Bestest. Ramadan. Ever. Read online

  “I don’t have time to give you more lessons,” Dad says.

  “He’s a really bad driver,” Mom says.

  “He’s just old, that’s all. His faculties are with him.”

  “What faculties are those?” Mom asks.

  Dad presses his lips together, and I don’t want to be around during one of their fights. I hope to never have in-laws. I want a drop-dead-gorgeous husband who’s extremely wealthy and has parents who live across the world in some exotic country. I’d only have to see my in-laws during holidays, and maybe not even then because they’d live in the middle of a jungle and I could always use the excuse that I didn’t get immunized for my trip or that the water makes me sick. But then they could visit me. I’ll worry about that when I get older, but in the present I know that Mom and Grandpa don’t like each other.

  I go to my room. Through my door I can hear Mom and Dad hissing at each other, refusing to raise their voices so that they won’t emotionally scar me. I call Lisa’s home phone to bounce my worries off her (her cell is always low on minutes). Her line is busy, which means that she’s online. She has dial-up, which is prehistoric. That’s like using VHS when there’s DVD and TiVo.

  My DSL box blinks at me when I get on the Internet to use Instant Messenger. Lisa is on her computer, as I predicted. I start typing.

  AlmiraRules: hey

  GorgeLisa: hi

  AlmiraRules: my parents are definitely going to parent night, so i hope we’ll see each other there

  GorgeLisa: my parents are coming too. It’s until 8. so late

  AlmiraRules: No! that means I have to fast longer, past the sun setting!!!!

  GorgeLisa: at least u get to eat. a real fast means no food at all.

  AlmiraRules: it’s not easy

  GorgeLisa: i know. do you think peter will be at parent night

  AlmiraRules: i hope so, I want to see him there

  GorgeLisa: what do you mean?

  AlmiraRules: i mean i know you like him, so of course i want him to be there for you

  GorgeLisa: thanks, because he’s important to me

  AlmiraRules: ok, anyway grandpa is going to give me driving lessons since I haven’t had a lesson in a while, then my learner’s permit can become a license when i turn 16

  GorgeLisa: no, don’t let him, he’s practically blind

  AlmiraRules: say nice things about me at my funeral

  GorgeLisa: i’m sure you’ll live. his car will flatten anything that you hit.

  AlmiraRules: yeah, right

  GorgeLisa: ur parents are really going to let you drive with him?

  AlmiraRules: yeah, they care about my welfare and whether or not I have a pulse. just watch my accident on the evening news. your best friend will be famous.

  GorgeLisa: don’t be so pessimistic. anyway, isn’t Peter a q-t? i hope he likes me

  AlmiraRules: yeah

  GorgeLisa: I need help with my social studies homework

  AlmiraRules: the newspaper research assignment

  GorgeLisa: where is the boston chronicle published?

  AlmiraRules: where do u think?

  GorgeLisa: don’t know

  AlmiraRules: BOSTON

  GorgeLisa: thanks, you’re the bestest

  AlmiraRules: night

  GorgeLisa: bye

  Lisa and I are in the same honors classes, but sometimes she acts like she can’t think properly. She also likes Peter, just when I start to think that I like him, too. I eat a slice of cake before going to bed. I’ll wake up extremely early to have breakfast with my parents, to fill up before the daylight hours of starvation.

  I’ll feel hungry in other ways, too. Like how can I get Peter to notice me? How can I get my parents to lay off me? How can I get Grandpa to drop the idea of giving me driving lessons? I want so much, but don’t know how to get things going my way. I stare at my computer. I have a Jake Gyllenhaal desktop, and it transitions to a Robert Pattinson screensaver. I kiss my fingers and then place them on my screen. Maybe I’ll take a picture of Peter with my cell phone so that I can have a new desktop image to adore. Grandpa doesn’t know squat about technology, so he never checks my computer. He doesn’t want me to know anything about boys, yet I have a whole PC file of hunks that he doesn’t know how to get his hands on. And I want to add Peter to the collection.

