Ten Things I Hate About Me

  He walks into the living room, sits down on a chair, and leans forward. “I’ve got an apprenticeship, Dad. Are you gonna give me a hard time about it or be happy for me?”

  I lean backward and my eyes connect with Shereen’s. She has a horrified expression on her face. She pretends to cut her throat and I pretend to strangle myself. We go back to our positions.

  “Is it a full-time position?”

  “Yes.”

  “A good garage?”

  “Yes. One of the best. It won some small-business awards.”

  “So there’s room to move up?”

  I can just make out Bilal’s face from where I’m standing. He’s been caught completely off guard. His face is twisted with confusion. I lean back again and Shereen looks my way. She throws her hands in the air and shrugs. I shake my head, completely bewildered too.

  “Dave—he’s the guy who owns the joint—said that if I stick with him I could manage one of his franchises.”

  “And this is what you want? This is what you’ve decided to make of your future?”

  “Yes.” Bilal sits up tall and defiant. “This is what I want for my life.”

  “Then may Allah listen to the prayers of a father and bless you, Bilal. May He make this decision the start of a successful life.”

  Bilal is momentarily speechless. He stands up and stares at Dad. “Er…thanks, Dad.”

  Dad looks up at him and nods.

  The three of us meet in the bathroom. We look at one another with dazed expressions. And then slowly we start to grin.

  Amy hasn’t been at school for three consecutive days. She hasn’t replied to my text messages or answered my missed calls on her cell. I send a text to Liz, asking her if she’s heard from Amy. I don’t receive a reply.

  “Do you know what’s going on with Amy?” I ask in homeroom.

  “No idea,” she says, blowing a bubble with her chewing gum. She leans in close. “So has he asked you yet?”

  “Huh?”

  “Sam told me Peter’s going to ask you to the formal,” she whispers through clenched lips. “It’s only three weeks away. Can you believe it? The most popular guy is going to ask you to the formal! It will be so cool! We can double-date!”

  “I’m worried about Amy. She’s been missing school a lot lately.”

  Liz is not amused. “Didn’t you hear me? Peter might ask you out.”

  “That’s nice,” I say in a distracted tone, “but don’t you think something might be up with Amy?”

  “How long has she been away from school?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?”

  She lets out an embarrassed burst of laughter. “Not really, to tell you the truth. We’re not that close anymore. I think she’s jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  She almost looks offended and then seems to take pity on me. She stares at me with the resolve of somebody about to educate the ignorant. “She’s jealous of my relationship with Sam and the fact that I’m with the in-crowd now. She’s probably jealous that Peter’s interested in you too. He likes you because you’re quiet. It doesn’t have to go too deep, you know? You can have your fun without any complications.”

  Without any complications.

  I’m beginning to realize that I want complications. I need them. Because without them I’m a shadow on the field. A whisper in the classroom. Barely here or there. I’m not living. I’m just surviving. Surviving a battle of my own making.

  Peter is all arrogance and good looks. He grins at me and his confidence is maddening.

  “So is it a date?”

  For the first time in my life I realize that I deserve more. But I’m not quite ready to admit that I’m not allowed to go to the formal. I make a promise to myself: This will be my last lie.

  “Thanks for asking me. But I already have a date.”

  My words impact on him like a car air bag exploding in somebody’s face. His forehead twists in confusion. His eyes widen in surprise.

  “You have a date? Who?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  40

  I HAVE MY confrontation with Timothy in the playground at McDonald’s as I’m cleaning up the remains of a squashed burger and soft-serve cone off the slippery slide.

  I’m clearing the table in the playground when a little girl with a mane of golden hair and bright brown eyes walks up to me. She informs me that I have an “ugly uniform,” and looks me in the eye as she proceeds to mix her burger and cone on the slide. The temptation to dress her in the ice cream is overwhelming. Her mother storms over and demands that I clean it up before it poses a public liability risk to other children.

  It’s times like these that I start to question the value of my emancipation.

