It All Comes Back to You Page 10

  “What?” Kiran and I both say at the same time. Of all the stupid ideas Mona khala has pushed forward, this is by far the worst one. The situation’s already precarious as it is. Forcing her to dance at a wedding she’s not exactly excited about—even if it wasn’t my suggestion, I just know it’s going to put me at number one on her to-shank list, if I’m not there already.

  Mona dabs her mouth calmly with a napkin. “You are the only siblings of the bride and groom. Dancing at weddings has become more commonplace these days. You could do your own dances just before the Nikkah.” She looks at Mom, as if she’d know. “What do they call it? Dance-offs?”

  “I don’t dance,” I say.

  “You’re desi. As much as you pretend it’s not, it’s in your blood.”

  “That doesn’t even make sen—!” I groan. I don’t even know how to start arguing with her. I’m starting to remember why I rarely visit M&D’s.

  Finally, Amira giggles. “I’m sorry, but . . . I do kind of want to see that.”

  Everyone looks at her like she’s sprouted a second head.

  “Amira!” Kiran hisses.

  “What? I mean . . .” She smiles shyly. “Not to be presumptuous or anything. But I think it’d be cute to see my little sister dance at my wedding. To be honest, I was hoping for it. And I’m sure Faisal would be amused seeing Deen. Right?”

  Faisal blinks. “I—I mean, sure . . .”

  I glare at him wordlessly.

  “Then it’s settled.” Mona khala plops her napkin onto her empty plate. “Deen and Kiran will dance at the wedding.”

  Three Years Ago

  DEEN: So question

  DEEN: when the hell were you going to tell me you can dance?

  KIRAN: eh

  KIRAN: I dunno, you never asked?

  DEEN: I didn’t realize I had to!

  DEEN: jesus

  DEEN: I mean, I can dance a little but that was a whole other level

  DEEN: If I could dance like that, EVERYONE would know

  DEEN: “hi my name is Deen and I can kick your ass at dancing”

  DEEN: “hi my name is Deen and I could try out as one of Beyoncé’s backup dancers and not be laughed offstage”

  DEEN: “hi my name is Deen, don’t talk to me, I’m dancing”

  KIRAN: wait, how did you even see me??

  KIRAN: Guys were supposed to be in a separate area

  DEEN: Separate area . . . how backward

  DEEN: there is no separation when it comes to love

  KIRAN: unbelievable.

  KIRAN: anyway, it’s not like I whipped it out of nowhere

  KIRAN: I practiced for weeks

  KIRAN: Ghazala aunty asked me and a couple girls to prepare something for her daughter’s mehndi

  KIRAN: my mom can’t really dance anymore

  KIRAN: so she thought it’d be a good opportunity to try it, see how I like it

  DEEN: so what’s the verdict?

  KIRAN: it’s . . . really embarrassing

  KIRAN: I think I prefer dancing for myself

  DEEN: Noorani, you disappoint me

  DEEN: how about you try it again

  DEEN: for me

  DEEN: . . . . . . . . . alone

  KIRAN: Pretty sure when God says to “lower your gaze” to be modest and not creepy

  KIRAN: God was directing it at you

  DEEN: damn

  DEEN: Do you think that means God actually notices me?

  KIRAN: . . .

  KIRAN: Tonight was a long night

  KIRAN: So I think I’m gonna take off my makeup

  DEEN: Go on . . .

  KIRAN: change into my pj’s

  DEEN: yes, I like where this is going . . .

  KIRAN: and then pray for your soul.

  DEEN: :(

  Chapter 11

  Kiran

  Sunday, June 27

  AFTER WE ALL FINISH EATING dinner and another round of chai is brought out, I excuse myself for the bathroom. Just in time, too, because Mona’s begun lecturing on the difficulty of raising kids and working full-time, a discussion that she’s not so subtly directing at Amira, and I’m five seconds from screaming.

  I head for the hall, but I have no idea where Faisal’s room could possibly be; the house is insultingly huge: vaulted ceilings, multiple stairways, winding corridors. They even have a separate prep room thing attached to the kitchen, the kind where you’d have servants gossiping à la Downton Abbey before bringing you poisoned canapés.

