“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re wearing an actual sari? Like the kind that you drape?”
I nod.
“You can’t dance in that really well, unless you’ve had a lot of practice.” Zayneb considers me for a moment. “The rest of us in the dance are all wearing pink or orange, the theme colors of our dance. I brought some extra clothes with me in case our other dancers didn’t have the right stuff. If we roll up the top of the shalwar, you can wear one of my suits? Just for the dance part, which will be at the end.”
I shrug. All this trouble to do a dance? “I don’t know.”
“Wait here. I’ll go bring my suitcase.”
Before I can protest, she’s gone.
The song comes on again. Mehndi hai rachnewaali…
I close my eyes and streamer my arms and screw lightbulbs and spread jam.
And try to forget about Nuah.
* * *
Zayneb comes back in, wheeling her luggage behind her, with an iPad in her hands. “Oh my God. Haytham’s in the lead now! And I haven’t even messaged everyone yet!”
I come over and peer at the screen.
It’s the Muslim Voice video summary of the three singers in the finals. A fifteen-year-old Malaysian girl with a ukulele who weaves Arabic and Malay into her covers of popular songs, an elderly man from Sudan whose renditions of traditional nasheeds are haunting, and then Haytham. They give a sample of some of his submissions for the contest, and I hear the song that made me cry in the car.
It’s called “Hold On.” The original is from a singer named Kareem Salama.
I look up the song on my phone. Country music?
I thought there was something different about it.
Zayneb unzips her suitcase and hands me folded clothes. “Try this. Just for the dance.”
I balk. Whatever she’s holding out is hot pink with gold embroidery, really extra-gold embroidery, at the edges. “I don’t do those colors.”
“But it’s not for anything IRL, you know? It’s like a costume for a play. Imagine we’re doing a performance just for Sarah.” She unfolds the outfit. “This one’s beautiful. It’s a cut called Anarkali. A traditional suit that’s an ode to the past. Look.”
When it’s unfurled, it’s a dress with a high, embroidered bodice, gold again, from which the soft skirt falls full with tiny pleats almost to the floor, ending in a wide, heavily beaded ribbon of a hem. She pulls out a pair of skinny ruched pants that are shocking pink as well, dotted with gold circles, before holding up the dress full-length in front of me. “When you twirl like you did just now, with your streamer arms, the skirt will flare in a circle, and you’ll look amazing.”
I look in the mirror. It is beautiful. The dress.
And so not me.
But maybe it’s DJ Mousefire?
* * *
I take the dress to the alcove bathroom as Zayneb is also changing to show me her “outrageously orange suit,” as she calls it. She assured me it’s an Anarkali cut as well. “We’re going to match,” she said excitedly. “I just want Sarah to be happy. Because she makes so many people around her happy, you know?”
I nodded, remembering how Sarah hadn’t let go of asking me if she could help me when she’d thought something was wrong before, when I’d gone quiet after the assault. And then, when everything had come to light, she’d called me every day. Even if it was for like a minute to say salaam.
I love her, and I’m going to do this thing all the way for her.
Before I try on the clothes, I find the original version of “Hold On” and play it while I change.
She’s like a boat that’s caught in the storm
Sees the sun through the clouds but she can’t stay warm
I wish I could write those words on a steamed-up mirror.
But it’s okay. I’m going to will myself to be warm, to be on fire, to rock this dress, this dance.
I unhook the loops at the back of the pink-and-gold neck, slip my T-shirt off, and slide into this thing.
The dress part, the kameez, is a little too big on the shoulders because Zayneb has a slightly bigger frame than me, but otherwise, I’m surprised at how epic I look.
I look like I stepped out of a fairy tale.
I’ve never worn something so extravagant, and I don’t think I ever will again, but something about this outfit makes me feel like I’m not the old me.
Even though I can’t do streamer hands, screw lightbulbs, or spread jam to the beat of this country song, I try out the moves Zayneb taught me, and when I’m finished twirling, I stare at myself and say yes.
Yes, I’m going to dance tonight in this shocking pink dress.
Everything in life is born then it dies
After the storms the rooted plants do rise
So let pain die and plant yourself deep
Till this whole wide world falls down at your feet
* * *
Mom comes over with Auntie Maysa, who spends thirty minutes draping me in a sari and making sure I know how to walk in it. It’s a good thing that the henna party is all women, because the black top I’m wearing is midriff baring and has a scooped back, and shows a lot more skin than I’d like.
Auntie Maysa declares me proficient in walking, adds a ton of black and silver bangles on both my wrists and long glittery earrings to my ears, and Mom approves the way I did my hair (in a bun with two curled tendrils on either side of my face), and so they allow me to go check on Sarah, who’s moved on to getting her makeup done. Linda said the makeup artist has been hired to make over me, her, and Mom, if she wants, as well.
The master bedroom is full of Sarah’s friends, including Zayneb, Khadija, Dania, and Lamya. Everyone’s outfits make a cacophony of color and shine and shimmer, but Sarah, sitting in a chair by the window, is just the most beautiful vision of all.
Her jilbab is peachy pink and hangs down to the floor, laden with heavy beading and embroidery in matte gold and gray. It’s cinched at the waist with a matching, similarly embellished belt that’s tied at the left side, the long golden-tasseled ends reaching her hem. The neck is scooped low to allow all her jewelry—several traditional necklaces and a heavy set of earrings—to shine. Atop all this, her hair lies in descending waves framing her happy, beaming face.
Sarah usually goes without makeup, and is stunning bare, but now, with the help of the makeup artist’s touches, she looks utterly amazing.
She reaches out a hand when, in the mirror in front of her, she sees me enter. When I go over, she squeezes my hand and comments on how beautiful I look.
“Sarah, stop. This is YOUR day. You look unbelievable but also believable because you’re you.” I give her a hug—carefully, since she’s crusted with gold and her face is done. “Can I take a picture? Muhammad’s going to want to see this.” Once she nods, I hold out my phone and snap several while Deirdre, the makeup artist, adds a layer of powder to her face. After she finishes, Sarah stands so I can take full-length pictures of her.
And then all of us girls in the room gather around Sarah, and Deirdre takes more pictures with our various phones and cameras.
“Hey, remember, everyone! No posting pics anywhere! Most of us here are hijabis!” Zayneb calls out. Her long curly hair is in ringlets all the way down to her waist. She looks amazing.