  As I’m scraping the gooey mess into a paper towel I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  It’s Timothy.

  “It’s not good to play with your food,” he jokes.

  I give him a look that clearly indicates I’m not amused and stand up, a soggy mess of paper towels in one gloved hand, a bottle of disinfectant in the other.

  “You’re holding that disinfectant like it’s a can of mace. You hate me that much, huh?”

  “Let’s see,” I say, “you only pretended to be somebody else all this time. You read my innermost thoughts when you knew I didn’t want a soul at school to know about my life. You deceived me.”

  “I never meant to deceive you. Or lie to you. E-mailing you was a coincidence. At first I had no idea it was you. I never hid who I was. It was right there for you to see if you’d only opened your eyes.”

  “That’s no excuse! There you were telling me to be true to myself and to be honest and up-front and blah blah blah. What a load of crap when all along it was you who was the phony.”

  We’ve developed a bit of an audience. A couple of children are standing around us now, oohing and ahhing at the “grownups fighting.”

  “I guess that’s it, then,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll see you around.”

  He turns on his heels and walks to the purple-and-red gate.

  He can’t slam the gate in anger because it has a child-proof lock, and who would slam a gate that has a smiling picture of Ronald McDonald painted on it? I can’t even cross my arms over my chest because I have ice cream melting down one hand and a kid tugging on my pants, asking me to move out of the way because I’m blocking the slide.

  What an undignified mess we’re in.

  It doesn’t take long for Uncle Joseph to find out about Shereen. Don’t ask me how. It’s a somebody who knows somebody who saw somebody who tells somebody kind of thing.

  My father’s cell phone rings and I hear him answer it from his bedroom and greet Uncle Joseph. I tiptoe to the half-open door and listen carefully, watching my dad stand at his bedroom window as he talks on the phone.

  “Yes, I know…No charges were pressed. Yes…well, I suppose there will be people who will see it as a disgrace…Well, yes, there will be men who will lose interest now…Yes, Joseph, yes…thank you for telling me…Jamilah? Oh yes, she’s still working…yes, I’m still letting her…As far as I know she does not smoke, it’s just some extra pocket money…Oh well, Bilal’s found a job and he’s very excited…No, he won’t be going to university…I understand that you care…Good-bye.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. Once again my father has failed to come to our rescue. Uncle Joseph continues to preach and my father takes every blow, leaving Shereen, Bilal, and me to deal with the long-lasting bruises.

  My dad is staring out the window. He then sits on the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. I can sense the weariness oozing out of him, like air being slowly released from a balloon. I’m transfixed, watching him deflate like that. Then he suddenly sits up straight, grabs his cell phone, and dials.

  “Joseph,” he says in a firm tone. “Yes, I’m well, thank you…Yes, something is wrong…I don’t appreciate you calling me and saying such things about my children. Jamilah’s proven hers
elf to be responsible. I have every faith in her. And Shereen’s intentions have always been noble and sincere. She’s learned her lesson. She’s only ever made me worry because she has too much heart. As for Bilal, he’s exceptionally talented at what he does and I know he will go far.

  “No, you listen to me, Joseph, I’m not concerned with how it looks or what people will say…No, hear me out. I trust my girls. This society is full of temptation but my daughters are always making me proud. Do you understand, Joseph? That is all you and anybody else who wishes to talk needs to know…Yes…we will see each other soon, Inshallah, God willing. Good-bye, Joseph.”

  I remember my dad giving us piggyback rides through the house and my mother yelling at him to be careful because I’d be laughing so hard I’d be half dangling off his back. I remember him peeling every inch of the white pulp from my mandarins and dividing them into segments for me. I remember the way his eyes light up when he recounts lifting me from my mother’s stomach during her Caesarean operation.

  I remember all these things and they glide around in my head like ballroom dancers.

  I have one more memory to add now. And that’s Dad telling Uncle Joseph he is proud of me.