  This is a problem, because I have to be quick. I can’t afford to leave Amira’s side for very long—not only because I want to save her from Mona, but I don’t want to give Faisal a chance to be alone with her. It’s bad enough seeing them smiling at each other, as if everything is okay, as if Faisal isn’t hiding something.

  My biggest problem, though, is Deen, who’s been watching me like a hawk. And thanks to Mona, I’ve lost all my earlier confidence; Mona’s words about what Mom would want cut deep into my already frayed nerves, exposing them for all to see. In front of the last person I’d want seeing. I’m not a stranger to aunties and uncles giving unsolicited advice—mostly, it’s a way to show they love and care about you—but this Mona woman apparently wouldn’t know tact if it tactfully strangled her with its bare hands. All the more reason why I can’t let Amira be a part of this family.

  I figure Faisal’s room is either upstairs or downstairs, where I can hear Deen’s younger cousins screaming their heads off and blasting some Mario game.

  But just as I’m trying to decide where to look first, there’s a sudden blast of sound right behind me, and I nearly leap out of my skin. It’s the adhan, the Muslim call to prayer, coming from a small gold alarm clock on the wall. My heart slams against my ribs. I can’t believe I was nearly murdered by the adhan, of all things. God’s sense of irony is astounding.

  I try to calm myself before I head deeper into the hallway

  and crash

  straight

  into

  Deen.

  “Lost?” he asks.

  I leap back. My heart’s racing all over again.

  “Yeah,” I reply, as coolly as I can. “Just trying to find the bathroom.”

  “Down the hall, make a left.” He grins. “You should hurry back, though, before all the peanut butter brownies are gone. You like those, right?”

  My mouth opens, ready to let out the ugly, excited gasp I make whenever I discover I’m in the vicinity of baked goods, only to catch myself just in time. It’ll take way more than brownies to make up for all his thoughtlessness.

  I smile politely. “That was a long time ago.”

  The adhan fades, and there’s a beat of silence between us. I wait for Deen to leave, but he doesn’t. On the other side of the wall, I can hear our parents talking, Amira laughing—muffled sounds that carry from the dining room into the quiet, dark space where Deen and I stand, alone. It’s the first time, I realize, we’ve stood next to each other in years. He’s grown . . . taller. I have to look up to meet his eyes, where I catch a glimpse of something wavering behind them, like a tiny light. Or a flame.

  His grin slips away. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne, or his deodorant. It’s sharp, like pine or mint.

  “I’m . . . sorry, by the way,” he says slowly, rubbing his arm. “About Mona. She can get carried away.” Deen avoids my gaze, like he’s actually ashamed. I did notice him trying to defend me at the table, which caught me off guard; for a moment, I’ll admit, I felt a budding gratitude in my chest. But I’m not sure it’s a feeling I like right now.

  “It’s fine,” I reply. “It’s not like we have to dance at the wedding if we don’t want to, so there’s nothing to worry about.” Especially if there is no wedding. But I don’t need to tell him that.

  “That’s not—” Deen makes a sound like a mix between a groan and a sad, resigned chuckle. “Whatever. I forgot who I’m talking to. The bathroom is over there. Just don’t get lost, or I’ll have
to hold your hand and walk you there myself.”

  Heat flushes through me in indignation, and a thousand insults come to my lips. But Deen’s already gone.

  As his footsteps fade, I press myself against the window behind me and take a deep breath. The glass windowpane is cool against my burning skin. I’ve bought myself a couple of minutes with my bathroom excuse, but that won’t be enough to find Faisal’s room and dig through it. I need more time.

  I turn around. Through the window, a glimmer catches my attention outside: summer night dew on flower petals glittering like jewels, and string lights, hung from the canopies of trees, bathing the backyard garden with a gentle warmth. The lights lead to a wrought-iron gazebo surrounded by white rosebushes and tangled briars, illuminating the structure in buttery-gold glory.

  The stinging tug behind my ribs is so sudden, I draw a sharp intake of breath. This must have taken forever. It’s elegant. Inhuman, even, in its beauty. Like magic.

