“Ha!” Finny calls. “Suck it!”
“Suck what?” the other team captain says. “We’re up by four.”
“Suck it anyway!” Finny replies, and then, emboldened with some mojo, proceeds to strike out the next batter, and that’s three outs.
Their team up to bat, Freya and Nathaniel take their seats on the benches. Harun stands next to the chain-link fence in conversation with Finny.
“I’m not going to have to bat, am I?” Freya asks.
“There’s a bunch of batters ahead of you, so don’t worry,” Nathaniel says.
“Because I don’t know how to bat.”
“I can show you if you want.”
“I might smash you in the head. Again. Give you a second concussion.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
They walk over to the bat bag, and Nathaniel rifles through. “First off, you need the right bat.”
“What’s the right bat?”
“For you,” he says, extracting a slim wooden number, “it has to be a Louisville Slugger.”
He hands her the bat, and she grips it like she’s trying to suffocate it.
“Relax,” Nathaniel says, coming to stand behind her. “Hold your hands one on top of the other, lining up your knuckles.” He reaches over to adjust her grip, wrapping his body around hers.
“Like this?” she asks in a voice that’s pure breath.
Her grip is just fine, but he doesn’t want to let go. He’s so tired of letting go. “Yeah, like that. Now open your legs.”
“Usually guys buy me dinner before they say that.”
Nathaniel’s boner is immediate, and as stiff as the Louisville Slugger. He adjusts his body away from Freya so she can’t tell.
“This wide.” Nathaniel nudges her feet apart, willing his boner to go down. He hasn’t been like this since he was thirteen. “The trick is to relax. Don’t anticipate the ball, receive the ball.”
“Receive the ball,” Freya teases. “Are we playing softball or having—”
“Nathaniel,” Finny interrupts. “You want to bat?”
No! Nathaniel does not want to bat. He wants to take Freya into that patch of bushes and rip off her clothes and press up so close against her warm skin that there’s no space between them. Afterward, he’ll buy her dinner.
“Here, take the Slugger,” Freya says, handing Nathaniel the bat, and even though it’s too light for him, he takes it because he doesn’t want to refuse this girl anything.
He stands at home plate, desire thrumming through him. The pitcher throws wide. Nathaniel could move aside and it’d be a ball, but instead he swings hard. He needs to do something with all the longing and craving and desire that he thought was dead but turns out was just dormant and is now volcanically erupting. The ball connects with the most satisfying of thwacks and goes flying.
Home run. Of course.
* * *
— — —
The three missing players show up at the end of the third inning, and Freya, Nathaniel, and Harun are dispatched with a gush of thanks, two beers and a Coke, and an invitation to return next week.
“I’d come back if you guys did,” Freya says. “That was fun.” But she remembers that Nathaniel isn’t from here. He’s a tourist, meeting his dad. “Will you even be here next week?”
“Maybe,” Nathaniel says, shrugging as he pops open a beer. The foam explodes all over his hands.
He licks his fingers, and Freya thinks ten thousand filthy thoughts about what she’d like to do to, and with, those fingers. But before she makes yet another stupid sex joke, she takes a long chug of the beer and lets loose an equally long belch.
Nathaniel and Harun stare at her, both of them clearly deeply impressed.
“Me and my sister used to have burping contests,” she explains. “Though with Fanta, not beer. I always won.”
“Obviously,” Harun says.
“I used to be able to burp ‘Jingle Bells,’ ‘ABC,’ ‘Happy Birthday.’ Hmm. Maybe if I can’t sing-sing, I can burp-sing.” Freya takes another swig of beer. “Can one have a career as a professional burp-singer?”
“Probably,” Harun replies. “There are those guys who make a living as professional hot dog eaters, so why not?”
“Professional hot dog eaters?” Nathaniel asks.
“They compete. There’s a big match every Fourth of July,” Freya says. “That Japanese one always wins.”
“Nope,” Harun says. “He was disqualified.”
“Really?” Freya asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re messing with me,” Nathaniel says, laughing. “That can’t really be a thing.”
“It is,” Freya says. “So maybe there’s hope for me and my belching career after all.” She drinks again and attempts to belch the ABCs, but all that comes out is a pathetically dainty A. “Nope. Can’t even sing that way.”
The guys look at her with a gentleness that’s almost unbearable.
“I’m sure you’ll sing again,” Harun says.
“Are you?” Freya asks. “Because I’m not.”
“Stealing the song didn’t help?” Nathaniel asks.
Freya sighs. She knows that if life were a movie, she would’ve ridden down that elevator, holding hands with Harun and Nathaniel, and as soon as she’d spun out of the doors, out of Hayden’s grip, she’d have burst into song. And they all would’ve danced. With jazz hands.
But she knows that’s not how life actually works. Whatever boot has been stepping on her windpipe these past weeks is still there.
“It helped,” Freya says. “But not like that.”
