American Taliban (7 page)

THEY CAME THE NEXT DAY
, post tide, with salt and sand and stoke and coconut aloha. They tumbled into his room, talking all at once: The surf has been beastly, Sylvie said. Totally bruising, Jilly said. Awesome, Katie finished. She was as blond and tan as ever, legs long and lean and strong. And her eyes, they were see-through blue, he was looking into her soul. They hugged, making room for his awkward double casts.

When did Jilly return, John asked, happy to see their threesome existence restored.

This morning—Katie shrugged—when I drove up to her house and stayed on my horn until she came out.

My mom worried about the neighbors and made me go out, Jilly said.

What made you do it? John asked, looking at Katie. He felt capable of falling in love with her all over again, as if he weren’t already.

I woke up and I just wanted her in the water with us. We’ve been surfing buddies since fifth grade and it seemed too silly to stop now. Besides we were coming to see you after, and I knew she’d want to visit.

We’re saving money for Hawaii, Sylvie said. You should come with us.

Definitely, Katie said. Your casts will be off by then.

But, John said, I’ve been thinking of moving to Brooklyn. To study Arabic.

Arabic, Katie echoed.

Difficult choice, Jilly said, sarcastically. She cupped her palms, making them a scale. Which will it be: Arabic, Hawaii, Arabic, Hawaii, Arabic—

Barbara came in bearing a tray of cups and saucers and a pot of hot chocolate. She returned with muffins.

Not much surfing in Brooklyn, Sylvie said, with a full mouth.

Yeah, John drawled. Brooklyn is definitely not Hawaii.

What’s this about? Barbara asked.

Hawaii, she echoed when the girls told her. Do your parents know? The waves are dangerous.

That’s why it’s called extreme surfing, Mrs. Parish, Jilly said.

For how long? Barbara asked.

Katie shrugged. For as long as we’re having fun. We’ll have to get jobs down there, but I figure one Jamba Juice’s as good as another. Or we’ll wait tables at night, live on tourist tips.

But what about college? Shouldn’t you be thinking about your education?

Well, Sylvie said, John’s thinking about Brooklyn and Arabic.

Barbara turned to John. Brooklyn? Arabic?

It’s a pretty new idea.

Aren’t there Arabic classes in D.C.?

Not classical Arabic, John said. And this school comes highly recommended. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but the course is designed in three-semester sequences so if I don’t start this fall, I’ll have to wait till next year, but by then I’ll be at Brown.

Hmmm, Barbara said, thinking quickly. I like it, I mean, I think structure would be good for you. Let’s see what Dad thinks.

She gathered up the tray and cups, and left, John knew, to start the discussion.

Your mom’s thrilled to have you anywhere but Hawaii, Katie observed when Barbara left.

John agreed. Barbara was easy to see through. Though she loved Katie & Co., she worried about their intellectuality or lack of it. Even graduating from the local community college wasn’t a sure thing for Katie.

Brooklyn, John explained, means school, which is where she thinks I ought to be. It’s not Brown or Yale, but it’s school.

The girls didn’t give up. You can go to Brooklyn in the fall, and still come down for Christmas, Sylvie pointed out.

I’ll think about it.

Sylvie and Jilly left for work and Katie stayed. They had to have it out, John knew, and first thing, he apologized.

I had no reason to blame you. I overreacted to the way things turned out. I was feeling badly for Jilly, who didn’t deserve what she got. I tend to root for the underdog—it’s just the way I am, I guess. I’m sorry.

Katie nodded. Yeah, I kind of know that about you. And I asked myself what I could’ve done differently, and honestly, I don’t think I could’ve done anything. I didn’t even know right away that the decision had gone against her, since I was still in the water. And even when it was posted, I didn’t know how it would influence the final score. Jilly could still have overtaken me, us. I mean, you know how good she is.

John nodded. She was right. In the heat of the moment, she couldn’t have known. So they hugged, so they made up, so they were cool again. But summer was over, he was moving back to D.C., though he had to get out of D.C. She was going to Hawaii. And they were only eighteen, too young, Barbara would say, to commit to each other, and after all this, especially after all this, he couldn’t disagree.

