Chapter One September 5
Chapter One
When I need grounding, I look up at the night sky.
Amidst the twinkling stars I search for the moon.
She’s my refuge from the storm inside the walls of my home.
In my backyard, with headphones on, music blasting, I lie on the grass, the cool blades tickling my skin, and look up.
Just like that, I’m transported, thousands of miles away.
There are times it takes me a minute or two to find her. Buried behind dark skies and gray clouds. Even on the nights when I can’t spot the moon, I know she’s up there, going through one of her phases.
Relatable.
The sliding door at the back of the house slams shut, pulling me back to earth.
Georgie paces around the patio, her breathing heavy, her sobs loud.
I sit up, bringing my headphones to my neck, waiting for her to notice me.
She mumbles and curses, wiping her tears with the backs of her hands, then screams this loud, visceral scream that sends a shiver through my entire body.
I spring to my feet. “Georgie,” I say, slightly above a whisper.
She freezes. Then her eyes meet mine and a breath leaves her body.
“What’re you doing out here?” She asks it so casually I almost forget a moment ago she was unraveling next to my mother’s beloved hydrangeas.
“It’s where I go,” I say with a shrug. “When you and Dad fight.”
“You missed a good one.” A sad laugh escapes her as she wraps her arms around herself.
I walk to her, looking past her shoulders to see my father at the family room window, eyes searching. As he spots us, he offers me a small nod before turning away.
“Want to go for a walk?” I ask.
Georgie’s eyes flick down at her bare feet.
“Okay. Then come with me,” I say, reaching out my hand. Together we walk to the darkest spot in our backyard, a place the indoor lights don’t reach. I release her hand and lie down. She rolls her eyes as she lies next to me.
“Look up,” I say. “Do you see her?”
“Her?” Georgie asks.
“The moon.”
“You’re one of those girls who romanticize the moon, aren’t you?”
I turn to meet her discerning eyes. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” She smiles. “It’s sweet that you’re still optimistic about love and life and all that shit.”
“Love, Life, and All That Shit, the title of my first memoir.”
“An Autistic Girl’s Guide to Existing,” Georgie adds. We laugh as my sister shimmies closer. “So why’s the moon a she?”
“Because,” I say, “men let you down. But the moon, she’s always there. Dependable. Even when you can’t see her, you can feel her.”
Georgie turns quiet and I glance at her. More tears escape from the corners of her eyes.
“It’ll be okay,” I say, holding her hand in mine. “He just needs a minute to work off the anger.”
“No.” She shakes her head, the movement so slight. “It’s different this time. I really screwed up.”
“So you’ll stay in a few nights. Keep your room clean. Drive me to school,” I say, bumping shoulders with her. “Are you super excited to have your annoying baby sister attending high school with you, finally?”
She smiles, then cries again. I shift on my side, propping my head up with my hand. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll take the bus.”
“No.” She matches my pose, and I study her beautiful face. Hazel eyes. Golden skin. Plump lips. And thick, dark brown hair that somehow shines even brighter under the night sky.
Then there’s me. Tall. Lanky. Black hair that hasn’t decided if it’s straight or wavy. Muddy brown eyes. Pale skin. Stubborn round cheeks that somehow didn’t get the memo that I’m almost fourteen.
“I can drive you,” she says, sweeping hair from my face. “For a while. But then you’ll have to start taking the bus.”
“Are we going to keep talking in circles or are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, sitting cross-legged on the grass now. Georgie matches my pose again and wipes her tears, looking even more gorgeous despite her nose and cheeks being puffy and red.
The sliding door opens and the click-clack of Mom’s slippers sounds on the patio stones.
She stands with her hands on her hips, scanning the backyard.
I glance at Georgie, asking her what we should do using only my eyes and a bit of sister telepathy.
She rises and offers her hand to help me up. I follow her to the patio.
Relief washes over Mom’s face as we come into view. She’s been crying too.
“Come inside,” she says to Georgie, completely ignoring my presence.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” my sister says, her voice soft. Little.
“How long have you known?” Mom asks, looking down at Georgie’s stomach.
She shrugs. “Not long.”
“Who?” she asks, her expression gone slack.
I watch, examining my mother and sister for clues.