  • • •

  My family is really strict about banning boys from my life. A boy, who was nothing more than a friend, once walked home with Lisa and me. Dad happened to drive by while we were walking, and when I got home he gave me the third degree. Who was that boy? Why was he with me? How long have I known him? Was he interested in me? Did he inappropriately touch me? Who were his parents? Did he ask me out? And Grandpa is always ripping posters off my wall. He tore off Brandon Flowers because he thought he was a classmate I had fallen in love with. I can only wish that Brandon went to my school.

  They act like boys are poison. I suppose that some of them are toxic. For example, Kevin Federline ruined Britney Spears. She’ll never return to her former glory after knowing him. So some boys can destroy girls, I’m well aware of that, but others are okay. Sometimes I feel weird thinking about boys, because it seems wrong for a Muslim girl to be lusting after them. But isn’t that what typical teenage girls do? Am I allowed to be typical?

  Roberto Aguilar once asked me out, in the first month of ninth grade, but I declined. He was funny and sweet, but he had small, crooked corn-teeth that bothered me (also, what would Dad think?) and a cast on his foot from a football accident. His dry, hairy, grotesque toes peeked out from the end of his cast. I regret turning him down, because now he wears clear braces and no longer has the cast. His feet also improved, because I saw him in flip-flops at the mall the other day and his toes looked normal. He’s totally hot, and I blew the beginnings of a relationship by being shallow. I wonder what a relationship with him would be like. Am I supposed to sneak around with him, or tell my parents that he’s a friend? I don’t think my parents will even accept me having a male friend.

  Another guy I sort of fell in love with was Buff12, who IM’ed me one day (by accident, he said; my ID was similar to his friend’s) and we emailed each other for a month. Then he became honest and said that instead of being an eighteen-year-old soccer player from Brazil with a buff body, he was really an unemployed thirty-year-old actor who was out of shape. Pedo alert. I put him on my ignore list and didn’t think of him again.

  I want a boyfriend. I’m ready for one, even if my family isn’t. I’m determined to have one. I close my eyes and think about all the boys at school until my mind settles on Peter. Mmmmmmmmmm.

  My stomach roars like a lion, which halts my romantic thoughts. It now feels like my belly is separate from the rest of me, like I have a dog inside of me that needs to be walked, fed, and bathed. Down, boy. I eat breakfast to silence the beast.

  I walk to school, because I don’t feel like listening to my mom sing again. Lisa walks alongside me. She’s wearing a pink sweater-dress that clings to her skinny body. Her arms are slender, with knobby elbows. I look at my own arms, which are on the plump side. Mom assures me that bracelets look good on me because of the fat on my arms, as if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment. No, you’re not a ravishing beauty, but you can always be a hand model. Wow.

  At least I’m losing weight. I pat my stomach, which is less poochy than normal. My pants are even sagging on me. I adjust my glasses. I have contact lenses, which I really want to wear everyday, but they make my eyes red and itchy. I don’t have too many pimples, so my skin is good. I wonder if I could ever be considered hot, but the idea seems laughable to me.

  We stand by the front entrance and try to spot Peter. I’m sweeping my eyes over the crowd, as is Lisa. Maybe that explains the way she’s dressed. She even wears makeup, whic
h she usually doesn’t have on, and she applied it wrong. Two thick stripes of pink blush look out of place on her round cheeks.

  While we’re on the lookout for Peter, a silver monolith comes into view. It’s gigantic. The sun shines on the massive vehicle as it moves toward us. Dewdrops glint off of it like diamonds. It’s a Hummer. I’ve seen many of them, but it’s still odd to see such huge vehicles on the street. Why does anyone need such a huge car? Dad says that it’s to show off. I’d be afraid to drive one of them. I’m still afraid to drive any sort of car.

  The Hummer stops in front of us. My eyes try to penetrate the tinted windows, but all I see is a reflection of me and my classmates. The door opens and I see one tan leg, followed by another. A beautiful face follows, and then a tiny waist emerges as the girl unfolds herself out of the vehicle. Boys whistle. I see Peter stop in his tracks to stare. Lisa tenses up next to me, her muscles taut. I wonder who this person is, with her silky brown hair, flawless skin, and a modelesque physique.

