good girl,” I explained.

“Gee thanks, Buddy Ma! You’re ah-chee bah-chee too!”

“Good, good. Make this one here smart with her numbers like you,” Badi Amma said. “She is very smart in other ways but not in adding and subtracting.”

“Thanks a lot!” I muttered.

“Do you know your twelve times tables, little Veenee?” Badi Amma asked.

“Sure I do,” Winnie said.

Badi Amma proceded to give her a quiz. “Twelve fourteens are?”

“What?”

“Twelve fourteens are?” my great-grandmother repeated impatiently.

“Whoa! We didn’t go up that high!”

“Sixteen fours are?” Badi Amma shot out again, as quick as lightning.

“They didn’t make us do the sixteens either, Buddy Ma!
And anyway, we’re in fifth grade. We don’t do tables as much anymore.”

“They let us use our calculators on the really big numbers,” I added.

Badi Amma ignored me. “Chinese people are suppose be very smart with numbers. I see them vin many, many competitions.”

“Badi Amma!” I moaned.

“I’m half Korean, Buddy Ma,” explained Winnie. “Not Chinese.”

“Chinese, Korean, same thing!” my great-grandmother said.

After gathering up some snacks, Winnie and I headed back to the living room and made ourselves comfortable on the sofa.

“You’ll never believe the homework our Sunday school teacher gave us this week,” I told Winnie. I tried to explain the Steps to Success assignment.

“I have absolutely no clue what you are talking about,” she said, peeling a banana.

“Part of it has something to do with talking to God,” I explained.

“With your Allah?”

“Allah … God, same thing.”

“So why does the project have to be about talking to God? It sounds pretty weird, if you ask me.”

“Come on, help me out here.” I was hoping she’d have an idea I could use. “Sister Khan said Ramadan was coming and we needed to get reflective.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, get serious and thoughtful about our lives and everything.”

“You mean review stuff, the way Mrs. Doyle always wants us to do for our weekend math homework?” Winnie asked.

“I guess.”

“What exactly does she want you to reflect about?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

“Sounds
muy dificil
,” Winnie said.

“About as hard as the ISP we have to do.”

“Oh yeah, that.”

I had two projects looming over my head—Mrs. Doyle’s ISP and Sister Khan’s Steps to Success. I had no clue what I was going to do for either of them. “I’m completely swamped,” I groaned.

“Completely swamped and completely stumped!”

“You’re not kidding!” I said.