Chapter 18
18
‘How’s your summer job going?’ Imran asked.
‘All right,’ Saliha responded nonchalantly, as though it wasn’t the most popular guy in our year she was talking to. ‘How are your parents doing? I haven’t seen them in a while.’
‘All good,’ he replied, running a hand over his expertly faded beard. ‘Yours?’
‘Quite annoyed these days, to be honest. Our neighbour on the other side is causing more trouble than usual – throwing her rubbish in our garden, stealing our parking spot, having screaming matches in the middle of the night.’
‘Yeah, Jessica’s real charmin’,’ he said sarcastically, looking towards her house. ‘She’s shouted bare racist stuff to my mum over the years.’
He snorted when Saliha’s mouth fell open in utter disbelief, and I thought about Imran’s mum.
I hadn’t interacted with his family much and all I knew about them was gleaned from hearing Mum chatter away on her endless phone calls.
His mum was a seamstress who’d stitched sarees, salwar kameez and lehengas for the local South Asian community until the middle Sayyid son had begun sending her enough money that she’d stopped taking orders. His father was disabled and rarely seen in public. However, my bedroom window faced their home and I occasionally caught sight of Imran manoeuvring his father’s wheelchair to his car, helping him settle inside and driving off somewhere – most likely to the hospital, because he didn’t seem well enough to be going anywhere else.
I occasionally glimpsed other things through those curtains too: Imran walking around his bedroom, working out, sitting at his desk …
Imran suddenly turned to me. ‘Zara, right?’
My heart skipped a beat.
I nodded, a little surprised that he’d got my name right. With the kind of people he hung out with at school and the number of girls he’d spoken to by now, I thought any memory of me would be a long-buried, distant thing.
‘Ain’t you the one who aced her GCSEs?’ I didn’t bother to respond, and he tilted his head to one side appraisingly. ‘Can’t go wrong if I’m with the smarty-pants, innit? Give me your Snapchat.’ When I furrowed my brows, he smiled and added, ‘I’ll send over some photos of my brother’s notes. I’ve already got Sal on Snap.’
I paused.
‘That would be great,’ Saliha answered for me, and then squealed. ‘This is going to be amazing, guys. Saqib did insanely well!’
Urgh. She was right though. Having access to Saqib’s notes could help me achieve the grades I needed to get into university. I unlocked my phone and reluctantly looked up at Imran, who was towering at least a foot over me.
‘Your username?’ I asked.
‘I’m not your man.’
How very appropriate – I could only imagine the number of girls he spoke to who needed that reminder. I couldn’t help the way the corners of my mouth curled upwards. I noticed his smile deepen as mine did, and I looked away quickly.
Every time our eyes locked, I felt a strange connection. But I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that I was the only one who felt such a way around him. Such flirtatious antics were probably how he got girls to fall for him, and I wasn’t going to be one of them.
I began to type: imnotyourman .
It felt a little strange to add him. My parents didn’t believe in mixed-gender friendships and would’ve preferred to have sent me to an all-girls school had there been one close by. There was no way they would’ve given me permission to communicate with any boy on my phone, but it was for the sake of my education …
He accepted the friend request there and then.
Wow. His Snapchat score was the highest I’d ever come across.
If anyone ever wanted to see proof of Imran’s popularity, this was it. My score was pathetic, practically non-existent. Saliha was the only person I really went back and forth with on the app, and I usually preferred to call or FaceTime her.
I put my phone away and turned to Sal. ‘I’ve got to go before it gets too late. See you tomorrow.’
Before leaving, I forced myself to meet Imran’s gaze. He looked right at me, no hesitation or softness in his eyes. He made me feel so … seen.
‘Bye,’ I said quietly, at which he nodded once, before winking at Sal and walking off himself.
From all the shoes in the entrance area to our house, I knew Dad’s friends were over. There were no ladies’ shoes, which meant I wouldn’t be expected to say salaam; in fact, in this case Dad would prefer for me to make myself scarce, which I was more than happy to do.
When I re-entered my room, I saw that Imran’s windows were wide open.
He suddenly came into view.
Topless, tense and flexing. I watched him admire the progress of his physique in his full-length mirror while he listened to fierce British rap, which I didn’t recognize but knew Saliha definitely would.
