American Taliban by Pearl Abraham Page B

semester, when I’ll be there.
    The summer semester? John echoed.
    The Sharia recommends it highly, our version of junior year abroad.
    John stopped at the foot of the old synagogue’s first step. He could smell Khaled’s breath. Though he liked him well enough, such close physical proximity to another male was new to him. He shifted to the right, and adjusted his left crutch in order to free his left hand and receive the brochure.
    The pictures were in color and depicted what looked like countryside, a mountainous region identified by the caption as the blue Margalla Hills. John mouthed the words. Blue. Margalla. And found them attractive. The school’s main building was pale stone done in Moghul style. The classically laid out long stone walks and arches and fountains were tree lined and immaculate. In the background, powder-blue sky with the Margalla Hills in a blue haze in the far distance. The brochure also featured a photo of Islamia’s president in turban and white tunic, with an old-style Dickensian coat over it.
    You should go online to find out more, Khaled said, throwing his head back to blow his smoke away from John. He put out his cigarette, relieved John of one of his crutches, and they walked up the steps.
    You have a new cast, Khaled said, pointing with his chin toward John’s leg.
    Yes. And in two weeks, I’ll no longer need it.
    Excellent, Khaled said. Then we can do things.
    John nodded. He’d like that. He wondered what sorts of things Khaled did in his off time. He worked, John already knew, at a video store in downtown Brooklyn, and he also helped out an older brother in some kind of moving business. He would have no interest, John knew without asking, in the skaters at Brooklyn Banks. He was somehow too grown up or too elegant for grinding.
    IN CLASS , John worked hard to respond in full sentences to questions put to him in al-r-ra-be-ya, and though he managed only with difficulty, with long pauses and multiple ums, Mr. Sami complimented him and threatened the others: If you don’t do something about it, this new all-American talib will soon surpass you.
    After class, Fawal walked up to John and asked him what he thought he was up to. John looked at him.
    What do you mean? John said, careful not to match hostility with hostility.
    The student pointed at John’s clothes. Either you’re Muslim or you’re not. You can’t pick and choose parts.
    Khaled stepped up. He’s American, he said in Arabic. Let him be.
    He steered John toward the door. Outside they found Noor and Samina already in conversation.
    Noor stepped back and stared at John. Why are you dressed like that?
    John shrugged. Asked that way, the question was unanswerable.
    Why? Samina asked, ending the uncomfortable silence. Don’t you think it suits him?
    Khaled agreed. It does somehow suit him, even with his cast and crutches.
    That’s not the point, Noor said. I just don’t understand why.
    Why not? Khaled said.
    John swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He was grateful to Khaled for backing him up.
    Do we have time for tea together? Samina asked.
    Khaled looked at his watch. I have an hour before my shift. Can we go somewhere nearby?
    There’s the corner bistro, Samina suggested.
    Does your mom know about this? Noor asked when they were seated.
    John shook his head. My mom would laugh and call it a phase.
    The tea arrived. I wonder, Samina said, why you mind. They’re only clothes.
    He’s not Muslim, Noor said. So it’s kind of like a lie.
    What if looking Muslim helps him become one? Khaled inquired. Would that make you feel better?
    Noor leaned her head on her arm. It’s just that it’s not who he really is.
    But students in America do things like this all the time, Samina said. My friend Alice is doing the seventies this year. Last year, she did grunge, which her parents hated, but her boyfriend was into it.
    John was relieved when the conversation finally drifted away from him. Samina, he learned, was a