  The perfect place for a proposal.

  I remember now, Deen mentioning something about a garden for Faisal’s proposal. Did he set this up? How could someone so obnoxious make something so beautiful? For some reason, it annoys me even more than I already am. I guess Deen must have been serious about wanting it to be perfect.

  But this could work in my favor: if this is where he’s planning on having Faisal propose, then maybe I can kill two Deen-shaped birds with one stone.

  A plan is starting to form in my head, but I’m going to need a little help.

  I grab the small gold adhan alarm clock and head downstairs.

  Three kids, no older than seven or eight years old, are huddled a foot away from the TV. A Nintendo Switch that they’ve ripped from the console is splayed haphazardly by their feet, surrounded by wires—I wonder if it’s Deen’s or Faisal’s.

  Kids, I’ve learned, are easy to manipulate once you realize how much less cynical they are than adults. Last summer, I babysat my neighbor’s two kids, six-year-old twins Will and Tessa, every day for two weeks, and it would have been hell, except for one thing: they believed almost anything I told them. It became a game for me. How ridiculous of a lie could I make them genuinely believe? By the third day, I had them convinced that the trees outside were actually my long-lost sisters who were cursed by a witch, and that I, too, was an ageless witch. They became very obedient after that. Made almost $750 for doing practically nothing.

  I find a window a few feet away from them and hide the alarm clock behind the curtain. Deen’s cousins pay me no attention; on the screen, Mario is racing Sonic on a track, while in real life, one of the kids—Sohail, I think I heard Mona call him—is mashing buttons on the controller. They must have just been babies when Deen and I first met.

  I clear my throat. “Hey. Do you guys know where Faisal’s room is?”

  The girl, whose name I think is Sara, gives me a deadpan stare. “Aren’t you the one marrying him?”

  “No, the one marrying him is prettier,” says one of the boys, squinting up at me.

  “I think she’s pretty, too.”

  “No. That’s—” Amira, I almost say. “My sister might marry him. But it’s not official yet.”

  “Seems pretty official to me.”

  “Okay.” I close my eyes, refocus. “Well, I need to know where his room is.”

  “Why?” The other brother, Salman, eyes me curiously.

  “Because that’s where he keeps the holy water,” I say. Got ’em.

  Sara stills. “Why do you need holy water?”

  “Because . . .” I bite my lip, look away. “I don’t want to say. I already told the adults and they didn’t believe me.”

  “Told them what?” Salman asks impatiently.

  “It’s just . . .” I take a deep breath. I’m deep in the role now. “There’s a jinn, in the garden. He kept staring at me through the window, and I think he wants something, but . . . I’m honestly scared.”

  Behind Deen’s cousins, confetti bursts across the TV screen. Sonic has beaten Mario for first place. Sohail turns around and glares at me, as if it’s my fault he, playing an Italian plumber, somehow lost to a supersonic hedgehog.

  “Jinn aren’t real. You’re just trying to mess with us,” he says.

  Sara shakes her head. “Not true. Mom says they only live in Pakistan.”

  “That’s wrong on so many levels, but I don’t have time to argue with you,” I retort. “I’m telling you, there’s a jinn outside and it’s very angry, and I need to know where Faisal’s room is or else the jinn will—”

  Suddenly—thanks to my turning back the hands by a few minutes—the adhan alarm clock goes off again, full blast. Deen’s cousins scream; Sohail grabs his sister’s arm and clings tightly.

  “It’s the jinn. It’s trying to scare us,” I say calmly, though I bug out my eyes for dramatic effect.

  Salman looks at me. “What do we do?”

  Sohail lets go of his sister’s arm. “Jinns aren’t real,” he repeats, a little less sure this time. “It’s—it’s a trick or something.”

  Sara points down a dark corridor to our left. “Faisal’s room is there.”

  “Perfect.” I bend down to their level. “I need you three to go outside and take down”—I gesture at the window—“all of those lights if you can. The louder you are, the more afraid the jinn will be. I’ll grab the holy water and join you, okay? But don’t be too loud—you don’t want to get caught. By anyone.”

