“Janna. You know the Prophet said that the worst food is what’s served at a wedding where people are invited by class, right? Where only the well-off gather?” Muhammad whispers now. “I didn’t want my wedding to be filled with just those who know how to use the right spoon. So yeah, these are my close friends.”
I’m kind of speechless.
I’m actually tearing up.
Muhammad’s spending the day of his wedding driving guests who wouldn’t be able to travel here on their own, who’re truly happy for him, guests he calls—who deserve to be called—his close friends.
I look at the flowers Haytham’s finished so far. At the drying sheets of paper that are covered in splotches of yellow paint. At the happiness being assembled.
I’m so proud to do this little thing for my brother.
I take a break and go get some blue paint too. He wanted a blue-and-yellow wedding, he’ll get a blue-and-yellow wedding.
Chapter Thirty-One
When Linda comes looking for the laddoos to feed them lunch, Tats shows up with her.
After marveling at the flowers, Tats drops down beside me where I’m sitting with my back against the house and widens her eyes before tilting her head in Haytham’s direction. He’s still in his prone position on the ground making flowers, engrossed in his work, singing low, headphones in. Before putting them on, he told me that he’s listening to a few songs he’s going to be singing tonight.
“Dear child, WHO? Is that?” she whispers.
“He can’t hear,” I whisper back. “Sarah’s cousin.”
She turns to me, her hair now in a high, braided ponytail. It’s her get-to-work hairdo. It’s also a handy weapon—with one mighty flick, she’s used it to effectively swipe at people who bother her. And those who bother me, too, like the kids who’d made fun of my hijab in middle school.
“Is he nice?” Tats says, turning to Haytham again, not whispering now, her eyebrows raised high.
“He’s making flowers for me. Of course he is,” I say confidently, cutting petals from the final sheets I painted—these blue. “And he also sings and is into baking.”
“So?” She bends her head in front of my face, because I’m looking down at the scissors in my hand.
“So, what?”
“Are you interested?”
“In what?”
“In a guy spending time making flowers for you?”
“You know what, Tats?” I stop cutting. Her face is so low trying to catch my gaze that I’m afraid there’s going to be an accident with my scissors and her head. “Do you know about the Bechdel test?”
“The what?” She lifts her head up. “Why are we talking about tests? I know you love them, but we’re out of school now.”
“The Bechdel test. You can use it to check if two women characters in a film, novel, or whatever talk about something other than men.” I go back to cutting. “It’s about fiction, but I really don’t think you and I would pass it in real life.”
“I don’t get what you’re saying.” She sighs like she’s bored of this conversation.
Because we don’t usually talk about things like this.
I think that’s why me and Tats make sense. I can focus on all the important theoretical ideas in essays and in my schoolwork, but then, with Tats, I can just be whatever I want to be, no heavy thinking involved. Me, unfettered. And for a long time, that me unfettered involved boys.
Because yeah, I wanted to be with someone so badly.
Because all around me were people in relationships, making out in hallways, sharing the latest news of who’s going out with who, love blooming on-screen, between the pages of books, Muhammad and Sarah, Dad and Linda, and it felt like if I didn’t have it too, I wasn’t secure.
Nuah had been that security.
Even if we didn’t go out officially.
And it was super unspoken.
I thought we knew.
But now I know that it wasn’t real—precisely because it was unspoken.
Now I think I’m done.
I’m done thinking that I need a boy to be whole. To be secure.
“I’m saying that I’m not really looking for anyone,” I say with confidence.
“Oh.” Tats pulls her knees up and then puts them back down when she sees that the skirt of her dress hitches high. “Are you saying you’re like Sandra? Aro and ace, like her?”
“No, I’m just taking a break.”
“You took a break your entire school career.”
“Tats, give it up.” I stop cutting and face her. “I don’t want to get into anyone, okay?”
“Okay, okay, okay.” She waves her hands to calm me down and then stares far out toward the trees ringing Dad’s property. “I wish I could get him with my ponytail.”
I know who she’s thinking of. Nuah. Like how she’d come after Jeremy before. I shake my head. “Oh my God, Tats. Stop. Nuah’s his own person. Leave him alone.”
“I’m talking about your dad. He’s the one who wrecked everything between you guys.” She sighs—dramatically yet, strangely, authentically too. “And now it’s changed my best friend’s soul.”
“My soul is not about boys.” I start on the last sheet of paper. “Let’s take a break and go in to eat. After I’m done with this sheet.”
Or was a big part of my soul about boys before?
* * *
After lunch—during which we took our sandwiches upstairs to avoid Dad—Tats and I go to find the laddoos so we can practice their roles with them and Dawud before we need to get dressed for the wedding.
We find out they’re both taking much-needed naps after getting baths. Linda promises to wake them up with enough time to prep, so we head out to set up the guest sign-in space.
Sarah showed me where she wanted the two tables—at angles in the pathway between the barn and the house, with enough space between them to let families through but not too much, so that it could still serve as a funnel to the reception.
She wanted to make sure everyone passes through to give their in-lieu-of-gifts donations to Syrian relief.
As we’re setting the table decor in place, Haytham and Nuah come out of the barn with the floral ceiling netting held taut and low between them, flower side down. Dawud’s walking, no, skipping behind them, a bag of zip ties in his hands.
I briefly pause arranging the framed engagement photos of Muhammad and Sarah on one of the white-clothed tables, my curiosity to see how the whole flowers thing finally turned out tugging at me, making me want to turn my head and stare. But I can’t.
I’m over Nuah. I mean, I have to be. But it’s easier to be over him without seeing him.
Wear a pretty dress, wear a glazed gaze, lock up my heart, and get this wedding done.
I prop up a letter board with Sarah’s chosen caption, a verse from the Qur’an: And among His signs is this: He created mates for you from among your own selves so that you may dwell in tranquility with them. And He has placed love and mercy between you. Surely in this are signs for those who reflect (30:21).
I feel a tug on my sleeve.