I was looking forward to coming here tonight. I knew Imam Jackson would be busy, but I hoped to run into him and talk a little about what’s happening with my parents. Even if I couldn’t, it would have been nice to at least absorb the calming energy of his presence—but it’s not easy feeling calm or spiritual in a place that looks like a high school pep rally. The masjid invited both candidates, but Newton didn’t even reply to the invite. Which is just as well, because the walls are papered with campaign posters saying JULY 9—VOTE ROSSUM—HE’S AWESOME!
Just the thing to get you in the Ramadan mood. I’m not saying I have anything against Rossum—but he’s another white dude in Georgia running for office. What is there to get this excited about?
I check the wall clock by the entrance again. Still twenty minutes? The clock must be broken. My phone buzzes in my hip pocket.
Sara: I’m sitting for Lizzie on Tuesday and Charlie’s mom needs me at the same time. He’s a hardcore Elmo fan, so you’ll have a lot to talk about.
Maya: Um, pretty sure you were a bigger Elmo stan than I ever was!
Sara: Ha! Fine we were both equal fangirls. Think you can cover?
Maya: I’ll check! My mom’s schedule is funky right now, but fingers crossed!
Sara: Cool let me know! Iftar going okay?
Maya: Meh. I’m hungry.
Sara: Eat a samosa for me?
A word bubble, and then—
Sara: I miss you.
Tears spring to my eyes. I swallow.
Maya: I miss you too
Sara and I have been inseparable since we bonded over our mutual love of a certain red Muppet in our Montessori preschool. She was a bit busy her senior year with all the AP classes she was balancing, but now I realize that was just a taste of what’s to come. I look around the room. Soon Sara will be gone, and this—being alone—will be the new normal.
My phone rings. My father’s face—scrunched in horror from the Starbucks Unicorn drink I made him try years ago—pops in and out of my screen.
“Hey, you,” he says when I answer the phone. “How’s it going over there?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Standing around waiting to eat.”
“Senator-to-be there yet?”
“Nope. He’s late. But everyone is crowded by the door to mob him as soon as he enters. ’Tis the season, right?”
“Someone sounds hangry.”
“Everyone is a little hangry during Ramadan!” Though, now that I look around, no one really looks all that grumpy. Except me.
“You know you don’t have to fast every single day,” he says. “It’s great you’ve been fasting since freshman year, but I didn’t start full-time until I graduated high school.”
“I want to fast, but I can’t help it if medical science backs up the fact that not eating can make some people irritable.”
“It makes some people very irritable.”
“Funny. Are you on your way?” I ask him. “Mom thinks the board meeting is going to run longer than usual tonight.”
“That’s why I was calling.” His tone shifts; the laughter in his voice vanishes. “The movers are running late. I don’t think I can make it. I’m sorry, bug.”
All the air gets sucked out of the room. The words and noise and chatter surrounding me are probably still blasting at 100 decibels, but all I hear is one word: movers.
It’s happening. Right now. It’s not as if I didn’t know it was coming. But it’s like when you’re at the doctor’s office and they say they’re going to draw your blood. You can get that on an abstract level, but when the needle comes down, the pain still manages to surprise you.
“Can Sara drop you off?”
“Sure.” I don’t bother to tell him Sara isn’t here. I promise to pack him some biryani if there’s any left and hang up.
Right this moment as I stand here, my father is erasing himself from our house.
I blink back tears. I haven’t let myself cry about any of this. And I’m definitely not going to cry about it right now. Not here.
When I glance again at the clock, I pause. There’s a boy standing on the other end of the iftar table, wearing a plaid button-down and khakis. Our eyes meet. He looks familiar. He smiles a little and takes a step back.
Right into one of the iftar tables.
The poker table wobbles, and then—it’s like watching a slow-motion crash—the tray of pastry puffs and bottled water tumble onto the ground. I glance around. But everyone’s so busy studying the empty doorway no one’s noticed. I hurry over to survey the damage.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” the boy stammers.
“Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to do this,” I tell him. “The poker table is notoriously wobbly.”
“They’re . . . they’re ruined.” He gestures to the puffy disks of pastry strewn on the ground.
“To be fair, they were kind of ruined from the start,” I tell him. “Seriously, it’s okay.”
I prop the table back up while he disposes of the pastry puffs and then gathers water bottles in his arms.
“So . . . Maya, right?”
“What?” I look up at him.
“You don’t remember me.” He blushes. “Of course. I mean, it makes sense. It’s probably been like a decade or something, other than . . . Yeah, anyway, I’m Jamie. From the Catch Air days.”
“Oh. Right. Wow.” I stare at him. Our moms were friends years ago; they’d tow us along to that indoor playground where we ran around and bounced on stuff while they drank coffee and caught up on life. That was ages ago, but I see it now—his hair darkened a bit and he’s got half a foot on me, but he’s still got those green eyes and the same awkward smile. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”
“So weird to see you here,” he says.
“Why is it weird?” I smile a little. “I’m Muslim. This is a mosque near my house.”
“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean it was weird to see you here. Just that it was weird to see you. Good weird, though. Not bad weird! I go to a bunch of these campaign stops. You know this is his one hundred and thirtieth campaign stop of the election season? The most of any state candidate ever.”
“This isn’t a campaign stop,” I tell him. “It’s an iftar dinner. For Ramadan.”
“Oh right, yeah, of course.” He nods. “I’ve been to nearly thirty of his events and this is the nicest . . . dinner so far. The decorations are classy, but super festive too.”
Red, white, and blue plastic tablecloths, wallpapered advertisements to vote for Rossum, and confetti centerpieces are classy and festive?
“Uh, thanks. Well, I gotta go help my mom with . . . something. It was nice seeing you again.” I hurry away before he has a chance to respond. As much as I hate small talk in general, today in particular, small talk feels extra small.
“Who were you chatting with?” my mother asks when I approach her.
“No one. Can I borrow the car on Tuesday? Sara has a babysitting gig for me.”
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “Next week is really busy. Depositions and filings all week.”
“Fine, I’ll just take a rideshare then,” I tell her.