An Infidel in Paradise (13 page)

Angie changes the subject, asking Leela what a bindya is, and while Leela struggles briefly with her desire to maintain an outraged silence, her innate helpfulness gets the better of her. She not only explains the bindya, but she prattles on about
jhoomers –
nose gems, necklaces, earrings, bangles, and various other
optional gems and attachments. I’m pretty sure there are less ornaments on a Christmas tree, but I keep that thought to myself.

Two hours into the lockdown, the AC goes off. Despite the fact that there’s too much noise to hear the hum of machinery, everyone in the theater knows the instant it shuts down. When the superintendent takes the stage, he doesn’t even have to tell us to be quiet. We’re waiting for an explanation.

“It’s on a timer,” he says calmly. He flinches a bit when he admits it shuts off automatically at the end of the school day. He doesn’t want us to notice that the end of the school day has passed and we should be at home enjoying our freedom. His concern about enlightening us is wasted. There’s not a kid in the room who doesn’t know we should’ve been on the vans forty minutes ago. He promises he’s already dispatched engineers to restore the AC and tells us for the millionth time that there’s nothing to worry about.

Thirty minutes later, still no AC, and some workers, possibly the engineers, open the doors at the back of the theater. This turns out to be a mistake. As the stifling air from outside mixes with the oppressive heat inside, we all share a sudden revelation that the theater is actually cooler than the outdoor temperature. There’s some confusion as a couple of teachers jump up to shut the doors, and a couple more argue that it’s too late, we’ve already lost the last bit of climate-controlled air, so we may as well get some fresh air. A debate ensues
as science teachers square off against humanities teachers. Voices are raised, but most kids are so hot and fed up they don’t bother to watch. Finally, the superintendent steps in and the doors are closed again – “Security,” he says. I wondered when that would occur to someone. I guess that’s why he’s the big boss.

Another thirty minutes crawl by. Tahira stopped entertaining us with her stories some time ago, but I only now realize she’s stopped talking. She’s halfheartedly fanning one side of her flushed face with a notebook while Leela, who has materialized an actual fan, is briskly fanning the other.

“She’s feeling faint,” Leela explains when I catch her eye.

“We should take her to the bathroom,” says Angie. “Wet some paper towel and cool her down.”

We all jump up, Leela helping Tahira.

“Sit down!” barks the nearest teacher, who is an alarming shade of burgundy herself and looks like she should be joining us.

“We need to take her to the bathroom,” explains Leela. “She’s sick.”

“One of you can go with her,” says the teacher, sweat pouring down her face from the exertion of bossing us around.

I think of arguing, but Angie is already wilting back into her seat, so I sit down and move my legs to allow Tahira and Leela to squeeze past. Angie and I sit in silence. A few rows down, Jazzy’s conversation with
Johan has also withered. She’s no longer leaning into him with predatory intent. In fact, she’s slumped away from him. Perhaps the inadvisability of going after a guy when you smell like a sewer has finally dawned on her, though he’d have no way of identifying her stench above everyone else’s. I shake my watch, even though I know it’s working perfectly, and look at Angie, uncharacteristically quiet beside me. Her eyes are closed and her head has fallen awkwardly to one side.

Gently, I try to rearrange her head so it rests on the seatback. I’m amazed she doesn’t wake up, and all of a sudden, I’m flooded with memories of the Philippines. After long days of picnics at the beach or hiking in the hills, Mandy would fall asleep on the car ride home, and Dad would carry her into the house without waking her. I’d always run ahead, opening doors, and I’d pull off her shoes as Dad would gently lay her on the bed. Then we’d go downstairs, where Zenny would have cold drinks and some fresh baked snacks waiting. Vince would race off to the TV room, but Dad and I would sit in the garden, under the long shadows of the palms, until dusk turned into night.