THEY SAW THREE APARTMENTS
. The first was a furnished flat on the ground floor of a brownstone, with a backyard patio, which John especially liked. Then they drove downtown, took the freight elevator to the third floor of an old factory renovated for residential living, and followed the Realtor into a large light-filled space with industrial-sized windows, high ceilings, revealed ducts and pipes. Best of all, John noted: it had concrete floors, which was awesome. He could grind at home. When his cast came off. Which was awesome. But the concrete didn’t thrill Barbara. She thought the place too hard and too cold. Not a place I’d call home, she said.

She liked the third place, a luxuriously furnished large one-bedroom in a doorman building on Brooklyn Heights’ promenade with views of lower Manhattan.

No way, John said. This is just too, way too over the top.

He saw himself—his new self—best in the ground-floor brownstone apartment, which was furnished, offered easy access with no stairs, and was located conveniently near Atlantic Avenue and only blocks from the school.

You don’t think it’s molelike? Barbara asked.

John weighed the mole description and liked it. Reading and studying is molelike. It’s a good fit, he said. Besides when I’m not reading and studying, I’ll be out doing things. Like skating the Brooklyn Banks as soon as this comes off.

All right, then, Barbara said, and the Realtor produced the paperwork for the brownstone apartment.

AT THE SHARIA SCHOOL
on Montague, their next stop, ten wide brownstone steps slowed John down. Barbara took one of his crutches to allow him the use of the handrail and walked beside him patiently as he lifted up his casted leg one clumsy step at a time.

Inside, she admired the high carved dome, the circular entry hall, and the stained-glass windows. I’m very glad when visitors take pleasure in the architecture, the headmaster said, materializing suddenly out of nowhere.

He introduced himself as the Sharia’s maulana, put his palms together to greet Barbara, then shook John’s hand.

This was once a synagogue, he explained. Now it’s our own beautiful and spiritual setting for learning.

His skin was dark tan, he had a black beard, and he was dressed in almost all white: white tunic, white pants, and a white turban, but with a long buttoned black Nehru jacket and black dress shoes. Barbara, John saw, was finding the getup super attractive. She was all smile and nod. She was entirely charmed.

The maulana gave them a brief tour of the school, opened doors to classrooms, ushered them in, and they stood for a few minutes, listening. On one blackboard, John noted what looked like conjugations. The students were studying Arabic grammar. In another classroom, students were taking turns reading aloud, in what sounded to him like good accents. Barbara, he noticed, wasn’t paying much attention to the scholarship; she was noticing cultural things. Is this an all-boys school? she asked when they stepped into the maulana’s office. I haven’t seen any women.

Our late-afternoon and evening classes do have some female students, the maulana said, but the formal study of this language seems to attract more men than women. Perhaps because women are good with language and tend to learn their mother tongue at home, he finished, totally flattering Barbara.

There was a knock on the door.

Excellent, the maulana said, clapping his hands together. John, the maulana said. I want to introduce you to one of your new colleagues. Khaled has agreed to help you out your first weeks.

John stood on one crutch and shook hands with Khaled, who sized him up and smiled. They were about the same height, but compared with Khaled’s dark hair and skin, John seemed pale though he’d spent most of the summer in the sun.

They exchanged e-mail addresses. Just let me know when you’ll be here, Khaled said.

THEY TOOK A CAB
back to Manhattan, to NoHo, to the little café where Noor worked. The taxi pulled up to a blue-and-white-tiled entrance on a busy sunny sidewalk crowded with people smoking, gesticulating, waiting in line. John watched from the window, delaying, until Barbara nudged him out.

Come on, she said, and led the way. A waitress, a girl with wavy dark hair, side parted and bobby pinned, listened to Barbara’s inquiry, looked up, saw John, and smiled.

You must be John’s mother, she said, and wiped her hand on her apron before offering it to Barbara. I’m Noor. And you’re the real-life John, she said.

As real as I get, John said.

Noor glanced behind her, at the tables. Let me see what I can do. Give me a minute.

Barbara turned to John. Pretty, she mouthed.

A smoker, seeing John on crutches, offered his perch on the little bench out front, and before John could decline, Barbara intervened. He’ll take it, she said. Thank you.