Written in the Stars (3 page)

T
he pale moon shines on us as we get into the car. The ride home is silent, but it’s a heavy silence, closing in on me. I feel like I’m suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” Imran says once we’re inside the house. His hands are in his pockets. His face is stained with tears. “I got a text. It was a photo. From Omar—you know him, right? And then someone else sent me the same picture. And then it was like over and over again, the same photo of you from all different people. I wasn’t going to let Ami know,” he insists, “but she heard the pings and grabbed it from me and . . . ” His voice trails off. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“Imran.” My mother glares at him. “Go to your room. Now.”

“I’m so, so sorry.” His voice grows small.

I try to process Imran’s words, but before I can, my father’s silence explodes into rage.

“Boyfriend?” he yells. “My daughter has a boyfriend?” His words reverberate through the house. They shake the walls.

I shudder.
Boyfriend
is a dirty, shameful word.

But Saif isn’t my boyfriend. He’s Saif. The boy who brings me my favorite granola bars and teases me relentlessly, until my sides ache from laughter.

“Guess who called us on the way over to collect you?” He looks at my mother. “Shela’s mother, Balkis. Shela’s your classmate, remember? Didn’t you stop and think that someone might see you there? Everyone is talking about us now. They’re laughing at us. How can we ever show our face anywhere again?”

My mother reaches for a napkin to dab her eyes.

I think of Balkis. How many times has she visited my mother with a smile on her face as she leans in and whispers about someone’s son or daughter, or rumors of discord in the house of a mutual acquaintance? I imagine her in someone else’s house, her ears and neck draped with gold, sipping tea and pouring forth all my secrets.

I want to tell them all about Shela and point out the obvious: Shela was at prom too. I know her secrets just as she’s known mine. I open my mouth to settle the score, but my father speaks first.

“Your mother and I have discussed this matter.” He lifts my laptop from the coffee table and tucks it under his arm. “And we’ve come to a few decisions. The first decision is the business with this boy is over. You will not see him again.”

I look down at the floor.

“The second thing, no more school.”

“But”—tears fill my eyes—“school’s almost over.”

My father adjusts his glasses. “It seems you weren’t worried about school when you decided to take this family’s reputation and run it through the mud. Of all the people in the world.” He draws a sharp intake of breath. “That boy? That family? I don’t know what kind of spell he cast over you to make you break every promise you ever made to us.”

I flinch at his words as though he had slapped me.

“I gave you so much. I trusted you.” His voice breaks. “Now you’re going to have to trust me.”

T
he next day, Imran is the only one who will speak to me. That night he sneaks me his phone when our parents are asleep. Over the noise of his stereo, I whisper to Saif in Imran’s closet.

“What if I tried to talk to your parents again?” Saif asks. “My mom could come too. Maybe having another adult there might help.”

“It wouldn’t work. They’re so angry, Saif. I’ve never seen them this way. They won’t even look at me.”

“But I have to explain myself to them.” His voice brightens. “I know! Graduation is Wednesday. My parents can approach them. Force them to discuss the situation.”

“I don’t think I’m going to my graduation.”

“But you’re the salutatorian! They’re expecting you to speak.”

“I heard my mother talking about it with my father.”

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters.

“I don’t know what to do, Saif. The phone keeps ringing. People won’t stop calling to ask if the rumors are true. I don’t know how to fix this,” I whisper.

“Naila, I love you. Nothing’s changed. Look, either we give in, or they do. I’m not giving up. Are you? We need a plan, but sooner or later it’ll work out. It has to.”

His words stay with me the next day. They linger in my thoughts as I watch my mother in the kitchen. Her mouth remains set in a thin straight line, devoid of emotion. It’s as if I’m a stranger. I’ve tried apologizing, explaining, but my words are weightless, floating away unheard.

But that doesn’t mean I stop trying.
I should at least try to talk to her, help her understand what happened, why I did what I did.

I look at the wall clock—my father won’t be home for another few hours. I step into the kitchen and watch her place the teakettle on the stove. She is wearing a burnt orange salwar kamiz. Her hair is up in its usual bun. I hear the clicking sound of the gas stove as it ignites. She sits down with a newspaper, her face obscured.

“Ami?”

Silence.

“Ami, I need to talk to you.”

The paper rustles as she turns a page. I hesitate for a moment before plunging in.

“Ami, I’m sorry. I will never forgive myself for lying to you. But Saif, he’s not a bad person. This wasn’t his fault. Maybe he could come by with his mother?”

“No,” comes a quiet but firm voice from behind the paper veil. My mother lowers the newspaper and looks directly at me. I feel a sinking sensation.

“Have you been speaking with him?”

My heart begins to pound. “No.” I look down at the floor.

