“We’re doing the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes.”
“That fairy tale? I thought you were doing a hadith.”
“No.”
“I was sure you were doing a hadith.”
“No, I never said that.”
She shakes her head, her forehead puckered. “I could have sworn you were doing a hadith.”
I grit my teeth to stop myself saying something I’m going to regret.
She taps her finger on the tip of her chin, gazing at the ceiling tiles. “Well, if you ask me, I think you should do a hadith.”
I get up and see if my mother needs help with supper.
We’re having karayla. Sometimes it’s called bitter melon curry, and some people call it bitter gourd. A lot of work. I’m kept busy rubbing salt on the karayla and squeezing to get out the bitterness, and then my mom gives me a bunch of onions to cut. It’s still better than talking to Layla.
So I sit there, my eyes burning, cutting onions – not too thick, my mother keeps reminding me – and my foot falls asleep. It would be right at that moment that my father comes home.
“Assalaamu alaikum,” he calls, tramping down the stairs. He sees me wincing as I stretch and asks, “What’s wrong?”
I whisper, “My foot’s asleep.”
My father looks so concerned. “Which foot is it?”
I move my right foot. Wearing a mischievous grin he reaches out with his foot and tries to tap it. Quickly I get up and hobble around, trying to stay out of reach but he’s too quick. He catches me and pokes my foot with his big toe. I double over in tingling agony, laughing hard.
“There,” he says. “That should wake it up.”
When we sit down for dinner, my father holds up his hands in dua. “In the name of God with the blessings of God.” He’s about to dig in, when he looks at me, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Did you want to say a longer dua?”
“No, that’s okay.”
He grins at my mother and everyone begins eating. For a while there is silence.
Layla looks back and forth from my mother to my father. Finally she says, “If a Muslim kid is doing a play at school, and she could do any play she wanted, shouldn’t she do a play about a hadith or something else about Islam?”
I glare at her, warning her to stop. She ignores me. My father wipes some curry from his bearded chin. “Why?”
Layla shrugs, tearing a piece of roti to ribbons. “It’s her responsibility. What better opportunity to teach about Islam?”
My ears burn and I hunch down in my seat. It seems Layla is determined to turn me into a preacher.
My father frowns. “I suppose so.”
Layla smirks. “See?”
I face her. I can feel the twins’ heads turning back and forth between me and Layla, like they’re watching a ping pong match. I say, “You didn’t do a hadith in your house league play.”
Layla looks uncomfortable. “It wasn’t . . . ahem, up to me.”
“That’s because the teacher didn’t pick you to be the director!”
Layla’s face turns red. She says nothing but piles her strips of roti till they form a wall.
My father’s eyes are drawn together in disapproval. I know I should stop, but I can’t. “Just because I get the chance to be director, doesn’t mean you should spoil it with your lousy suggestions. If I need help, I’ll ask!”
Layla covers her face, bursts into sobs, and runs from the table. The twins’ mouths are o’s of surprise. My mother looks worried. My father looks ominous.
His voice whips me with gale force fury. “For shame, Zainab! She’s only trying to help. How could you be so cruel?”
“But, Abi, she’s been bothering me since yesterday. I tried to tell her nicely but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Enough! That you should treat your older sister with such disrespect. And that you should do so right in front of me! Have you no shame?!”
I stare down at my hands in my lap. I dare not ask if it would have been better if I’d done it behind his back.
“After your mother and me, she is in charge over you. You don’t know how lucky you are. She has responsibilities. And she cares very much for you and only wants you to do well with that silly play of yours. Why should she suggest things unless she wants good for you? And look at the way you treated her.”
Quietly I say, “I’m sorry, Abi.”
“Hmph, It’s not to me you should be saying sorry. It’s to her, getting down on your knees and begging forgiveness.”
From the corner of my eye I see my mother shaking her head quickly.
My father relents. “Fine, you don’t need to get on your knees. Just say you’re sorry and don’t ever speak to her in such a tone again!”
I nod. “Gee, Abi.” I push away from the table. The chair legs scrape against the linoleum with a shuddering groan, a sound of disapproval.
I find Layla sprawled face down on her bed, in the room we share. She’s stopped crying. The room is silent. And she is so still I stare hard to see if she is breathing.
“Layla?”
Slowly she rolls over. Her face settles into a hurt look, her thick eyelashes droop, her lower lip trembles. “Come to rub it in some more, Miss Director of the House League Play?”
“Sorry about that.”
“You don’t sound too sorry to me.”
“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’re not really sorry. You’re only saying it because Abi made you.”
She’s right, but I can’t say so. “No, really,” I lie. “I am truly sorry for saying that stuff about the director. It was cruel.”
She sits up, curling her arms around her knees, tossing back her hair. “You don’t have to play games with me, Zainab. I know when you’re lying. But it’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry. I won’t tell on you. In fact, if Abi asks me if you apologized, I’ll say yes. Even though we both know you don’t really mean it.”
“I said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”
“Oh, Zainab. I should have stopped. I should have just let it go. You’re angry now.”
I grit my teeth, then make myself stop. It won’t be very convincing if I say sorry through clenched teeth. I try to put a sincere look on my face. It’s so sincere it hurts. “I’m not angry, Layla. I wish you’d believe me. I really and truly am sorry.”
She looks at me for a moment. Measuring me. I continue looking sincere, though I’m sure any minute my face will crack from the effort. Finally she relaxes. “All is forgiven.”
I heave a sigh of relief, and turn to go back to my supper. My chapatti is cold and the karayla is bitter.
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