Chapter 5
Fridays are holy days to Muslims, like Sundays for Christians and the Jewish Sabbath on Saturdays, but I can’t shake the feeling that mine are cursed.
Last Friday, I attended the wedding where I had the great misfortune of sharing a table with Pushpita Emon. Tonight after work, I have to play the reluctant heroine in Disaster Date: The Sequel at her house.
My prayers to skip straight into Saturday have gone unanswered, so I shove the clothes and makeup Amma set out for me into my backpack and leave the house early enough that I can actually catch a bus to Chai Ho. I’m on time for once.
My best friends cock their heads in tandem as I step through the door.
“Dal, do my eyes deceive me or has our erstwhile third musketeer appeared?” Dani asks in a more-aghast-than-necessary tone, giving the table in front of her a wipe to punctuate each word.
I roll my eyes, accepting a rag from her sister to join them in cleaning. “Haha. I haven’t been late that often, have I?”
“Only a handful of times since you started working full-time,” Dalia supplies helpfully.
I heave a sigh. “Mr. Tahir keeping track?”
“Maybe he’ll go easier on you now that he’s hired a new employee,” Dani muses.
My eyes bulge mid-wipe. “He did what ?”
Mr. Tahir has been threatening to replace me since day one, but I dropped so many desserts and spilled so much tea in those early days without getting the boot—docked paychecks and withheld tips notwithstanding—that I figured it was our schtick. Sure, I’m occasionally a few minutes late, but I’ve always hoped he considered me a good employee, or at least that he pities my family too much to axe me.
Being poor has done no favors for my pride.
The twins must notice my dawning distress, because Dani says, “Breathe, Zar. He’s not firing you. With us working only part-time starting September, he wants more hands on deck. If anything, he needs you now more than ever.”
“You’re sure ?”
Dalia wiggles her smallest finger. “Pinky promise.”
I sigh, relieved, and move to heft my bag onto the counter, table forgotten. “Good, because I need you to help me hide this somewhere he can’t find.”
“What’s in there?” Dani asks. “Drugs?”
“Yep, a whole kilo,” I deadpan. “Actually, it’s an outfit for a dawath I have to attend after work. We’re going straight from here and I can’t let my shalwar kameez get bunched up or Amma will have my head. I told her Dalia would help me with my makeup too.” I bat my eyes and smile at them in a way that says both thank you and my bad .
“A dawath, huh?” Dani wrinkles her nose. “Not another wedding, right?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s an invitation to my mother’s friend’s house.”
The twins share one of those twinny glances where they have a whole psychic conversation with each other, while I fidget. They used to look even more identical when we were younger, before Dani cut and bleached her hair—currently purple—and her sister began veiling. Dalia’s also fat, with a face as bright and round and lovely as the moon. But though they’ve changed so much, it’s no less eerie now. I’ve never kept secrets from them and am hoping the Harun situation resolves itself before there’s ever anything to tell.
Dalia cracks first. “I’m always happy to help, Zar.”
“Me too,” Dani adds.
I brandish my most grateful smile as they smuggle the contents of my backpack, Ocean’s 8 style, into the supply closet the three of us pray in, hanging my flamingo-pink shalwar kameez on the dustpan hook next to the spare janamaz.
Jumu’ah services make Friday one of the most profitable days for Chai Ho. Some customers stop in for breakfast before them. More show up for the lunch rush. Today, we’re even busier than the typical Friday. A choir of whispers and pointed glances toward the kitchen door accompany every visit to a table, signaling that the Auntie Network must have already heard about the new hire through the grapevine and are dying to find out their life story. It’s so hectic that I don’t have a second to breathe, let alone dwell on Harun.
“Have you met the new employee yet, Zahra?” my visiting landlady asks eagerly as I refill her cup. When I shake my head, she clucks her tongue. “I heard the poor thing is all alone here.”
“I heard he’s an orphan,” adds her friend, sipping her own tea.
A bearded man in a fanjabi with a matching white tufi on his head chimes in from another table with, “Well, I heard the imam—”
I’m so distracted trying to parse their gossip while bringing desserts and tea to and from the hungry mosque-goers that when I carry a wobbling stack of plates to the kitchen door, I fail to notice someone opening it from within.
“Zar—” Dani warns from behind the counter.
It’s too late. The door slams into my face and stars burst in my vision. The mountain of dishes topples right out of my arms, shattering as it makes impact. The momentum tips me too far in the other direction to do much more than grope for the plates and the lean, tall silhouette that appeared in the doorway, a cry escaping me.
