Chapter 7
Throughout dinner, our parents end up devising a master plan: every Friday for the foreseeable future, Harun and I will have dinner together, either with our families or accompanied by another chaperone, until the two of us concede that we’re head over heels for each other like they’ve predicted.
“This is like Gilmore Girls , but way more Austenian and miserable,” I lament in a whisper to Harun from the passenger seat of his car. I didn’t complain when he volunteered to drive us home again or when he asked me and Amma if he could talk to me for a minute after everyone else stepped out of the car, so I could reserve all my protests till we had more privacy. “Except Rory got to have like three epic romances and free tuition. If that isn’t white privilege, I don’t know what is.”
Harun side-eyes me like I’ve grown two heads, the absolute heathen. It reinforces for the umpteenth time that the two of us aren’t meant to be, but Amma arches both of her brows at me from the sidewalk, amusement in her brown eyes. She doesn’t lurk to eavesdrop, prodding my siblings into the house. I squint up at the first-floor window but don’t catch sight of the landlady, either.
We’re totally alone.
“You know, my mother’s going to become president of the Team Zahrun Fan Club if we give her reasons to think we’re madly in love,” I complain.
“Team Zahrun?” His brows pinch together in deliberation. “Sounds too much like the Bengali word for ‘broom.’?”
“Well, we’re trying not to be romantic,” I remind him. “What’s less romantic than cleaning supplies?”
Harun ignores me to drop his head onto the steering wheel, one hand reaching up to roll the blue glass beads of the tasbih hung around the rearview through his fingers. I can’t see his face, so I don’t know if he’s repeating zikirs under his breath like I sometimes do to help myself calm down, but he looks utterly defeated. Even his curls are droopy and dejected. I have to ball my fists in my lap to avoid patting his back.
“Are you okay?” I ask instead.
He sighs. “This is messed up. I know I should go back home and tell them no. They’d never actually force me.”
Neither would my mother, but I can almost hear the but that’s about to follow, and decide to voice what he hasn’t. “But you don’t want to upset them.”
Harun removes his hand from the tasbih and shakes his head without lifting it from the steering wheel. “I’m about to go to college and I want to do it on good terms, not have the shadow of this over our heads for the next couple of months, or worse, when I bring home a girl I actually like.”
Once again, it’s as if we’re reading each other’s minds. Our lives couldn’t be more different, but I completely get that feeling of not wanting to upset your parents. I can’t shake the image of Amma smiling so happily for the first time in such a long time.
“It might be best to tear the bandage off fast… but I don’t like the idea of letting my mom down either,” I say. “I’ve worked so hard to avoid exactly that since my dad died, and Amma… she’s been killing herself trying to give my siblings and me everything she thinks losing him took from us.”
Tonight’s matchmaking is yet another misguided attempt at that.
Harun lifts his head up at last. “Shit, sorry, Khan, I didn’t mean—” I wave my hand to dispel his unease, but he keeps giving me that kicked-puppy look I’ve seen on too many faces since Baba passed.
“I can’t ever understand everything you’re going through,” he murmurs instead, “but I know how you feel about your mom. My parents are the reason I have everything I do. I know it wasn’t easy for them, starting over in a new country.” His eyes catch and hold mine. “I respect them,” he says simply, “and you respect her.”
I nod.
It’s astounding how much this boy gets me. We could go home and outright tell our parents no, but perhaps there’s a way for Harun and me to navigate this that will end with the fewest broken hearts and future matchmaking attempts. Perhaps by pretending to go along with what she wants, I can even leverage my efforts to guilt-trip Amma and minimize any future disappointment on her part when she learns I’m planning to study writing next year, after all.
Perhaps…
“Give me your phone!”
“What?” Harun’s forehead scrunches in bemusement. “Why?”
“Don’t worry,” I reply. “It’s just so we can figure out how to get out of this on the down low. Your heart is safe with me, robot boy.”
I try to keep my tone light and teasing, but nerves gnaw at my stomach. With so many people and feelings involved, we might screw things up worse if we’re not careful.
He shoves a hand into his pocket and produces a smartphone despite his bewilderment. “Jeez, you’re so pushy. Has the princess thing gone to your head?”
Glowering, I snatch the phone out of his hand and inspect the device. It’s one of the newer models, so big I have to grasp it in both palms, with a shiny screen nearly as broad as a tablet’s and a plain black silicone case around it. Even his lock screen is one of the default northern lights live wallpapers that come with the phone.
He’s like a stock photo brought to life, I swear.
“There.” My fingers move rapidly as I input my info into his contacts and send a text to my own refurbished phone. “You’re in, robot boy. Or do you prefer lizard boy? Frog prince?”
“Haha,” he deadpans. “You’re a regular Mindy Kaling.”
But a hint of a dimple flashes at me, and when I notice him changing my name to Princess in his contacts, I find that I don’t mind. If we’re going to be dealing with this together, I guess it’s only fair that we have code names.
The wheels start turning in my head as we say good night.
After taking a shower, I notice that Harun has texted me.
I shoot a glance at Nanu, who is already snoring into her pillow inside the bottom bunk of our bed, then scale the ladder to the top bunk and scan his message:
Robot boy: You up?
Why do you text like a frat bro? I reply.
This is no laughing matter, Khan! My mother is already asking whether you’d like my nani’s or dadi’s engagement ring better… HELP?
A snuffling laugh escapes me at his blatant alarm, but I bury my face in the plush material of the khul balish I can’t sleep without to muffle it, not wanting to alert my own grandmother. I’d rather Nanu not know that Harun and I are chatting outside of the Friday Date Nights our parents have arranged, but not for the typical you-must-not-talk-to-boys reasons. Neither Harun nor I need our families to get any more invested than they already are in our happily-ever-after together.
I’d have to see them first, I quip. That’s a pretty big decision. Pics?
I hate you , is his immediate response.
Although we’re still virtually strangers, something changed between us tonight, because we’ve discovered that we’re strangers with a common enemy—and a common solution. Maybe not friends, but temporary allies. Enough so, in fact, that I know he doesn’t mean it.
Curling a drying strand of hair around my pointer finger, I use my other thumb to text back, Okay, okay, I’m kidding. Wanna hear my plan?
You’ve got a plan? Oh, thank God.
A devilish grin takes possession of my face. Our parents want to play games? Fine. We’re just going to have to win.
That’s… not ominous at all, he replies. How do we win?
We wage guerrilla warfare. We’ll “date,” but sneak attack and sabotage them, until our folks are convinced we’d be a nightmare together and insist we break up themselves. In the meantime, because we’re “together,” they won’t try to throw us at anyone else, either.
When we break up, I can probably bring up college and writing with my mother, and she’ll be so grateful—so guilty—that she’ll trust me to make my own choices at last.
Damn, Khan, maybe I should call you General instead of Princess. Harun’s response elicits another laugh I have to muffle. How long can we keep something like that up, though?
How many Fridays are left this summer? We can both tell our parents that we’ll give this a chance until then, since you’ll get busy with college in the fall and I —My fingers hover for a second. What will I be doing? The same thing as ever, I suppose, but Harun doesn’t need to hear my sob story— have stuff to do, too.
Robot boy does his mathematical magic. Eight Fridays.
Eight dates, then. It’s poetic, the way it almost rhymes. It’d make a cute Hallmark movie if so much didn’t ride on it going well.
The Eight Dates of Summer, I type back.