torments at a time like this?
As the cab sped under the palm trees, waving gently in a perfect L.A. sky, baby blue with a couple of fluffy clouds, Helen was ashamed for worrying about herself, too.
Jane had been the glue between herself and Sally. The older friend, but clever, able to bridge the gap between them. She could discuss politics with Jane, or history, or anything.With Sally it was all movie star gossip and the latest trends. And rock bands . . .
Helen loved all those things, of course. But Sally and she were just so different . She was frightened now. Maybe with just the two of them it wouldn’t work out.
Sally and Jane had history. Not Sally and her.
“Eighteen fifty.”
“Thanks.” Helen gave the cabbie twenty-five, absentmindedly.
“Thanks, hon. Have a great day,” he said before speeding off down Third Street with a screech of tires.
There were ribbons tied to her gate, and balloons. Oh, man. Baba was having a party for Ahmed. Helen made an instant decision: it was fine, she was going to go along with everything. Jane’s father was dead—the last thing Helen needed was more drama right now.
Aisha hurried out of the kitchen door.
“Come with me, upstairs. I have your betrothal dress.”
Helen allowed herself to be pushed upstairs. “What do you mean, betrothal?”
“No, for the ceremony, the friendship ceremony,” her mother said hurriedly. “Now here, put these robes on! Where have you been? They are all waiting.With the contract . . .”
Helen quickly got changed; her mother had got her a beautiful Jordanian robe, traditional and, she thought, antique. She admired her reflection as Aisha fastened a flowing headscarf of cream silk around her hair.
“Can I keep this? It’s beautiful.”
“Of course you can. Now run downstairs, Baba is waiting for you. Firyal and I will come down in a minute.”
“Mama—you know I’m not actually going to marry Ahmed.”
“Friendship will satisfy family honor, Helen. Just do this for your father,” Aisha said vaguely. “Hurry! His father, Rashid, is there waiting for you, too.”
Helen sighed and walked downstairs; her father was waiting with an ornate-looking document. Ahmed was there, looking as embarrassed as she was, in traditional Islamic trousers and hat; he didn’t meet her eyes as both their fathers embraced.
Baba put Helen’s hand into his. Feeling every sympathy for him, she gave him a surreptitious wink. Ahmed looked at her for the first time; his eyes widened, and he gave her a very small smile.
The things we do for our parents! Helen thought.
Baba was speaking in Arabic now. She didn’t follow what he was saying. He told her he would lead her, and she should repeat after him.
Helen willingly agreed. She wanted to please her father, to ease the tension for poor Ahmed, and to forget today’s troubles.
By the time Helen returned from Egypt and Jordan, Jane would have worked out what she wanted to do. Insh’Allah, she would be back at school, with Helen and Sally protecting her. Like always.
They were best friends and they would stick together. An unbreakable trio. An absence of a few days, a couple of weeks even, would not hurt that.
Her father was placing a golden pen in her hand.
“Sign here,” he said. “Darling. My little daughter.”
He kissed her on the forehead and Helen pressed her head against his. She adored her parents.They were always looking out for her. Poor Jane had lost her father, and Helen thanked God she still had hers.
That night there was a short meal—Ahmed said very little—and then the families packed into two cars. There was much shouting and chattering in Arabic; Helen didn’t follow any of it, didn’t much care. She had promised to be good, and she was. She had packed her suitcase as quickly as she could. Mama told her not to bother with much; Jasmine and she were taking only hand luggage, it was an adventure, they would buy clothes when they got into town.
Helen had
As the cab sped under the palm trees, waving gently in a perfect L.A. sky, baby blue with a couple of fluffy clouds, Helen was ashamed for worrying about herself, too.
Jane had been the glue between herself and Sally. The older friend, but clever, able to bridge the gap between them. She could discuss politics with Jane, or history, or anything.With Sally it was all movie star gossip and the latest trends. And rock bands . . .
Helen loved all those things, of course. But Sally and she were just so different . She was frightened now. Maybe with just the two of them it wouldn’t work out.
Sally and Jane had history. Not Sally and her.
“Eighteen fifty.”
“Thanks.” Helen gave the cabbie twenty-five, absentmindedly.
“Thanks, hon. Have a great day,” he said before speeding off down Third Street with a screech of tires.
There were ribbons tied to her gate, and balloons. Oh, man. Baba was having a party for Ahmed. Helen made an instant decision: it was fine, she was going to go along with everything. Jane’s father was dead—the last thing Helen needed was more drama right now.
Aisha hurried out of the kitchen door.
“Come with me, upstairs. I have your betrothal dress.”
Helen allowed herself to be pushed upstairs. “What do you mean, betrothal?”
“No, for the ceremony, the friendship ceremony,” her mother said hurriedly. “Now here, put these robes on! Where have you been? They are all waiting.With the contract . . .”
Helen quickly got changed; her mother had got her a beautiful Jordanian robe, traditional and, she thought, antique. She admired her reflection as Aisha fastened a flowing headscarf of cream silk around her hair.
“Can I keep this? It’s beautiful.”
“Of course you can. Now run downstairs, Baba is waiting for you. Firyal and I will come down in a minute.”
“Mama—you know I’m not actually going to marry Ahmed.”
“Friendship will satisfy family honor, Helen. Just do this for your father,” Aisha said vaguely. “Hurry! His father, Rashid, is there waiting for you, too.”
Helen sighed and walked downstairs; her father was waiting with an ornate-looking document. Ahmed was there, looking as embarrassed as she was, in traditional Islamic trousers and hat; he didn’t meet her eyes as both their fathers embraced.
Baba put Helen’s hand into his. Feeling every sympathy for him, she gave him a surreptitious wink. Ahmed looked at her for the first time; his eyes widened, and he gave her a very small smile.
The things we do for our parents! Helen thought.
Baba was speaking in Arabic now. She didn’t follow what he was saying. He told her he would lead her, and she should repeat after him.
Helen willingly agreed. She wanted to please her father, to ease the tension for poor Ahmed, and to forget today’s troubles.
By the time Helen returned from Egypt and Jordan, Jane would have worked out what she wanted to do. Insh’Allah, she would be back at school, with Helen and Sally protecting her. Like always.
They were best friends and they would stick together. An unbreakable trio. An absence of a few days, a couple of weeks even, would not hurt that.
Her father was placing a golden pen in her hand.
“Sign here,” he said. “Darling. My little daughter.”
He kissed her on the forehead and Helen pressed her head against his. She adored her parents.They were always looking out for her. Poor Jane had lost her father, and Helen thanked God she still had hers.
That night there was a short meal—Ahmed said very little—and then the families packed into two cars. There was much shouting and chattering in Arabic; Helen didn’t follow any of it, didn’t much care. She had promised to be good, and she was. She had packed her suitcase as quickly as she could. Mama told her not to bother with much; Jasmine and she were taking only hand luggage, it was an adventure, they would buy clothes when they got into town.
Helen had
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