Something wraps around my wrist and jerks me forward. Air whooshes as the cacophony of breaking ceramic continues. I flinch, eyes screwed shut, bracing myself to tumble onto the floor like the dropped china. Very little pain follows my landing, though my “cushion” feels more like bone than padding. Only a blur of noise, heat, heavy breathing—my own and someone else’s—and a heartbeat pounding in time with mine.
“Are you hurt?” the someone else asks from under me.
Under me!
My eyelids fly apart.
I find myself staring into a pair of unfamiliar, honey-brown irises, shimmering with worry. “Y-you’re not Mr. Tahir.”
Not-Mr.-Tahir smiles. “As far as I know, that’s true.”
The man himself manifests soon after, holding his balding head in shock. “Astaghfirullah, what’s the meaning of this? So many ruined dishes!”
Only when his flinty gaze roves to me do I realize the compromising position I’m in, clutched in the arms of an unknown teenage boy on the floor of the tea shop, my forearms pressed to his chest, my hands gripping his shoulders for dear life. Jagged pieces of broken porcelain glitter at our feet, a reminder of how close I came to hurting myself.
“Oh God,” I rasp, scrambling up off the boy, who must be the new employee. “Mr. Tahir, I am so sorry—”
“It’s not her fault,” says the boy, dusting himself off and rising to his feet. When he does, he towers over everyone else inside the shop, but Mr. Tahir still looks tempted to take off his loafer and lob it at him. “I thought I’d come out to get more dishes since I finished cleaning the last stack, and… well…”
Our boss evaluates us over crossed arms, then sighs when Dani and Dalia arrive. “It’s fine. We can take it out of your paycheck later. Can you keep working, Miss Khan?” I poke my forehead, remembering my injury all at once. So much for what Nanu said about being lucky. It throbs, but at least there’s no blood. I don’t want to end my shift early, so I nod, even though the new boy and my friends seem skeptical. “Good. Nayim, clean this up, then go back to the kitchen, where I can keep an eye on you.”
The kitchen door slams shut.
I grimace but assure Dalia and Dani that I’m not in imminent danger of collapse. “Go back to work before your dad blows another gasket, okay?”
Reluctantly, they do as asked, leaving me alone with our new coworker.
Nayim, Mr. Tahir called him.
I can’t meet his gaze after my mortifying fall, especially after feeling him up in front of half the city, so I stoop beside the shattered dishes, carefully picking out larger shards until gentle hands land on top of mine, forcing them to still.
“Let me get a broom, Zahra,” Nayim says, in a musical accent that’s comfortingly familiar now that I’m paying attention. “You’ll cut yourself if you aren’t careful.”
My eyes widen, then narrow. “How do you know my name?”
He taps the plastic name tag pinned to a ruffled blue apron that matches my own. It reads Nayim A . Blood rushes to my cheeks once more, but before I can muster up a clever quip, he disappears into the kitchen, carrying with him the handful of plates that survived my gracelessness. I can only gape.
He looks to be about my age, with thick, shoulder-length black locks that sweep into his catlike eyes, dressed in a T-shirt under an open flannel button-up that must be a hand-me-down from a much broader man, his jeans-clad legs taking confident strides till the door shuts between us. Once he’s out of sight, I become aware of the renewed chatter within the shop. Eagle-eyed aunties and uncles stare after Nayim.
Like that, the conversation drifts away from my blunder. I should be happy, but my mood darkens as I try to make sense of the rumor mill. From the chatter, I can pick out words like “orphan” and “charity case.” Did they talk about me like that when Mr. Tahir hired me after Baba’s death?
“You sure you’re not dizzy, Zar?”
It’s Dani who asks from behind the counter. She’s too preoccupied with a winding line of customers to come over and help me up, so I grab the empty chair nearest to me and do it myself. The door to the kitchen opens again at that exact moment and Nayim returns, clutching the broom and a dustpan. Which means that he went to the broom closet.
Oh God, did he see my dress? Did Mr. Tahir?
I gulp. “How mad was he?”
“Pretty upset,” he concedes, before quirking a lopsided grin at me that almost wins one from me in return. Almost. “Don’t worry, though. He’s only miffed at me.”
I frown, still confused by his decision to take all the blame. “Why did you do that?”
Mr. Tahir already vowed to charge him for the mess, and from the snippets of gossip I’ve grasped, it doesn’t sound like he can afford that any more than me. He shrugs. “I already dropped a few plates in the sink when he was showing me the ropes earlier. What’s a couple more if it means I’ve come to your rescue?”
