“Duh, I know that.”
“Okay, then you’re good. Why are you crying? And trying to pick a fight with him?”
“Because I hate that he’s like that. It’s so wrong!” I’m fired up again.
“So you thought Dad was perfect before?” Muhammad lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Nobody’s perfect. You work with what you’ve got. He’s still our dad. You just write him off, and I mean completely, as capable of giving you any sort of advice you’d respect on these kinds of issues. I did that a while ago. Remember when you couldn’t understand why for a long time I was arm’s-length with Dad? This is why.”
I slump down, thinking of Dad’s frowns aimed my way all day yesterday.
Ugh.
Muhammad laughs again, and this time it’s his familiar teasing laugh. “NA and JY, huh? See, I was right. I’m always right!”
I shake my head and stand to go open the door and get away from the inevitable teasing to come when I remember one of my wedding-clipboard tasks. “Hey, you know that group that you’re getting to perform tomorrow? Your friends, the comedian-singers?”
“The ’Arrys? Yeah?” He gets up.
“What about, as a special surprise for Sarah, you get Haytham to sing instead? And ask the ’Arrys to perform tonight for whatever Dad is throwing for your friends? Sarah will be so wowed.”
He thinks for a minute. “But they’re looking forward to doing a show at the wedding.”
I stand in front of the door and give him a piercing stare. “Muhammad. It’s way more important how Sarah feels. And do you really think Sarah is going to love the ’Arrys?”
“What are you talking about? They’re hilarious!” His face is incredulous. “They’re getting gigs all over the place now!”
“But at weddings?” I press.
“This is a nikah. It’s just our friends and families getting together. The official wedding is next year.”
I don’t take my gaze away from his face. “But admit it—it’s become weddinglike. Everyone calls it a wedding.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “Think of Sarah’s parents… think of their faces as the ’Arrys introduce them. Think hard.” I pause. “Think about the future.”
His shoulders slump before he lets out a sigh. “I’ll see if they can switch.”
YES! One more thing crossed off my list! “Her parents,” I emphasize again before sliding the door open and indicating for him to go first. “After the groom-to-be, of course.”
He goes through but then backs up and wraps me in his signature bear hug.
Chapter Eighteen
Dad tries to stop me to talk when I’m heading to Mom’s car, which she’s driving into town to pick up Sarah, Khadija, and Dawud on our way to the mosque.
“Hey, listen, let’s not fight now.” He stands on the porch, by the white balustrades, his hands in his pockets. “It’s Muhammad’s wedding.”
“I’m not fighting.” I don’t look at him but go down the steps slowly so he can hear me. “I just hate that you’re being racist.”
“I’m not.” He lowers his voice. “Okay, I said something wrong. But it came from trying to protect you.”
“How is it protecting me when you married out of your culture, Dad? In case you didn’t notice, Linda’s Greek—but is that okay to you because she’s white?” I turn at the bottom of the step. “And when Muhammad first told you about Sarah, a couple years ago, all you asked him was ‘Is she fun?’ You never said anything about her culture being different. Is it because she’s kinda white too?”
“No, it was because Mom is Arab too. So Muhammad’s partly from the same background as Sarah.”
“But you’re not the same background as Linda! In any way, shape, or form!” Oh my God, I’m getting hot and teary again. I don’t want Mom to see me like this. “It’s racism—actually, it’s anti-Blackness, since all the other cultures seem okay to you. Don’t talk to me, Dad, until you figure that part out yourself!”
I leave Dad and rush back in the house to wash my face before Mom sees.
Luckily, she parked in the driveway at the side of the house and so she didn’t witness the whole thing.
I don’t want to spoil her happiness about this special weekend for Muhammad and Sarah.
* * *
It’s only later when I’m in the car, in the back with Sarah, a talkative Dawud between us, that I remember I forgot to tell Muhammad not to say anything to Nuah. About us.
Muhammad and Nuah are driving together to Jumah.
I pull out my phone to text but then remember that Muhammad’s texts blare on top of his locked screen. Nuah would see it if Muhammad has his phone lying around in the car while he’s driving.
I can’t even call him. It will go on speaker. And even if I break out in the little Arabic I know, Haytham, who’s in the car with them, will understand it.
Urdu.
I know Urdu even less than Arabic, but Muhammad knows it more than me because he’s tighter with our only cousins on Dad’s side, Imran and Adnan, who are flying in tomorrow from California. Muhammad claims he’s almost fluent (which I don’t believe) due to their calling each other names in Urdu.
Dania and Lamya can help me. They speak Urdu too.
I text Dania and, when she doesn’t reply, text Lamya to ask how to say Don’t tell N what I told you.
She replies, N ko nahi batana meine aap ko jo bataya.
I copy the message and send that on to Muhammad.
The rest of the way to the mosque, I tolerate Dawud going on about the “tons of stuff” the florist is bringing for him tomorrow morning for the floral ceiling he’s going to make, how he’s got amazing ideas because he’s getting “tons of stuff”—which was his whole reason to go into town this morning. Sarah hugs him in delight periodically.
Up front, Khadija and Mom are deep into a discussion of childbirth positions.
I look out the window and think about tonight.
Tats will be there. I’ll be wearing a sari, which Mom’s friend Auntie Maysa is going to come and wrap for me. It’s a very dark green chiffon one with tiny black and silver crystals on the edges.
I wanted to wear a sari because I’d seen a picture of Mom in one when she took a trip to India to see my grandmother on Dad’s side, who passed away when I was five.
Mom had looked regal, like royalty from a picture book—but mysterious and elegant, which is what drew me to her outfit.
After watching countless YouTube videos on the elegance of saris, I asked Mom if I could wear one to the henna party. I wanted to wear one with a short top, so a girls-only party was the perfect place to debut a sari. That’s when Auntie Maysa, expert of all things Bollywood, got involved.
She’s supposed to arrive two hours before the party to help me get ready.
* * *
After Jumah, we all gather in the parking lot of the mosque to discuss lunch. Differing opinions from no lunch to pizza to choosing a nice restaurant lead us to split up and reorganize the cars.