“Where
are you from?” Alexa said.
“Maine,”
I said.
“But
like where are you really from?”
I
sigh. “India.”
“Oh
my God that’s so cool! I knew it. I love Indian food,” she squealed.
Congradu-fucking-lations.
“India
is sooo exotic. It’s my dream to go there,” Alexa said.
I smile. “That’s nice.” She can go to hell.
“What’s
it like?”
“There’s
lots of spicy food and good energy and just colorful vibes,” I squeal.
Alexa’s
blue eyes light up. “I knew it! I bet the yoga teachers are geniuses. My yoga
teacher, Bethanny, is just not authentic, you know?”
“Totally. Listen, I really need to go grab
some Chinese food,” I said.
“Okay.
We should totally catch up some time,” Alexa said.
I
walked back to my house. Alexa lived right next door. I wondered what she was
eating for dinner. I desperately wanted something that wasn’t dosa and idli and
sambar. I bet Alexa got to eat sandwiches and noodles and pizza. The smell of
cumin, potatoes, and garam masala hit my senses as I walked in. I viscerally
relaxed. As tired as I was of eating the same thing, the familiar scent made my
mouth water.
After
dinner, I rummaged in the fridge. I opened a yogurt container and found daal. I
opened another and found okra. After the third disappointing container, filled
with rice instead of ice-cream, I called it quits. I went hunting for ice-cream
at midnight even though I had Fajr prayers.
That’s
when I ran into Alexa. Crying over a pint of ice-cream.
I
pulled out a chair and sat next to her.
“My
mom was yelling at me again,” she sniffled.
“Why?”
I asked. I offered her my Rocky Road.
“I
tried wearing my hijab,” she said.
Utter
shock crashed through me. Alexa was Muslim? I had never seen her at the mosque.
“My
dad is Muslim. My mom is extremely Christian,” she whispered.
“Do
you spend time with your dad?” I asked.
“Sort
of. I spend the summers,” she said.
Alexa
was always off traveling to exotic locations. I never thought her life had
rough patches. Suddenly, I realized that’s why she was always trying to make
conversation with me. She was lonely.
“Where
is he?”
“Dubai.”
“That’s
far,” I said.
We
stayed at the ice-cream parlor well past midnight. I never spent so much time
with her. I started to notice the speckle of freckles like tiny stars across
her face. The way her green eyes lit up when I mentioned that my favorite food
was sesame noodles. The way her bright red hair glowed in the autumn sunlight
and her tan skin looked good in white.
She
blushed when I passed notes to her in class. She wrote me a poem. I started
inviting her over the house for dinner. Mom took a liking to her right away.
Alexa spent so much time at my house that one day her mom came over.
Her
mom had the same auburn hair. She gripped Alexa’s arm so hard that it left blue
stains on her skin. My dad immediately materialized and Alexa’s mom had the
door slammed in her face.
Alexa
moved in.
She
slept in the spare bedroom. Every morning the sun would rise and we would peek
through cupped hands.
My
dua was for her to keep loving me.
As
we passed the fabric store, Alexa stopped.
“Let’s
go in,” she said.
Rows
and rows of velvet, satin, muslin, and cotton lined the shop. She picked a
sky-blue cotton and had it measured.
At
home, she wrapped her hair for the first time and felt free.
She
experimented with the niqab and when she came back from Dubai she had a gold
chain battoulah.
She
was gorgeous.
At
school, we got stares. Stares at burned our backs as we held hands. Laughs
followed our hijabs. We ignored them all by finding comfort in each other.
“I
am so glad we met,” Alexa said.
“So
am I.”
I
fell in love with the girl next door.