I dared to go closer, until I stood at the edge of my window, staring at the muscles rippling on his smooth brown back as he moved. I could even make out the reflection of his defined abs from this angle. I inhaled slowly as I watched him.
His form was impeccable, literally good enough to get him signed with a top modelling agency. It was only a matter of time before his Instagram really blew up. I abruptly remembered the caption he’d written under a workout clip he’d posted.
The only thing that clears my mind when I’m stressed.
There were no further personal details, there rarely were on his account, but that had been enough to get me wondering what stressed out the cocky, carefree Imran Sayyid.
I’d come up with three possibilities: his imprisoned brother, his father’s ill health, and having to live up to the middle Sayyid son’s academic and career achievements.
Imran suddenly turned and looked right at me.
I practically threw myself on the floor. I lay there for a long moment, blood pounding, teeth clenched, heart thudding.
He must have noticed my reflection in his mirror from the moment I’d begun looking at him. He’d probably known the entire time I’d been checking him out.
‘Oh, you idiot,’ I groaned, running my hands over my face.
My phone pinged. I crawled to my bed and grabbed it.
It was a Snapchat notification from Imran.
A part of me wanted to wait, to play it cool before opening the message, but I couldn’t do it, not after this. It would be impossible to focus on anything else until I’d somehow cleared the air. As I unlocked my phone, my head buzzed with all the possible clarifications I could send.
I was just cleaning my window.
I heard a sound coming from the street.
I wanted to talk to you about the chemistry notes.
They all sounded fake and stupid. I cringed, wishing Sal could be with me right now. She’d know the right thing to say. I took a deep breath and opened the chat.
I thought I’d give you a close-up too.
There was a video. I tapped it. It was a mirror-selfie-style clip of him flexing his biceps and then zooming in on his abs and slowly slanting down to the V-cuts that disappeared into the band of his tracksuit bottoms.
My mouth hung open as I decided what to say. I started typing, not wanting to make it look as though I was putting too much thought into it.
There really was no need for that. I was only trying to find a way to tell you to turn down the music. You should be more mindful of your neighbours. Maybe this is the behaviour that drives Jessica to her bouts of racism
He sent multiple laughing emojis, which made me smile and feel a touch calmer.
But then:
Yeah right. You keep telling yourself that, Khan
And you keep telling yourself everyone’s obsessed with you, Sayyid
He started typing something, then stopped and began again, almost as though he’d changed his mind about how to respond. It felt good to know that I was somehow putting him on the spot too. Then he sent the message.
Here are some notes on organic chemistry. I found them helpful. Let me know what you think
It was weird to realize that the guy who always came across as rebellious and blasé in school actually cared about his education; perhaps Saqib had made more of an impression on him than his eldest brother had.
Six photos arrived and I screenshotted them immediately, not wanting to miss the chance of having access to any scrap of information that could help me, especially related to chemistry, which I found the hardest.
‘Zara, come down,’ Mum called in Urdu from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Help me with dinner.’
‘Coming,’ I called back, and quickly messaged one last time.
Thanks. I owe you.
After putting my phone on my bedside table, I drew my curtains, not even daring a glance in his direction, and then changed into a pink floral shalwar kameez, covering my head loosely with the matching dupatta as Mum did. As I draped the scarf around my neck, a flurry of Snapchat message notifications arrived from Imran. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the chat.
That quickly huh?
No girl has ever said that to me so soon
I’m kinda speechless
I guess I should say … thank you?
What was he was talking about? I scrolled back a little and practically yelped.
Instead of I owe you , I’d accidentally messaged I love you .
Cheeks hot and heart frantic, I began replying.
Oh my God. I meant I love you .
Urgh. It happened again. What the hell was wrong with me?!
I meant
I OWE you.
He disappeared from the chat, not bothering to reply. I didn’t blame him. With all my staring and now this, he probably thought I was some weird loser who was obsessed with him.
I tried to call Sal to commiserate. She didn’t pick up.
Not knowing what else to do, I buried my face in my pillow and screamed. I couldn’t believe I’d messaged Imran Sayyid I love you within the first ten minutes of our first real conversation. Not once, but twice. I could never show my face again.
I was going to die of embarrassment.