Chapter 4 Asma #3
The room looked totally different from the day when her family had moved her in.
It now had a look. Asma’s roommate had disappeared the second week of school among rumors that she’d attempted suicide, and now Asma effectively had a large single room.
Her bed was lofted with her desk underneath.
The mattress from the roommate’s loft was now on the floor, functioning as a place to lounge with pink-and-purple pillows of various shades leaning against the wall.
Gauzy pale-purple fabric hung down from the loft above, tied back to look like curtains, making a protected space underneath.
The overall effect was like a sultry harem tent.
“I mean, I like it,” Salma said.
Asma rummaged through the bottom drawer of her dresser. She tapped her mouth with her finger, brows furrowed. Distractedly, she stood up and said, “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
When she came back, towel still wrapped around her, she pushed a chair against her wardrobe and pulled down an old oversize suitcase, the one they had brought from Pakistan, vinyl with old-fashioned locks and “Chaudhry” written on it in large block print in lieu of a name tag.
“What are you doing?” Salma asked, sitting on the makeshift couch.
Asma smiled brightly and held up a plaid double-breasted blazer with huge shoulder pads. “Do you want to wear this tonight?”
“What?”
“I got it, and it’s too short for me. It’s supposed to go to your upper thigh. I think it would fit you perfectly.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Salma asked.
Salma’s jeans were too tight around the waist but otherwise too big, hanging loose at her hips and legs, her plain white shirt blockish and nondescript.
Asma knew how Salma had gotten these clothes, the same way they got all their clothes—the Walmart in the next town over or, if it was for a nice occasion, the sale bin at JCPenney.
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing.
I had just put this in the suitcase to bring home to you, and when I was thinking about what I was going to wear tonight, I remembered it. That’s all.”
“Did you get it the same place you got all this other stuff?” Salma waved her arm around.
Asma’s head popped out of the top of a tight black T-shirt.
Long gone were the days of hidden miniskirts and crop tops donned in the back of the school bus.
Now, without her parents constantly watching her for any sign of American frivolity or skin baring, Asma found herself gravitating toward army pants and combat boots paired with tight tops that accentuated her sharp collarbones and revealed a hint of navel.
“Aunty takes me shopping,” Asma said flatly.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging behind the door, ran a handful of foamy gel through her short hair, and then ruffled it so it stood on end.
She thought of the first time she had met Ruby.
It was at tryouts for the fall play, and Ruby had projected an easy confidence, striking a balance between providing clear and direct instructions without sounding controlling or bossy.
They were almost the same height, and after a lifetime of feeling like she was towering above others, Asma found it thrilling to look directly into Ruby’s eyes.
Even then, Asma wanted to be seen by Ruby, and not just as Catherine, or Fastrada, or any of the other female characters Ruby was casting for Pippin.
“Your hair is stunning,” Ruby had said. And when, later, Asma was at the salon with Aunty, it was Ruby she had thought of as the first clump of hair thudded softly to the ground.
“I think I need to cut it again. I like it when it’s spiky.” Asma put on a heavy black eyeliner, making her large eyes look even bigger in her angular face. Using her pinky finger, she dabbed on some lip gloss, her lips large and shiny.
She went over and sat next to Salma, who was pulling at her shirt.
The easy rapport that had marked their relationship didn’t feel so easy at the moment.
“I’m sorry, Sal.” Asma couldn’t tell how much of it was her and how much of it was just that they were in different points in their lives.
All she knew was that there were now hidden meanings behind their words that hadn’t been there two months ago.
“For what?” Salma’s voice sounded petulant.
“That I’m here. That you’re still there. Wait till you get to college.”
Salma shrugged. “You probably hang out with Aunty’s real nieces and nephews too.”
Asma threw her head back and laughed. “Now, you’re just being a baby. I never see them because they live in Wisconsin. Besides, we are her real nieces.”
“I don’t think we should go to the party tonight.”
“Why? What are you so scared of?”
Salma meticulously combed the fringe on a throw pillow with her fingers.
Asma bent to meet her eyes. “Look, if you’re nervous because you don’t know people there, I get it.
But these are my friends, and they’re really great.
I want you to meet them.” And then, almost as an afterthought, she said, “I can’t wait for you to be out of that house and out of Rosebud. Real life is amazing. You’ll see.”
Asma leaned into Salma’s side, somewhere between playful nudging and aggressive love, until Salma pushed back.
They turned down a dead-end street a short walk from campus.
One house stood out—a deep, cozy porch, a string of small bare bulbs crisscrossing the beams, and small white Christmas lights festooning two plants.
Chimes rang in the balmy wind, caught somewhere between summer and fall.
Two boys swung languidly on a porch swing.
Asma kept checking the address on a small piece of paper tucked inside her palm.
She felt her energy build and remembered years ago, on her way home from a friend’s, seeing a slim tornado meandering sexily across a field.
The air, like now, had felt heavy and charged, running like an electric current through her body. It felt like anything could happen.
The inside of the house was as ’70s chic as the outside was warm and craftsman.
People sat on the low sofa facing a fireplace with deep-green tiles.
A stack of hardcover art books with a group of lit candles sat on a polished coffee table.
Two worn leather armchairs faced each other across the long end of the coffee table.
Accent lights, placed underneath plants, cast shadows on the ceiling.
Off the living room, there was an enclosed sunroom painted a vibrant, deep green.
Inside was a desk with an amber lamp shining a warm glow and a hammock in the corner someone was trying to lie down in.
Ruby was at the dining room table pouring bags of chips into plastic bowls.
She looked up when Asma walked in and smiled that smile of hers, wide and open, left cheek imprinted with a deep dimple and eyes that crinkled at the corners.
Her lips matched her silvery-blue eyeshadow.
Asma’s body was a drum, the beat building and thickening.
She glanced sideways at Salma and quickly looked away.
Asma was an expert at splitting herself in two.
For years, the person her parents expected her to be had been living uncomfortably side by side with the person she actually was.
God knows she knew how to sequester parts of herself.
She had just never needed to do that with Salma.
Her sister knew her better than anyone, perhaps even better than she knew herself.
The room was already full. Asma didn’t want to walk straight to Ruby, so she introduced Salma to her friends.
There was Mary with the people whose hair and makeup she had done.
Each person in the group was bubblier and more strikingly made-up than the next.
Pink eyeshadow, fake lashes, glitter everywhere.
They oohed and aahed over Salma as though she was much younger, and Mary asked if she could do her makeup next time.
“Asma! You didn’t tell us about your sister. Look at her eyes!”
Salma dropped down in an armchair and touched her eyes. Someone offered her a drink, and she said quickly, “Only Coke.”
Asma smiled sheepishly at her friends and said, “I’ll get it.” She walked to the table and took a red Solo cup off the top of the inverted stack and opened the ice bucket. It was empty.
“There’s more ice in the freezer,” Ruby said from behind her.
Asma felt her entire body swell, like wood in rain. How had she never noticed how husky Ruby’s voice was? How had she not noticed that she smelled of oranges and soap? She turned and was surprised to see that Ruby was a normal-person-distance away and not whispering in her ear.
She looked straight ahead, scared to look at anyone for fear of what her face might give away.
Asma had chalked up these stirrings to her new environment, thinking that, with no watchful eyes judging, labeling, and shaming, she was simply experiencing things in a different way.
But here, in this room, there was no escaping it.
The realization thrilled her and made her panic.
She wasn’t a prude. She had just never been attracted to a woman.