Where was Mom? Why did she so rarely come with us? Was work really so pressing that she couldn’t spend an afternoon with her family, couldn’t even be there when we got home?
I wonder if Dad and Zenny go on outings now.
Does he think of us when they’re driving home, when he enters their house empty-handed? Do they sit in the garden as night falls and relive the casual moments of their day, not realizing
how precious each one is?
The familiar ache begins in the pit of my stomach and I feel tears gathering, but my wallowing in self-pity is short-circuited by another commotion at the back of the theater. I turn to see Leela arguing fiercely with a teacher.

“She needs air,” Leela insists as she tries to shoulder past two burly PE teachers, half-carrying Tahira.

I jump to my feet. Angie, suddenly alert, is at my side as we hustle out of the row, ignoring the irate commands of several teachers who tell us to sit back down. Faarooq, Mustapha, and a boy I take to be another of Tahira’s brothers beat us to the back of the theater. My brother is no longer in sight. Faarooq has taken Tahira’s arm and is trying to pull her out of Leela’s grasp, but with more strength than she looks capable of, Tahira is gripping Leela’s free hand. The teachers look worried and determined at the same time as they block the doorway.

“We’ve sent someone to get the nurse,” says the older of the two teachers. “You all need to calm down.”

“I think I’m going to faint,” says Tahira seconds before she slumps against Leela, almost knocking her to the ground. Leela relinquishes her grip as Faarooq eases his sister to the floor, but Leela drops to the ground and it’s her lap Faarooq rests his sister’s head on.

“I think you need to elevate her feet,” I say, suddenly noticing Aisha lurking just behind Mustapha. Her bored expression transforms instantly into contempt.

“What do you know about it?” she challenges.

The nurse arrives before we can get any further and presses a bag of ice to Tahira’s forehead.

“Put her head on the ground and lift her feet,” she instructs Faarooq.

Aisha snorts in irritation, but I’m too busy watching Tahira for signs of life to enjoy my victory.

Tahira’s eyes flutter open.

“We need to cool her down,” says the nurse.

“We could put her in our car with the AC on,” suggests Faarooq.

The nurse nods in agreement, and Mustapha moves in to help Faarooq lift Tahira.

“I’m okay,” she mumbles, her already-red face turning several shades darker.

“Do you think we could get her home safely?” Faarooq asks Mustapha, ignoring the teachers who, like me, are all foreigners.

“Let’s see how she feels when she’s had a chance to cool down a bit.”

One of the teachers who was formerly barring the exit starts to say something but thinks better of it. For the first time, I realize they’re as ill equipped to deal with the jihadists as I am. Sweat beads on my forehead as I start to feel queasy myself.

As a hand slips into my own, I jump. “It’s going to be okay, Emma,” says Leela, giving my hand a soft squeeze. “All these
badmaash
will get hungry soon and go home for their dinners. You’ll see. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

Faarooq and Mustapha half-carry Tahira as they make their way to the door, with Leela right behind. I’m annoyed to see Aisha following as well but don’t even bother trying to make my own escape. The PE teachers are still on either side of the open doorway, and I don’t have to be told that they would never let me get past them. The double standard feels both unjust and reasonable. As if they’re reading my mind, they shut the door firmly behind Tahira’s entourage and move to stand in front of it again. Behind us, the microphone crackles from the stage, and I turn to see the superintendent waiting patiently for silence. I expect another excuse about the air-conditioning.

“I’ve been informed that the demonstrations are breaking up,” he begins, but he gets no further because raucous cheers drown out his speech. Over the chaos, it’s just possible to hear him instructing us to let the lower grades exit the theater first, but the upper schoolers are already halfway to the doors, and I think even he realizes it’s safer to get the big bodies out of the way so they don’t trample the little ones.

As much as I’m dying to get outside, I wait at the back of the theater for my sister. I’m watching the exiting tides, which is why I don’t notice Mustapha until he’s right beside me.

“What are you doing back in here?” I demand, sounding more indignant than intended.

