Chapter 16 Asma
Asma
Asma went swimming every day. For thirty blessed minutes in the pool, she was able to check out of her life.
No matter how much she admired her slowly toning arms and legs in the mirror or how cleansed she felt after a swim, it was never enough to dampen the low-level anxiety roiling her gut.
The thought of going home for Thanksgiving break filled her with dread.
The dorms would be closed. Mamoo and Aunty were going to Rosebud.
She had nowhere to go but home. She was boxed in.
It wasn’t just the thought of being home that stressed her.
The idea of not seeing Ruby for a week seemed impossible.
They saw each other every day that Ruby didn’t work, and even on those days, they stayed up late into the night talking on the phone after she got off her shift.
Asma knew she was supposed to be feeling unrest or guilt or something akin to shame for her feelings, and maybe in some small closet of her mind, she was.
But mostly, she was consumed with thoughts of Ruby—the deep register of her voice, her muscular arms slicing through the water.
Curious about what color lipstick she’d be wearing next time they saw each other.
And the smell of citrus, sweet and tart, that trailed Ruby.
Ruby swore she didn’t wear perfume or lotion with a fragrance, but Asma could smell it.
Each thought, recollection, gave her a thrill, a physical charge.
Asma understood that these feelings were going to cause her trouble and pain and that she was out on a thin limb.
But there was no stopping it. Ruby had brought her out of some dark and dreamless place into the light.
They talked about everything—almost. There were three topics Asma wouldn’t approach: the nature of their relationship, how Asma was doing in school, and her parents.
Asma couldn’t tell what Ruby thought of her other than she liked her well enough to spend so much time together.
What they had seemed too delicate, too frightening to ruin by trying to name it or seek clarity.
It didn’t really matter whether it was friendship or courtship; for her it was enough to just be in Ruby’s presence.
Asma had never felt so heard, so understood, and so in sync with someone else, not even with Salma.
Asma felt at home with Ruby in a way she never actually felt in her own life.
She had not dared to ask if there was someone else.
But given how much time they were spending together, it was hard to imagine that there was.
After Thanksgiving weekend, finals would almost be upon her.
Asma had studiously avoided facing her academic predicament, but the runway of avoidance was quickly drawing to an end.
She had already been behind in all her classes because of the play, and the last few distracted weeks hadn’t helped.
Her scholarship was dependent upon maintaining a certain grade point average, and the idea of potentially losing it made her panic, unable to focus or study.
If she lost her scholarship, she wouldn’t come back for her sophomore year.
And if she couldn’t come back next year, what would she do?
Go back to Rosebud and live with her parents?
The thought terrified her. School had always been easy, or more precisely, her small, rural school had always been easy.
She was unprepared for the level of intensity and academic expectations that a university, especially this one, demanded.
She considered ways to get herself sick and, once, asked Ruby whether it was possible to self-inflict a burst appendix.
Ruby just laughed. Asma let her think it was a joke.
As for her parents, how could she explain them? She didn’t understand them herself.
They went to dinner the Thursday before Thanksgiving.
Ruby was going to Chicago to visit her family that Saturday, and this would be the last time they saw each other.
They went for Asma’s favorite meal—breakfast for dinner—at a local diner.
It was a busy night, and they were surprised to see one booth still open.
As they approached the table, they saw why it was unoccupied.
The pleather seat of one bench was ripped open with the stuffing spilling out.
They looked at each other and, without a word, slid into the booth sitting side by side.
Ruby complimented her on her rapidly improving swimming and regaled her with stories about her brothers. She asked Asma whether she was ready for Thanksgiving and if she was going to try out for the spring musical. Asma said nothing.
Finally, Ruby asked, “You okay?”
Asma cut her waffle into smaller and smaller pieces.
“We come for your perfect meal and you have nothing to say?” Ruby teased.
Asma clutched her glass of water. She drew it toward her and slowly raised it to her mouth as though she was going to say something. But then, gulped and gulped until it was gone.
Ruby asked, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you always drink like that?”
Asma snorted, her throat still accepting the last swallow of water at the same time as her mouth tried to expel it.
“Because, man, I have never met someone who loves their water like you.”