She’s silent for a long time before she speaks again, and when she does, her voice is harder than I’ve ever heard it before. “You let him know I’m not taking phone calls. I’m not having guests over, and I’m not talking to him. Or his mother.” Her voice lowers with a tone of finality. “Don’t ask me again.”

The kettle begins to whistle. I watch her stand up. She tucks the newspaper under her arm and walks out the room, taking with her all the hope I had.

F
rom my bedroom that evening I hear my parents in the kitchen speaking in hushed voices. My stomach clenches. Are they talking about me? My graduation? My going away to college?

Carefully I make my way down the stairs. As though sensing my presence, my mother turns around.

“Beta.” She motions with her hand for me to join them.

She called me beta. And the way she said it, as though I am her daughter again.

I feel myself choking up with gratitude. Maybe Saif is right. Maybe things are going to be okay.

My mother looks at my father, who is looking off toward the window. He grips his cell phone in his hands. “Your father and I discussed everything that happened,” she says.

I tense and glance at my father. He still won’t look at me.

“We came to one conclusion,” she continues. “This was our fault. How can we blame you for your sins when we did not teach you well enough?”

What?

“We always meant to take you and Imran to Pakistan every year,” she continues. “If we had, this would never have happened. We’ve talked about it at great length, and we’ve made a decision. We’re going to go for a visit to Pakistan. Our flight is Wednesday.”

“Wednesday,” I repeat, looking at both of them in confusion. “Which Wednesday?”

“This Wednesday.”

Cold beads of sweat form on my forehead. Wednesday is only two days away. It’s my graduation day.

“So soon?” I swallow back tears.

Ami nods toward Abu’s cell phone. “We already booked our tickets.”

“But, Ami, Abu,” I tell them, “if we delayed it just a week, I could go to my graduation and have time to get ready. And besides—”

My father interrupts, “Were we supposed to consult you? Like you consulted with us before you made a decision that has ruined all of us?”

“Imtiaz, there’s no need to get into this right now.” Ami presses a hand on his shoulder.

“No.” He shrugs off her hand. “No. She needs to know.” He looks directly at me now. “Do you know why the phone won’t stop ringing? Do you know just how many taunts we get?”

“Imtiaz,” my mother whispers.

“Look at your mother,” he shouts. “Look at your mother! Didn’t you think for one minute, Naila? Didn’t you realize you would get caught? That word would spread? Everyone knows. Here is your poor mother, telling everyone how good her daughter is, what good character she has. Now she is the fool.”

My throat constricts.

“You were my pride and joy. I trusted you completely.” His voice cracks. “Now where will we ever find a respectable match for you?”

“Abu,” I plead, “maybe you don’t have to make a match for me. Maybe things can be different. Just because it’s different doesn’t automatically make it bad. I don’t—”

My father slams his hand on the countertop. “Do you hear her? We thought we raised her well, but listen to her.” He looks directly at me. “We had such high hopes for you. We supported you. It was just one thing, the only thing, we asked you not to do—and now? Now everyone knows we failed. Even worse, we know we failed.”

I swallow and look down at my feet. I am too frightened to cry.

“I know it’s sudden.” My mother rests a hand on my shoulder. “But I think we need a change of scenery. This has been very difficult for all of us. Maybe if we go back for a visit, you can understand us a bit more. Besides, you’ll be in college soon. When else will we have a chance to visit Pakistan for one month like this?”

She said college.

I look at her. They’re going to let me go. They even planned the trip for a month so I’d be back in time for orientation.

I take a proper breath, my first in ages. Maybe one month away will do some good. Maybe a month is what we all need to decompress, away from phone calls and pointed glances. Maybe one month will help them to be more open to the things I need them to understand. Maybe a vacation to Pakistan is the best possible solution there is.

T
he plane speeds off the runway, gliding gracefully into flight. I look at my mother sitting next to me. She is already asleep. All around me, people are dozing, quiet, steady snores escaping their mouths.

I flip through the magazine in my lap, but can’t focus. My thoughts continue to lead me elsewhere, traveling back to the night before.

I had flinched as I slid open my creaky bedroom window, praying my parents slept soundly. I had to see Saif and decided it was worth the risk. I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye. I stepped into the grassy forest behind our house. I heard nothing but silence.

Finally I saw Saif at the edge of the forest, and we followed the small sandy trail deep into the woods.

“My dad said we’re staying with his brother, my chacha. It’s a small village. I’m not sure if they even have Internet,” I told him. “The phones aren’t reliable, and I don’t want to risk getting caught, so I don’t know how I’ll be able to contact you while I’m there.”

“I had a feeling that might be the case,” Saif said. His small flashlight shot a bolt of light through the dark night, and I saw his face, his eyes crinkled in a smile. “Here,” he said, giving me a plastic bag.