  The girl smirks, looking coyly at her admirers.

  “Who is that?” Lisa asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “She must be new.”

  The girl has long, thick, Catherine-Zeta-Jones-type hair and bottomless brown eyes. We watch her go inside the building, and we see her again in first-period English. Our teacher, Ms. Odige, introduces her. “This is Shakira Malik. Shakira, tell everyone a little about yourself.”

  Shakira stands up, her beige dress flowing around her toned legs. “I’m Shakira, and I just moved down here from Orlando,” she says. Her voice is sexy and husky, a grown woman’s voice.

  Malik? I wonder if she’s Middle Eastern. I hope she is, because then I won’t be the only Muslim in the school. It isn’t like I’m lonely or anything, but to know someone else who shares my culture seems comfortable to me, the same way many of my classmates speak Spanish to each other all the time. I want to be around someone who shares that with me. I look at her short dress and become skeptical on her possible Muslimness. Muslim girls aren’t supposed to dress like that (even though many Muslims wouldn’t like the way I dress). Maybe Malik is Eastern European. But then she has that first name, Shakira, which is definitely Arabic. It’s the coolest name, the same as one of my favorite pop singers.

  Shakira barely pays attention to anything going on in class. While the teacher talks, she continues to give coy looks to boys. Mike winks at her and she grins at him over her shoulder. Luis can’t pry his eyes off of her. Shakira’s eyes skim his athletic body in a predatory way.

  There are grumblings from girls about her. Girls can be petty and vicious when it comes to competing with each other on looks and attention. Surprisingly, the pretty, popular girls don’t seem to take to her, even though Shakira seems to be their type. “What a man-eater,” Lisa whispers in my ear.

  I can’t agree more, but I want to know more about her. Where are her parents from, and is she fasting like I am? I see her hand in an assignment to Ms. Odige, and she has large, bubbly handwriting. She also puts hearts above her i’s. Even her penmanship is awesome. I look at my sloppy handwriting. Sometimes I can’t read what I’ve written down. Some people are just perfect, and I’m not one of them. There is this whole secret club of perfect, cool people. I’m in high school, so I can tell. There are the higher ups, the riffraff, and the people in the middle. I’m considered a middleton, which isn’t horrible, but of course I wonder what it feels like to be on top.

  “What’s this?” Grandpa asks me, pointing to his nose.

  “Anf, ” I say.

  “And this?” He points at his chin.

  “Thaqn.”

  “What about this?” His teeth.

  “Asnaan.”

  Grandpa has played this body-part game with me since I was a child. He wants me to know Arabic, but it really never sticks. I know words and phrases, but can’t string a sentence together. It doesn’t bother me, because I’m in America, after all. It only feels important to know English. My parents took me to France last summer and I didn’t bother with oui or merci. I tried to talk to everyone in English. Parlez-vous Anglais? I’m a typical American expecting others to conform to my ways.

  We’re sitting at the dining table late at night. Grandpa lives fifteen minutes away, so he drops by often. Sometimes he makes surprise visits and his excuse is that he’s going to Walgreens. So whenever he needs Gas-X or Listerine, he drops by. I know these visits make Mom uncomfortable, but he is Grandpa. I always make myself available to him. He’s a retired car salesman—he’s not a great driver, yet he was a stellar salesman during his heyday—and it sometimes seems like I’m his hobby. Instead of playing golf like other retirees, he comes over to bother Mom and teach me what he thinks are important life lessons. He taught me that infidels should never be trusted, women must be dutiful wives, I should read the Koran everyday (which I don’t), and other things that I don’t really understand. I once asked him who made God and he told me that I couldn’t ask that question. But I did ask that question. And I really want to know.

  “I wish you had Muslim friends,” Grandpa says.

  “There aren’t many Muslims around here,” I say.

  “There aren’t any at your school?”

  “There’s this new girl, but I’m not sure what she is. Her last name is Malik.”

  “Does she cover herself?” he asks.