  Sara and Salman nod, while Sohail folds his arms across his chest. But still, he follows them, and I watch as they frantically race up the stairs until they’re out of sight. I ignore the pang of guilt in my stomach. I don’t feel particularly good about lying just to use them as a distraction, but at least if they’re outside and messing with the decorations, Deen will be kept busy.

  I flick the light on in Faisal’s room, and for a moment, I’m thrown off. It’s all beige, with carefully curated splashes of deep blue, too thoughtful and matchy to have been Faisal’s choice of decor. There’s a sloped ceiling painted black, and a leather reading chair tucked in the corner that looks like it’s never been sat on. Matching mahogany furniture: a carved four-poster bed, and a reading desk, surface clear save for a laptop, a couple of leather-bound Merriam-Webster dictionaries, and a tiny terrarium that I’m fairly certain is filled with fake plants. It’s all stale, and though the room’s furnished, it somehow manages to feel empty—like a staged room in a house for sale. It’s almost . . . too neat.

  The only sign of normalcy is a laundry basket tucked in the corner that’s been left open, revealing a pile of dirty clothes.

  Is Faisal a clean freak? I wonder. Or does he just not feel at home here? His mom flashes in my mind: her eagle eyes, her perpetually judging stare. Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were both.

  But I don’t have time to think. I start looking, heading straight for the desk.

  I flip open the laptop, but of course it’s password protected, so I yank open the first drawers and shuffle through some folders and papers, though most are empty or blank; apparently he and I use the same fancy tabbed folders, so at least we have one thing in common. Focus, Kiran.

  I open a second drawer. The problem is, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. More incriminating pictures? Love letters from Leah? Weird porn, maybe? But with as clean as this room is, my chances of finding something on him are dwindling by the dust bunny.

  There’s not a single thing here. And that’s the weirdest thing of all. There’s hardly anything. My own drawers are a mess of spare change, of notes and ticket stubs and Polaroids. Old receipts. Either he deeply ascribes to a Marie Kondo lifestyle or he’s a serial killer.

  Or he’s hiding something.

  Third drawer. It’s just a couple of folders filled with legal stationery for AFFEY, the nonprofit Amira’s helping him get up and running. There are some copies of contracts, too, and a couple of bills and statutes. Boring legal stuff. I’m running out of steam by the time
I get to the last drawer. I shuffle through some more AFFEY paperwork.

  There’s a crash and thud from somewhere outside; Deen’s cousins are hard at work, from the sound of it, but that means I’m running out of time.

  I flip through folder after folder, frantically now, imagining the tips of my fingers leaving sweat marks everywhere.

  At the bottom of the drawer I find a bright orange Campus notebook. The cover is water stained, which, given how neat he keeps things, is . . . odd. The pages crackle as I start to flip it open.

  There’s handwriting. Neat and precise. It’s Faisal’s notebook, though I’m surprised he has one—not many people write in notebooks these days, unless it’s for a school project or they’re one of those organizational bullet journal people. But this notebook doesn’t appear to be either. I remember Asher telling me something once, back when I used to have a blog that I kept up for all of two weeks. Boys don’t do diaries, he’d said. Boys write manifestos.

  I suddenly feel nervous. My fingertips burn. Part of me is screaming not to read it, that I have no business reading it. Maybe part of me is afraid of what I’ll find.

  If he has anything to hide, he has no business marrying Amira, another voice in me presses. A voice that gives me resolve.

  I stop flipping; the page I land on is dated November. Three years ago. My throat tightens as I begin to read:

  Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and gasp for air. I can’t even scream. M&D tell me they’re terrors or nightmares, but I don’t think I get enough sleep to dream anymore. You’d think they’d recognize withdrawal symptoms, but I don’t think they want to admit it. Like if they pretend it never happened, everything will be fine.

  Leah stopped replying to my texts. I wonder if she hates me. She has every right to.

  The fucked-up thing is that if the drug wasn’t still in my system that night, I’d have had no hope of getting out of the felony charge. I’m learning a lot about weird legal loopholes these days. Just not the way I wanted.

  I should be happy. But honestly, all I want is to remember how to breathe again.