“What’s this?” Putting my hand inside, I felt something small and cool to the touch—a cell phone.

“I bought it this morning. It’s pretty basic, but it has an international SIM card. You can text with it too.”

Relief flowed through me. As usual, Saif came through. Just like that, he made the upcoming month feel considerably less daunting. Despite the ocean that would soon separate us, he would remain just a text away. I slipped the thin phone into my back pocket and hugged him one last time.

S
tepping off the plane, I wade through the people surrounding me, trailing behind my parents until finally we are out of the security gates and into the main airport terminal.

The number of people I see is staggering. Some of the women are in traditional salwar kamizes. Others are in head coverings and flowing dark burkas that sweep the ground with each step. I pass two women with streaked blond hair in jeans and T-shirts, talking animatedly on cell phones as a stream of men walk past in salwar kamizes in shades of beige, white, and gray. Some sport large, thick mustaches; others are clean shaven in dark black suits and crisp collared shirts, carrying leather briefcases.

Suddenly I hear a loud cry in the distance. My mother looks up, and her face breaks into a smile. “They’re here! Can you believe it?” She tugs at my father’s elbow. “Almost everyone came.”

I follow my mother’s gaze, and then I see them: a group in the distance, twenty people, maybe more. My father rushes toward them.

“Is this real?” a deep voice asks in Urdu. “Are you all really standing before me now?” I look up to see Chacha Shahid, my father’s brother, smiling at us. He looks as he does in all his pictures, large, with rounded shoulders and belly, his mustache black with flecks of gray. He pulls my father into a tight embrace. I only have a moment to watch them before I myself am engulfed in embraces.

My chachi stands dwarfed next to her husband, my chacha. Her face is pale; her cheeks are sallow. She wears a blue outfit and a matching blue nose ring. Their son, Sohail, born two months before Imran, now stands next to him, with hair that curls at the ears just like my own brother’s. I see a smattering of small children, five at least, two girls in matching pink frocks and younger ones staring at all of us with mouths parted in awe. My father’s sister, Phupo Hamida, wears a peach-colored outfit; her silver hair pokes through her scarf, her arms are crossed, her lips pressed together. My mother’s sister, Khala Simki, leans in and kisses me with her bright pink lips; she has the same almond-shaped eyes and arched curve to her eyebrows as my mother. Except for her short hair, the reddish-brown color of rinsed henna, she looks like a younger version of my mother.

“Wow. I can’t believe it. You’re really here,” says a girl’s voice in Urdu. It’s Selma, my cousin, smiling shyly in my direction. I recognize her instantly from the pictures our relatives send every year.

“Me either!” I respond. I’m thankful now for growing up speaking Urdu with my parents so that now I can effortlessly slip into the familiar language. “We’ve talked about coming forever, and now, just like that, here we are.”

She tilts her head slightly. “I know people said we look alike, but it’s almost like looking into a mirror.”

I look back at her. I’m the oldest cousin in our family; at one year younger, Selma is second oldest. Her large eyes flanked by thick eyelashes, her height, her slender frame—

“We could be sisters,” I tell her.

She laces her arm into mine and grins. “Well, we are already sisters.”

“You must drive with us,” a lanky man, my mother’s brother, Mamu Latif, insists.

“Nonsense. They will ride with us,” another says.

Protests break out in the parking lot. Each driver insists we ride with them.

“Enough.” Chacha raises a thick hand. “They are staying with us. I will take them home.” Everyone grows silent.

We squeeze into his blue car, and within minutes, we rumble through the busy city of Lahore. The summer heat swelters, and beads of sweat trickle down my face as seven crammed bodies shift uncomfortably against one another, the air conditioner trying in vain to cool us all.

The streets are flooded with cars, some so old they cough out dark clouds of smoke with each forward motion. I see wiry men driving multicolored rickshaws, yellow cabs with black lettering, and cars moving as if traffic rules are optional. I look at the vendors on the side of the road pushing wooden carts, their clothes covered in soot as they call out their wares. Some tout fruits and vegetables. Others call out the prices of brown- and blond-haired dolls and bright yellow and pink plastic balls they push slowly down dusty roads.

As we drive along, the stores, with their huge lettering in English and Urdu announcing clothing and perfumes and seemingly stacked one atop the other, dwindle to a handful. And the road, although still bumpy and dusty, becomes considerably less crowded. The landscape slowly melts from the bustling city into the silence of country, with water buffalo and goats grazing while chickens perch on boundary walls or peck the ground.

“We’re almost there,” Chacha tells us. I glance over at Selma and smile. Getting to know family I’ve never met, exploring a part of the world I’ve never seen—suddenly spending a month in Pakistan doesn’t feel daunting at all.