The fighting is as normal as can be between strict Arab parents and a daughter who continually pushes the envelope.
Every week it’s a new battle. Extending her curfew.
A third piercing in her ear. Dropping math.
Freedom to wear what she wants. Georgie has never colored inside the lines.
My dad has aged twenty years since she turned thirteen.
And now that she’s about to be a senior in high school, she seems to think the rules no longer apply.
But this fight is different. The current silence is unsettling. I’d almost prefer the shouting.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know who the father of your baby is,” Mom says, her icy tone so jarring it’s unrecognizable.
“Baby?” I ask. My eyes move to Georgie’s taut stomach.
“Go inside,” Mom says to me, her gaze fixed on Georgie.
I look at my sister and she nods slightly, suggesting I follow our mother’s orders. I open the sliding door and close it quietly behind me.
The light in Dad’s office is on. I rest my phone and headphones on the kitchen table and walk to his office, knocking gently on the open door. He’s seated at his desk, head resting in his hands.
“Hi,” I say.
He looks up and clears his throat before waving me in. I sit on the chair across from him.
I take in the neat stacks of files on my father’s large oak desk.
Behind him, matching oak shelves are lined with accounting texts, books by Arab philosopher Edward Said, Paul McCartney’s memoir, all the classics, and of course framed photos of our family.
Below that, his impressive vinyl collection rests.
“Is Georgie…is she really…?” I twist my hands into each other. “What’s going on?” I finally ask, knowing my father will be the one to give me answers.
“Your sister decided to ruin her life and bring shame to our entire family because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”
My wringing hands freeze, and my eyes widen. I swallow down the tightness in my throat at my dad’s choice of words. I’ve never heard him speak this way before. I wouldn’t call him a feminist, but he’s always treated us—the women in his life—with the highest regard.
“So she really is pregnant?” I ask, the last word coming out like a whisper. Like it’s a bad word.
“It’s my fault,” Dad says, rising from his office chair and walking to the window that looks out over the front yard. “I gave her too much freedom. She acts like one of them, forgetting her moral compass. Our morals. And now she has embarrassed not only herself, but all of us.”
“People make mistakes, Baba,” I say. “No one is perfect.”
He turns from the window, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
“No. No one is perfect. But you,” he says, walking to me and tucking a rogue hair behind my ear, “are still my sweet angel.”
I look down, my stomach in knots. I’m not sure why I feel guilty. I haven’t done anything.
But I’ve thought about doing things. In fact, it’s all I think about lately.
Boys. Kissing. More than kissing. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I’m a walking hormone, and somehow the pining feels worse than the actual doing.
Because when you’re doing, at least someone else is involved.
Someone else wants it too. Your desires are matched.
Validated. When it’s just you obsessing over a kiss, a touch, a feeling, it’s kind of pathetic.
“Now what?” I ask Dad.
He raises his shoulders. “We pray to God for answers, and we hope He will guide us on this journey.”
“What about…what if she doesn’t want the baby?” I ask.
I shrink into myself, expecting to receive a tongue-lashing. Instead, there’s hesitation.
“She wants the baby,” Dad says, his normally perfect posture hunched.
When it comes to me, I’m pro-choice, but my parents, I never thought they’d…I guess, I never thought.
This changes everything.
This also gives today’s holiday, Labor Day, an entirely new meaning.
“Pick an album to mark this occasion,” Dad says dryly, and I almost have to bury a laugh.
Dad says retaining a sense of humor helped him get through his hardest times.
The loss of his older brother when he was ten.
The racism he faced as the only Palestinian boy at his Canadian high school.
The back-to-back losses of his parents. And now this: a pregnant teenage daughter.
I rise and walk to his collection, running a finger over the narrow spines before making my selection.
I slide the record out of its sleeve with care, just the way Dad taught me when I was seven.
Placing the vinyl on the player, I gently lift the needle to the right track. “Let It Be” by the Beatles plays.
“Come,” Dad says softly.
I nod as I walk to him, my steps mimicking the keys of the piano. I wrap my arms around him like I did when I was little. We hug with my cheek pressed against his broad chest. Dad cries in my arms after the chorus as we sway back and forth.
Back and forth, while I carry the weight of his worries, his fears, and his heartbreak.