  41

  MY FATHER CALLS a family meeting. Bilal, Shereen, and I take our seats in the living room and my dad sits in his armchair, clutching on to his water pipe as though it were a life-support system.

  “Bilal, Shereen, Jamilah,” he starts, his voice shaky. He clears his throat and continues. “You all know I love your mother very much. She was and always will be my first love. She is the mother of my children. May Allah rest her soul and grant her paradise…It’s been seven years now and not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Not a day will go by when I will not think of her.”

  He doesn’t need to finish. It hits me hard. I preempt him and blurt out: “You’ve met somebody! You’re getting married!”

  He looks at me in surprise. I see his fingers wrap themselves tighter over the pipe.

  “Yes, Jamilah.” He looks down at his lap. At first I’m confused by his demeanor. My father has never sought our approval or counsel about matters to do with him. Indeed, he has rarely sought our opinion about matters to do with us. For the first time he seems vulnerable. So open and approachable.

  “I have…met somebody who I…” He clears his throat, raising his eyes to glance at each of us in turn. “…wish to marry. She is a good woman. In fact, she is practically part of our family already. I have asked Sajda for her hand in marriage and she has accepted.”

  The three of us look at one another in mute shock. The announcement is met with drawn breaths, heads in hands, stunned silence.

  The betrayal slices through me. It cuts into me, dices me, chops me up into tiny pieces. I confided in her. I allowed myself to trust that she cared about me. But now it seems it was all for an ulterior purpose. To get close to me. Gain my trust and then slide right in.

  My dad sighs. “Please try to understand. Sajda will never replace your mother. It is impossible. But people need companionship.”

  Bilal clears his throat and makes to say something but then stops. He leans back in his chair, the words seeming to recoil in his throat.

  Bilal and I look at Shereen, our eyes pleading with her to come to the rescue. She stands up slowly and approaches my dad.

  “Don’t worry about our reaction, Dad. It will take getting used to, that’s all.” She embraces him in a big hug.

  Bilal follows her lead and kisses my dad. “Mabruk. Congratulations, Dad.” He steps aside and I lean down and hug my father. I stupidly burst into tears and he hugs me tighter.

  42

  ANGER WORKS IN mysterious ways. It can keep you awake all night whispering ugly words to you. It can rumble away in your stomach, sapping the energy from you, leaving you distracted and irritable. It almost always becomes irrational as it builds up inside you.

  I plot and I plan. I pace my room. I curl up silently into my pillow. I avoid eye contact with my dad. I stick to small talk. I pretend to be busy with homework. I don’t want him to know how I’m feeling. I don’t want to hurt him. I vent with Bilal and Shereen. But Bilal thinks it will be a good thing. “Maybe he’ll relax more. He’s got nothing to do except be a parent. Let him be a husband again and get off our backs for a while.”

  I turn to Shereen for support. She’s thought long and hard about it. Cried into her pillow. Sat like a zombie in her room. Spent hours on the phone with Aunt Sowsan. One morning I wake up to find her sitting on the edge of my bed.

  “Mom was sweet,” she says. “But Jamilah, she wasn’t perfect. We all have this romantic, idealized memory of her. Well, you know what I think? I think that initially she wouldn’t have wanted Dad to remarry.”

  “Really?”

  “I remember she was the jealous type. She used to give Dad a hard time whenever he talked to our old neigh bor, Gloria. The girl with the boob job and stilettos. Remember?”

  My memories are of playing soccer in the street, skateboarding on our front lawn and avoiding Mr. Sinclair, who barked at us whenever we made too much noise.