“My rescue?” I scoff, but this time the grin is too difficult to resist any longer. “That line work on other girls?”
His dark brows pinch together. “On girls? Never. I was simply coming to the aid of a fellow coworker, whatever their gender.”
I snort-laugh and his severe mask cracks. His own laugh is so infectious that I almost forget everyone else watching us, including a baby strapped into a polka-dotted stroller with a matching bottle between her pudgy fists.
My blush returns with a vengeance as I toe at the broken dishes and clear my throat. “Right. Well. Fridays are our busiest days, so we’d better get back to it before we really piss Mr. Tahir off, newbie. I think that table’s flagging me down.”
Nayim’s smile falters, but he doesn’t try to stop me, too engrossed with cleaning up my mess. He holds the broom and dustpan in each hand as if they might bite him, and a fresh tide of guilt crests over me for having inconvenienced him.
Trying not to think about any cute, confusing boys, I lose myself in the tedium again and mostly succeed until I flit behind Dani to grab an order from the pass-through window and catch myself face-to-face with my new coworker. He directs another dentist-approved grin at me.
My heart definitely does not skip any beats, no siree.
“Mr. Tahir banished me here,” he says by way of greeting.
“That’s nice?”
“We didn’t have a chance to talk much earlier,” he continues, clearly unaware of my self-consciousness. “The A stands for Aktar. In case you were wondering.”
“Huh?”
He chuckles. “Do I have to tap the name tag again?”
“Oh! Your name! Duh!” I grab the golden laddu he holds out just to have somewhere else to look besides his teasing expression. “My name is Zahra. Zahra Khan.”
“A pretty name,” he says. “It suits you.”
And what’s that supposed to mean? Is he flirting?! With me ?!
Memories of how solid and warm his body felt beneath mine don’t take much of an imagination to summon up, despite me silently repeating astaghfirullah like a mantra to dispel the thought. The fact that he’s the first boy I’ve been that close to physically doesn’t escape me.
“Thank you?” I manage to squeak.
As fast as my feet will take me, I zip away to get the order of yet another customer, but as if the universe has decided to keep spurning my wishes, Nayim and I end up meeting at the pass-through window to exchange dishes over and over again throughout the rest of our shift.
Each time, he asks me exactly one question. Do I enjoy this job? (Yep, it’s helping pay for college.) Am I from Paterson originally? (No, but I’ve lived here most of my life.) Am I friends with the Tahir girls? (Best and forever.)
By our fourth less-than-clandestine meeting, my curiosity gets the best of me, and I fire off my own query before he can speak. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’re not from here, right?”
“What gave it away?” he wonders ruefully. “Do I look that clueless? I thought I was doing a decent job blending in.”
Clueless isn’t how I’d put it, but there’s something different about him. Maybe it’s that he’s so new in this place where everyone knows each other.
I wave a plate-free hand. “Oh, no, it’s not like that at all. It’s just, you have a… British inflection? It’s kind of like my mom.” Except, well. More British. More crisp, lilting vowels that are at once soothing and like nothing else I’ve ever heard.
“Huh.” Nayim picks up a plate to frown at his own reflection. “First I reminded you of Mr. Tahir and now your mother? I didn’t realize I passed for middle-aged.”
I drag a hand over my face. “Ugh, sorry. I’m totally stepping in it, aren’t I?”
“It’s fine,” he replies, cupping his cheeks in both palms so his amused expression fills the entire window. “I rather like it.”
Fighting another infuriating blush, I say, “What I meant was, your English is perfect, but it sounds more British than American.”
“The colonization will do that to you,” he answers with a chuckle. “But your instincts are spot-on. I immigrated here from Bangladesh.”
“Oh, hey, I’m Bangladeshi too!”
“If you two could reserve the formal introductions until after your shift,” Mr. Tahir intones in his matter-of-fact rumble from the kitchen, where Dalia is doing her best not to give in to a fit of giggles, “I would greatly appreciate it. I already have to replace those dishes you destroyed earlier without you lollygagging on top of everything.”
We split apart from each other immediately, but not before I catch Dani wiggling her eyebrows at me from the latte machine. I scuttle away from the counter to welcome a new arrival.
Like this, the rest of the day passes by.
Whenever Nayim and I catch glimpses of each other, he flashes me another of his—friendly? flirty?—smiles, honeyed eyes twinkling with an emotion I can’t translate. Between him and a rowdy group of customers, time flies. Before I know it, we’ve closed for the night.
It’s time for my date.