He looks startled but quickly recovers. “I came back to see you,” he says smoothly.

“Is Tahira okay?”

“She’s fine. They’ve left for home already.” He pauses, which gives me enough time to think I may not want to hear what he has to say next. “It’s a shame we missed our class today.”

Nothing to worry about after all. He’s just making idle conversation.

“Yes, it’s very disappointing,” I say, infusing my voice with so much regret you’d think I planned a career in the theater.

“Lucky we’d already arranged to meet at my house tomorrow,” he continues cheerfully.

My heartbeat suddenly kicks into overdrive, and my mouth goes dry. I know we’ve already established I’m not going to his house tomorrow.
So why is he grinning?

“I’m sorry,” I say warily. “As I said before, I’m grounded and I can’t get my mom on the phone.”

“Well, unbelievable luck,” he says with a smirk. “Your brother got her on his cell, and it turns out she thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”

“My brother?” I repeat as the depth of Vince’s treachery sinks in. He is
so
dead.

“Yes, Vince, your brother. You remember him?” Mustapha teases. “And do you know, it turns out your mother’s not out of town after all?”

“Really?” I say, trying to buy time to come up with some other excuse.

I don’t realize Mandy’s standing next to me until she leans against me. I look down at her and, without
thinking, put my arm around her. It’s becoming a habit.

“Will you walk me to the van, Em?” she asks hopefully, and I give her a squeeze. She smiles so happily I have a moment to regret being such a lousy sister before Mustapha redirects my anxiety.

“My mother’s looking forward to meeting you.”

He’s discussed me with his family? First Angie and now him. Do people in this country have nothing else to talk about?

“I have to go,” I say abruptly.

“Of course.” He nods in understanding and squats down till he’s eye level with Mandy. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” he says, flashing his earth-stopping smile. She smiles back, then turns her head into me while peeking at him flirtatiously out of the corner of her eye.

Is there any living, breathing female he does
not
have that effect on?

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, my house, ten o’clock. I gave the address to your brother,” he says, standing up again, and with that, saunters out.

Mandy and I follow him out of the theater. He hasn’t taken more than a few steps before he’s swarmed by his entourage. I notice Aisha in the group at the same moment she notices me, and we share a hate-filled glare, though truthfully I’m not sure I do hate her. It can’t be easy trying to control a boyfriend like Mustapha. Mandy and I stop to let them get some distance from us and watch as Mustapha recedes across the parking lot, laughing and chatting with his friends.

“He’s handsome,” says Mandy after a time.

“As the wolf,” I say pointedly. She shoots me a look, and I know she’s remembering Angie’s story. We share a moment of pure girl-connection.

D
ad’s on the phone, but I refuse to speak to him. Mandy appears at my door every fifteen seconds to give me soulful looks and mouth pleas to try and change my mind. It’s not going to happen. I rearrange the pillow behind my back and turn to the book in my lap, though I haven’t turned a page in thirty minutes.

This is the fifth night in a row he’s called, every night since the first day of school. It’s always the same drill: a short chat with Vince (awkward), a shorter chat with Mom if she’s home (painfully awkward), an interminable chat with Mandy, and then he asks for me.
Isn’t it illegal to phone that often?
I think we could charge him with harassment or something. If I did speak to him, which I won’t, I’d tell him to get a life and stop bugging us.

Mandy’s at the door again. I should just shut it, but I’m eavesdropping on Vince’s conversation with Dad. Eavesdropping is my new way of communicating with Vince. I listen to him talk to Michelle, though most of that is better ignored. I listen to him talk to Mom. I’m
pretty sure half of that is lies because he’s always going on about how great everything is. I listen to him talk to Mandy, which is unbelievably boring, but I listen anyway.

“Please,” she mouths from my doorway.

“Get lost,” I mouth back. I may get in trouble for that, but who cares. I’m grounded
and
I have to go to Mustapha’s. It’s totally unfair.