  “You were too young. Anyway, I have this feeling she’d have wanted Dad to wait. But not forever. She would have wanted him to have a second chance at happiness. I’m certain of that. So I don’t think we’re betraying her by supporting Dad. I think she’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”

  But I’m still angry. I’m angry with Miss Sajda. And I’m angry with myself. Because I realize that I’m selfish. I’m no longer concerned that I’ll be a traitor to my mother for standing by my father. If anybody knew Mom, it was Shereen. I trust her when she says that Mom would approve. What I’m concerned about is how my life will change. A new woman in the house. A new adult authority. Will I lose a devoted father? Will my dad become stricter? Will he stop speaking about my mother? Will I have to take down the photographs of my mother and father from my walls and dressing table? Will I be expected to take orders from Miss Sajda? Will she change? Will she defer to my father’s strict rules and forget about my feelings?

  Each thought adds a further brick to my house of anger. The foundation is laid. The cement between each brick dries.

  I’m quiet at madrasa today. I’m all monosyllables and moodiness. I scribble in the corner of my notebook, ignoring Miss Sajda’s lecture on the difference between masculine and feminine pronouns.

  Class finishes and Mustafa, Samira, and Hasan start removing their instruments in preparation for rehearsal. I tell them I’m not staying after today. Miss Sajda looks at me in surprise and asks to see me alone outside.

  I step outside. I lean my back against a pole, fold my arms across my chest, and stare at her.

  “I’ve been meaning to come and give you a hug,” she says, smiling warmly at me. “We’re going to be family. I want you to know, Jamilah, that I am in love with your father. He’s a breath of fresh air in my life. I wanted to tell you but I left it for him to decide when he was ready to let you all know.”

  “You used me.”

  She recoils, clearly shocked. “Used you?”

  “Yes. You pretended to be my friend. Somebody I could open up to. All along you were trying to score points. Make some kind of impression with me. It was for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Jamilah! How can you say that? I never wanted to hurt you or use you. You needed somebody to talk to and I wanted to be there for you.”

  “Why? So you could get to my dad?”

  I’m hurting her. I can see it in her eyes. The wider they get, the more pain seeps in.

  “Do you think I’m that insincere?” I turn my eyes from her. “When will you learn to trust people?”

  “I trusted you!”

  “You don’t trust anyone. If you did you’d be up-front at school. You would trust that your closest friend and classmates would respect you for the person you are, not the stereotype you imagine yourself to be. You would trust yourself! Trust that you’re strong enough to stand up to people
like Peter.”

  “This isn’t about Amy or Peter or school! Don’t replay what I’ve confided in you to make your point.”

  “It has everything to do with it. It’s about you and how you deal with people. When it comes to giving me the benefit of the doubt, you don’t have enough faith in me to trust that I truly care for you. Do you really think so little of yourself, Jamilah, that you would think somebody would only befriend you for an ulterior motive?”

  She takes a step toward me. She stares at me. Into me. I feel transparent. As thin and fragile as a tissue flapping in the wind. There is so much understanding in her eyes. The anger pent up inside me crumbles. It is not designed to handle truth. I know that she can see the girl crouched inside me. She can see the longing in my eyes. The longing to break free.

  I’ve never held myself accountable for my actions. I’ve cried into my pillow, wondering why Amy won’t open up to me. I’ve been so self-centered, expecting to take without giving. Timothy’s right. If I had just opened my eyes I would have realized who “John” was. I was so busy hiding who I was from everyone, including myself, that I was completely unaware of anyone else.

  It’s easier to think the worst of people. You become a martyr to yourself. A victim of your assumptions. There’s no need to build relationships with others when you have such low expectations. But it leaves you alone. And I’m tired of being alone.

  “I’m sorry to have doubted you.”

  She takes another step toward me. And I take the next, meeting her halfway, at the point where faith replaces mistrust and high expectations bring out the best in us.

  43

  I SPEND SATURDAY morning cleaning the house with Shereen. We dust, mop, and disinfect every crack and corner. Thankfully, Bilal’s room is strictly out of bounds. Shereen even washes the curtains, ignoring my protests that they won’t dry in time (it’s more the fact that I can’t be bothered hanging them on the clothesline). Bilal and Dad are in the back and front yards, pruning the hedges, mowing the lawn and tidying up the outdoor seating area.