After carefully tucking my paycheck and the day’s tips into a unicorn fanny pack I borrowed from Resna, I trudge tiredly into the kitchen, making a mental note to add half the money to the ever-so-slowly-growing college savings under my bed.
Nayim is humming while he sweeps inside.
He’s tall—more so, even, than a certain someone my mother has all but swooned over—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn once more to his lanky frame, remembering how it felt when he held me. He smiles brightly and straightens the second he spots me, so I have to look up at him, like a sunflower leaning toward the sun.
Before he can say anything, Dani retrieves my bag from the broom closet, Dalia traipsing behind her with my dress. Both of them push me into the employee bathroom, while Nayim and Mr. Tahir stare in bemusement.
I shrug as the door shuts. What can you do?
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Dalia asks as soon as it’s closed. She pulls out her primer and begins dabbing it onto my face, then applies concealer to the bruise on my forehead I’d forgotten about.
“Eh,” replies Dani, busy braiding my hair into a crown. “If you’re into guys, I guess. Somebody sure seemed to be.”
They both smirk at me.
“Oh, cut it out,” I sputter. “I was just being polite to a fellow Bangladeshi.”
“Polite?” Dani quips. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
I’d shove her if it didn’t mean looking like Miss Havisham tonight, but if I’m being honest, I can’t help the hint of intrigue that bubbles in my belly. “What’s his deal, anyway? I didn’t think your dad was in the business of taking in any more Bangladeshi strays.”
“You’re so adorable, I guess he couldn’t help it,” Dalia says with a boop on my nose.
Having finished with my hair, Dani leans against the tiled wall, rubbing her chin. “He’s actually more stray than you, Zar. Apparently, he’s an orphan or something. He got here from Bangladesh all alone a week ago. When Ammu heard about it, she convinced Abbu to give Nayim a gig here, and the imam’s wife let him stay with them. The Auntie Network works fast.”
Never would I have guessed from Nayim’s sunny disposition that he could be an orphan. Losing my father is a blow I might never fully recover from. I don’t know if I could abandon my whole world on top of that. Lose everyone and everything .
My heart breaks for him.
I also feel a rare rush of gratitude for Mr. Tahir and the other aunties and uncles of our community, who swooped in to help Nayim without expecting anything in return… aside from hot gossip and manual labor. Every once in a blue moon, their prying comes in handy.
“Annnnnd all done,” Dalia declares, taking in her handiwork. “You’re a knockout, babe.”
Although the reason I needed her help is bothersome, I grin at the Zahra in the mirror. Dalia curates body-positive content for hijabis online and has a delicate touch with makeup that doesn’t make me look like a vampire-pale Fair & Lovely spokesmodel.
Just… me.
I can’t help but wonder what Harun will think. Frankly, he doesn’t deserve this much effort, but my pulse starts to race nevertheless.
Dani narrows her eyes at me. “Why are you so flushed, hmm?”
“?’Cause of Nayim again?” Dalia adds.
“No,” I choke out. “It’s called blush, am I right?” They don’t seem convinced, so I change the subject. “Anyway, I owe you two a box of Munchkins for rescuing me today. Amma wanted me to take the day off, but I can’t afford to miss shifts.”
“Anytime, Zar.”
They both give me careful hugs that won’t wrinkle my outfit, and then we pile out of the bathroom. My newest coworker is still sweeping, but alone. Mr. Tahir must already be sequestered in his office, counting today’s profits. Nayim glances up at my arrival.
He freezes. “You look—”
“Yes?” My voice cracks, though I’d been aiming for blasé.
He seems too taken aback by my appearance to notice. “Different.”
“Hey!” The twins grow indignant on my behalf, but I only cock my head at the horrified expression that steals over his face as he apologizes.
“Sorry. I guess I’m the one stepping in it now.”
“Big-time.” I grin.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that. You look… great.”
A nervous giggle escapes me. I try my best to play it cool. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself, newbie.”
The sight of my smile invites one of his own. “Where’re you off to?”
For some reason I don’t want to unpack, I’d rather not tell him my mother has set me up with a boy who despises me. I’m rescued from having to explain by a series of knocks on the window of the tea shop. As expected, Arif is waiting outside in his second-best suit, an idling car behind him. He gestures for me to hurry.
“Gotta go,” I say. “Duty calls.”
But as I leave the shop, I can’t resist glancing back and find Nayim watching me, too.
Butterflies flutter in my belly. I slam the Uber door shut hard enough to dislodge them, turning my attention to my family and what’s to come instead.
Now is not the time for more boy-shaped distractions.
Not when I have plenty of boy-shaped problems ahead.