  “No, she doesn’t cover her head,” I say. “In fact, yesterday her dress was pretty short.”

  “She dresses like a prostitute? She can’t be Muslim.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Grandpa pats my hand. “You’re such a good girl. I hope you’ll be a doctor someday.”

  “I don’t want to open anyone up,” I say.

  “Not all doctors open things up.”

  “But you have to dissect stuff in college to become a doctor,” I say. I don’t want to tear apart frogs for eight years straight. That’s gross. And it doesn’t stop at frogs either. There are cats, human corpses, all sorts of dead things. Dad told me all about it.

  “You only have to dissect for a little bit.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And after you become a doctor, I’ll help you find a husband.”

  I become deadly silent after that. Dad saves me by walking in and talking to Grandpa about cars—are Audis any good and should he get one the next time he buys a car? I rush to my room and sit at my computer to IM Lisa and my other friend, Maria.

  AlmiraRules: grandpa is going to find a husband for me!

  MamiMaria: that’s messed up

  GorgeLisa: that’s crazy!

  MamiMaria: you’re not even legal yet

  AlmiraRules: he’ll do it when i’m older. he’ll arrange a marriage with some ugly guy i don’t love

  MamiMaria: maybe he’ll be rich

  AlmiraRules: i don’t care

  MamiMaria: girl, if he’s rich you can’t turn him down

  GorgeLisa: money doesn’t matter! run away if you have to

  AlmiraRules: maybe i will

  GorgeLisa: he could be super ugly

  MamiMaria: but rich

  GorgeLisa: why can’t you just tell your parents that you want a boyfriend and that you don’t need their help?

  AlmiraRules: you don’t get it! they won’t get it! my parents didn’t date

  MamiMaria: WHAT?

  AlmiraRules: that’s right, grandpa knew her parents and he introduced her to my father and they were chaperoned … they weren’t allowed to be alone

  MamiMaria: that’s messed up

  AlmiraRules: that’s just how it is with them!

  GorgeLisa: you’ll figure something out, maybe have a secret boyfriend or slowly tell them the truth

  AlmiraRules: i don’t think so. Anyway, the thing is i really like

 
GorgeLisa: what do you like?

  MamiMaria: who do you like??? what boy do you have a crush on?

  At this point my fingers become frozen. I can’t reveal that I want Peter. Not to Lisa. That would hurt her. She’d think I’m a manipulative, backstabbing best friend who’s lusting after her conquest, wanting him to be my conquest. It’s like I’m playing an invisible game of chess, making moves, trying to knock down Lisa and get to Peter. Oh … I don’t want to feel these things for my best friend’s love interest. Guilt slams me down and my spirits fall.

  AlmiraRules: i like the idea of doing whatever i want

  MamiMaria: i hear ya

  GorgeLisa: night everyone

  MamiMaria: see you tomorrow and i’ll bring you a cookie

  AlmiraRules: don’t tempt me when I’m fasting!

  MamiMaria: ur favorite, chocolate chip

  I smile. Peanut butter cookies are really my favorite. I log off and go to the kitchen to have one before I go to bed. Grandpa is not there, thank God. No more hearing about having Muslim friends and a Muslim husband that he’ll handpick for me.

  • • •

  The next day I skulk around Peter, watching him drink at water fountains and retrieve books from his locker. He carries a horror paperback that he reads when he finishes his work early and he grips his sketchpad tightly. He’s achingly handsome, movie star handsome, Robert Pattinson handsome. Other girls look at him, and I want to tear their eyes out. How dare they look at him! Calm down, I keep telling myself. Don’t go crazy over him, but I’m crazy in love. Lisa brushes up against him in the hallway between classes and something goes ping in my heart. Jealousy, anger, longing.

  And of course hunger.

  Maria waves a chocolate Twizzler under my nose before lunch. Her limp curls are in a ponytail and her large hoop earrings sway as she dances in front of me. She bites into the Twizzler, and I want that chocolaty goodness for myself. “Some friend you are,” I huff.

  “Don’t be mad, boo,” she says. “It’s only fooooooo-oooood.”