“What will you do?” Nathaniel asks. Freya starts to give the spiel about fans and livelihoods and all she’s worked for when Nathaniel interrupts. “Not if Hayden fires you. What will you do if you can’t sing?”
Your numbers will drop. Your fans will forget you.
But that’s not the worst of it. That’s not what terrifies her or drives her. It never was. For all his expertise on fame, Hayden never really did understand this.
Maybe it’s the beer or the adrenaline or the way Harun and Nathaniel reacted when she lost her shit in the diner or the way they’re looking at her now. Or maybe it’s the feeling, which has been growing stronger throughout the day, that she has always known these two, even though they only met today. But something gives her courage. Or maybe hope. Or maybe hope gives her courage.
In any case, she takes a deep breath and lets the monster out of the closet: “If I can’t sing, if I can’t do this one thing I love doing, this one thing I’m loved for, I’ll be alone.”
And there. It’s finally out. The thing she fears.
* * *
— — —
The thing they all fear.
* * *
— — —
“You won’t be alone,” Harun says. “You have so many fans.”
“That’s not love,” Freya says. “That’s not lasting. I guarantee you that in time—months, maybe years—if I stop singing, even my most ardent fans will lose interest.” Harun starts to object, but Freya waves away his protest. “Answer me honestly. Your boyfriend, as big a fan as he is, do you think he’d still love me if I couldn’t sing? Do you think anyone would?”
* * *
— — —
Harun would like to tell Freya that James would never stop loving her. But if James can stop loving him, who is he to say? People stop loving people all the time.
* * *
— — —
“I would love you even if you couldn’t sing,” Nathaniel says.
* * *
— — —
Freya’s heart stops.
Or maybe it starts.
“You would?”
* * *
— — —
&n
bsp; I already do, Nathaniel thinks. But that’s madness. That’s his father talking, or the feral starving man inside of him, so once again, he remains silent.
* * *
— — —
Harun thinks he would love her too. Not because she is famous or because she can help him get James back but because she is her. He should tell her something—something reassuring—but he’s too distracted by his phone. It is buzzing, the texts nearly constant, Ammi’s urgency so profound, he can see her shoulders hunched as she squints at the screen, pecking away at the letters with her ink-stained fingers. R U OK? Where R U?
If Harun and Nathaniel can love Freya even if she can’t sing, might his family be able to love him even if he can’t be the person they want him to be? And even if they can’t, can he let them continue to love a lie?
He pictures his whole family gathered around the table to honor a person he’s never been. His words to Freya earlier come ricocheting back:
You must do things the proper way.
The proper way is not to trade one betrayal for another. The proper way is not to let the food on Ammi’s table grow cold, to let her worry congeal into fear and then heartbreak. The proper way is to stop lying.
He understands why Freya is scared of being alone. It might sound crazy to some people that Harun, living among such a large family, feels that way too. But he’s carried this secret since he was nine years old. And secrets carve fissures, until the fissures become trenches, and the trenches become channels, and the channels become crevasses, and suddenly you are alone, on a block of ice, separated from everyone you care about.
He has felt alone for a long time.
The odd thing is, today of all days, he has not.
THE ORDER OF LOSS
PART VIII
HARUN
I have never told anyone the whole truth. The closest I got was telling Amir not that I was in love with James but that I carried a flaw and I feared this flaw would bring shame upon my family.
“But why?” he asked me when I confided this over the phone the day after I’d sent him that Facebook message.
The phone line crackled between us, ten thousand miles the least of it. “I love the wrong person,” I said.
He sucked in his breath. “A gori.”
If only it were so simple as a white girl. Saif had already cleared that trail for me. “No,” I told him. “Worse than a gori.”
In the ensuing silence, I knew he was trying to figure out what would be worse than a white, non-Muslim girl. He could not imagine.
“Not a girl,” I said at last.
The line stayed silent, but I could hear the change in his breathing and knew that he understood. In that moment, before he spoke, I did not care if he was horrified. I felt only relief. Someone in my family knew.
In a calm voice, he replied, “‘Do not lose heart nor fall into despair! You shall triumph if you are Believers.’” It had been a long time since I went to mosque or read the Qur’aan, but I recognized the quotation. What I didn’t know was if I could be counted as a believer anymore, having strayed so far.
Amir continued, “Do not worry, cousin. With Allah’s guidance, I can help you.”
“You can?”
“I believe I can. Do you want to recite the Salat Ul-Istikharah together?”
I had not recited the Salat Ul-Istikharah, the prayer we use to ask for guidance—or any prayer—in such a long time.
“Okay,” I said.
We said the prayer together, and I immediately felt lighter, better. But that night I began to panic. What if Amir told my parents? What would they do?
I didn’t hear from him the following day, and I texted, begging him not to tell anyone. He texted me back. And whoever fears Allah, He will make for him a way out and will provide for him from where he does not expect. And whoever relies upon Allah, then He is sufficient for him. Indeed, Allah will accomplish His purpose.