Asma covered her mouth with one hand, trying to not spit up or have water come out of her nose, and hit the table with her other hand in an effort to regain control.
“I mean, like, when’s the last time you hydrated?”
Asma inhaled the water and burst out laughing loudly. “Oh my God! I almost threw up!” She pushed at Ruby.
Ruby looked pleased with herself.
They finished eating, still chortling.
“So what’s wrong, sugar?” Ruby asked.
Asma turned sideways, registering the term of affection and liking it. She shrugged. “It’s not you, Ruby. It’s me.”
Ruby shook her head, as if to clear it. “What does that mean?” Her typical composure cracked. “Are you br— . . . ? You don’t want to . . . ?”
“What?”
They stared at each other. The fluorescent light of the diner was good for no one’s complexion, except maybe Ruby’s.
“You said, it was you and not me. That’s the kind of thing people say when . . .” Ruby trailed off.
Asma said, “Oh. No, no, no, no.” She took a deep breath.
The full weight of the secrets she carried—from Ruby, from her family, from herself—pressed in on her.
“I’m sorry tonight was a bust. I, I, I .
. . just don’t want to go home for break.
” She sounded somewhere between panic and whining. Wait, had Ruby started to say break up?
Under the table, Ruby took one of Asma’s hands in hers. It was cool and smooth, so reassuring and calming. Asma didn’t want to ever let it go.
“I’m going to miss you,” Asma said quietly. Tears pooled in her eyes. “But also . . .”
Ruby looked at her intensely, like she was looking into her soul.
Asma looked down where they were still grasping each other’s hands.
Her voice shook. “It’s not good with my dad.
He sees everything I do as a challenge. He didn’t want me to do Pippin, and then afterward .
. . I just don’t want to go home.” Asma wanted to tell Ruby what had happened, but it felt too bizarre, too freakish to say out loud.
American fathers simply did not punch their daughters.
Pakistani fathers didn’t either—until hers had.
Ruby pulled Asma close to her. Her hand rubbed her back gently. She let herself go limp and be folded into Ruby’s embrace. They were face-to-face. Ruby looked at Asma’s lips for a long moment and said, “You smell like maple syrup, Asma Chaudhry.”
And finally Asma understood. There was no one else.
“I work tomorrow. I’m going to pick you up after my shift, and we’re going to go do something, okay?”
Desire flooded her. Asma didn’t know if she was interested in boys or girls. She just knew how Ruby made her feel, and that was enough.
The next night, Ruby picked Asma up at 11:00.
She had told Asma to dress warm, take a nap, and that she had a surprise planned.
Asma couldn’t settle herself to take a nap and opted for a caffeine pill.
By the time Ruby arrived, she was jittery.
On the passenger seat of Ruby’s truck, there was a small box dwarfed by a large blue bow.
“What is this?” Asma asked as she slid into the passenger seat.
“Open it.”
Asma pulled the bow off and found a cassette tape.
Written on the insert in tidy, tiny cursive was a list of songs.
“You made me a mixtape!” Asma hugged the tiny box.
“Thank you.” She looked shyly at Ruby, goofy with happiness.
Having someone make a mixtape for you was a thing of romantic myth.
It required a collection of music, high-speed-dubbing machinery, and the desire to curate the right set of songs to match a feeling. It meant something.
Asma slid the tape into the cassette player, and “New Song” started. She flushed. Ruby, too, had remembered that moment across the dance floor. It felt like months ago.
“Where are we going?” Asma asked.
“To the surprise.”
“The tape wasn’t the surprise?”
Ruby shook her head with faux derision and turned onto the highway.
They drove thirty miles, heading to darker and darker places.
“True,” “Just Can’t Get Enough,” “I Ran,” each song better than the one before.
Asma had no natural sense of direction, and for all she knew they were on the way to Rosebud.
She didn’t care. They were together, and anything felt possible.
Eventually, they pulled off the highway and drove down a bumpy gravel road until they came to an open, grassy field. They had left streetlights far behind. Only the world’s natural evanescence and the bright night sky illuminated them.
Asma asked, “Where are we?”
“A friend’s family farm. Come on, let’s get in the back.”