He will make for him a way out. I repeated that in my head. A way out. Amir would help me find the way out.
By the time Amir called again two days later, my calm had frayed as I imagined Amir telling Khalu, who would tell Khala, who would tell Ammi.
“Did you tell your parents?” I asked him.
“Not yet. Just my imam. He helped me come up with a plan.”
“What is it?”
“Will you trust me?”
“I told you my secret.”
“Will you trust me?” he repeated.
It didn’t matter if I would trust him. I’d told him. I had no choice. “Yes.”
“Be patient,” he advised. “I will help you, but you must trust me.”
“Okay,” I said.
Two days later when I came home from class, both my parents were waiting for me in the living room, along with Abdullah and Halima. And in that moment, I saw my way out.
Ammi was crying, which was to be expected.
I took a breath, prepared to face whatever it was.
Abu embraced me. And for that second I truly believed they would love me no matter what. I thought that James was right: love could conquer all. And that Amir was also right: Allah would provide me a way out.
“We spoke on the phone with Khalu,” Abu said, releasing me.
I stood back. Be brave, I told myself. Be brave.
“We are so happy!” Ammi said, dabbing her tears with the edge of her dupatta.
Happy? Ammi had cried for six months after Saif married Leesa. That she was speaking to me was a miracle. But happy? Something was wrong.
“Khalu told us what you want,” Ammi said. “I don’t know why you kept it a secret.”
“Maybe because he’s . . .” Halima began. She shook her head and looked at me with a hard stare. “Nineteen,” she finished.
“Nineteen, peh,” Ammi said, waving her hands. “I was that young when I married your father.”
And she’ll sing at our wedding, I heard James promise.
A feeling came over me, heavy and cold, like I was being covered in wet cement.
“I’ve spoken to your uncle, and yes, Harun is young, but it doesn’t have to happen right away. And if it does happen quickly, he can live here until he finishes college,” Abu said.
“And your father already looked at flights. You can go as soon as the semester is over,” Ammi said. “But you will need to go straightaway to get your visa.”
“I still don’t understand why he can’t find a girl here like a normal person,” Abdullah said.
“Or why he’s in such a rush,” Halima added, staring at me.
“He wants to do it the old way,” Ammi said. She looked at me with so much pride in her eyes. “He wants to find a bride back home and bring her here like your father did me. He’s a good boy.”
Halima snorted and gave me the dirtiest of looks. “Yeah, a good boy,” she said.
“Oh, don’t listen to her,” Ammi said to me. And then she and Abu started talking about plans. It was like when they spoke Urdu. I could catch pieces of it, but not the entire gist. Dates. Brides. Visas.
My head began to understand what was happening, but not my heart. My heart had always had a hard time accepting reality.
“I know you told your cousin you wanted to do this as soon as possible,” Ammi said. “But we have to wait to decide when. Or if the wedding is to be here or there. This depends on the family and the timing.” Ammi paused to think. “And the girl.”
“How will he know which girl is right?” Abdullah asked.
“He will know,” Ammi said, smiling at Abu. “Your father met three potential brides, and I was neither the prettiest nor the richest, but he chose me. He said he knew.”
“How?” asked Abdullah.
Abu paused to scratch his beard. “It just felt right.” He looked at Ammi. “And I was right.”
; I remembered the first day I met James, when I’d been lost on campus and he’d asked me where I needed to be and I’d thought: Right here is where I need to be.
I’d known. Or I’d thought I had.
Abu clasped a hand on my shoulder. “I am glad you went to your cousin,” he said. “But you could have spoken to me. You could have told me.”
It was a small window cracked open, my last chance to tell Abu the truth about me.
I knew I would not take it. I was, after all, a coward. “I wanted to surprise Ammi,” I said.
“And you did! Oh, you have no idea how happy this makes me and your father,” she said.
Right here is where I need to be.
Not anymore.
The window closed. There would be no way out for me.
6
PLAN Cs
“Beta, is that you?” Abu calls as soon as Harun unlocks the door.
Harun gestures for Freya and Nathaniel to wait in the hall and goes to the kitchen, where Ammi can most often be found, but she’s not there. He walks through the kitchen into the formal living room. Abdullah and Halima are sitting at the edge of the brocade sofa while Saif and his wife share a love seat. Abu sits in his high-backed chair. Ammi is, as expected, pacing.
“You’re late” is Ammi’s greeting. “What happened? Why didn’t you call? Or answer your phone?”
Harun has prepared no lie, no excuse. Let the chips fall where they may. He braces himself. And then Freya and Nathaniel step into the living room. “Sorry we made him late,” Freya says.
The arrival of Freya and Nathaniel, two total strangers, is so unexpected, it rearranges the atoms in the room. Ammi’s worry turns to confusion. Abu’s hospitality takes over. “You brought friends,” he says, rising from his seat, hands outstretched.
“Yes, I brought friends,” Harun says.
“Friends?” Halima says, eyes widening.