constant yelling. God, I hate them!”
For a long moment I can’t do anything but stand mutely. I flush warm with guilt as I realize that I’ve thought of her as a paper doll of a friend, one-dimensional and picture-frame perfect. That she might also have things to escape never occurred to me.
I step closer to her bed, and when she scoots over to make room for me, I lie down next to her. Side by side on our backs, both of us stare up at the ceiling in silence. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, feeling awkward for not knowing the right way to comfort her. Do we talk about it, or is it better to offer up distractions? Does she want to laugh about it or cry about it? So many subjects never covered by my tutors; I’ve never felt quite so alien as I do right now.
She’s quiet at first, but eventually she turns her head to look at me. “Please don’t tell anybody else.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
She nods as if she already knows that.
“Which shall it be, chocolate or french fries?” I ask her.
Her smile is watery. Grateful. “Lots of both. Quick.”
We leave the house in search of neutral ground and comfort food.
ICEBREAKERS
Two days later, the King has a birthday. He’s turning seven, and so we gather uneasily at Skateland. Why my mother chose this run-down venue I don’t know, but it’s a brilliant selection: we are all equally uncomfortable.
Not the kids, of course. They are delighted by the activity and pay no mind to the smell of mildew in the party room or the fact that the laces on their skates are held together by chains of grungy knots. It’s the grown-ups who shift and fidget, not wanting to sit on plastic chairs dotted with hardened gum or drink from the pitcher of startlingly orange soda.
Two groups face off in the blue-carpeted room—the parents of Bastien’s school friends on one side and Amir and his cousins on the other. Mother invited Mr. Gansler, but he claimed to be busy. As a gift, he arranged for the party to be catered by a restaurant in downtown Washington that servesfood from our homeland. “They don’t normally cater,” he’d said. “But I pulled a few strings.”
The food tips the balance—the American parents are now more uncomfortable than the rest of us. Even in this land of strip-mall tacos, falafel, and teriyaki, our food remains exotic. They eye the dishes distrustfully and circle and confer before going in for microscopically small portions.
“Laila, there are no forks,” Emmy whispers. She was a last-minute invite, an exception to my efforts to isolate the different parts of my life. But now that she has shared her secret with me, how can I not include her?
“You use this.” I hand her a piece of the flatbread that is served with every meal. “You tear off a piece and use it kind of like a spoon.”
Emmy is ecstatic when she takes a bite. “This is
so
good!” Her blond-haired enthusiasm convinces some of the more skeptical parents to at least sample the food.
The food
is
good, but I can’t enjoy it. Coming from Mr. Gansler, this taste of home is bitter with expectation.
Before long the kids come swooping in, red-faced and sweaty and still wearing roller skates. Bastien shows them what to do, and they are thrilled to be liberated from utensils. Eating with their hands becomes the highlight of the party, and the room grows loud.
“Who’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?” Emmy points to Amir, who notices and scowls in response. “He’s very … intense. He’s got that whole brooding thing working for him. It’s kind of sexy.”
I laugh so forcefully that it comes out as a snort. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’d be mortified.”
I sneak a glance at him. Sexy? Amir? To me he just looks sullen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed high on his chest, wordlessly announcing his stubborn refusal to enjoy himself. But that’s nothing new. His cousins have agreed to start working with my mother
For a long moment I can’t do anything but stand mutely. I flush warm with guilt as I realize that I’ve thought of her as a paper doll of a friend, one-dimensional and picture-frame perfect. That she might also have things to escape never occurred to me.
I step closer to her bed, and when she scoots over to make room for me, I lie down next to her. Side by side on our backs, both of us stare up at the ceiling in silence. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, feeling awkward for not knowing the right way to comfort her. Do we talk about it, or is it better to offer up distractions? Does she want to laugh about it or cry about it? So many subjects never covered by my tutors; I’ve never felt quite so alien as I do right now.
She’s quiet at first, but eventually she turns her head to look at me. “Please don’t tell anybody else.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
She nods as if she already knows that.
“Which shall it be, chocolate or french fries?” I ask her.
Her smile is watery. Grateful. “Lots of both. Quick.”
We leave the house in search of neutral ground and comfort food.
ICEBREAKERS
Two days later, the King has a birthday. He’s turning seven, and so we gather uneasily at Skateland. Why my mother chose this run-down venue I don’t know, but it’s a brilliant selection: we are all equally uncomfortable.
Not the kids, of course. They are delighted by the activity and pay no mind to the smell of mildew in the party room or the fact that the laces on their skates are held together by chains of grungy knots. It’s the grown-ups who shift and fidget, not wanting to sit on plastic chairs dotted with hardened gum or drink from the pitcher of startlingly orange soda.
Two groups face off in the blue-carpeted room—the parents of Bastien’s school friends on one side and Amir and his cousins on the other. Mother invited Mr. Gansler, but he claimed to be busy. As a gift, he arranged for the party to be catered by a restaurant in downtown Washington that servesfood from our homeland. “They don’t normally cater,” he’d said. “But I pulled a few strings.”
The food tips the balance—the American parents are now more uncomfortable than the rest of us. Even in this land of strip-mall tacos, falafel, and teriyaki, our food remains exotic. They eye the dishes distrustfully and circle and confer before going in for microscopically small portions.
“Laila, there are no forks,” Emmy whispers. She was a last-minute invite, an exception to my efforts to isolate the different parts of my life. But now that she has shared her secret with me, how can I not include her?
“You use this.” I hand her a piece of the flatbread that is served with every meal. “You tear off a piece and use it kind of like a spoon.”
Emmy is ecstatic when she takes a bite. “This is
so
good!” Her blond-haired enthusiasm convinces some of the more skeptical parents to at least sample the food.
The food
is
good, but I can’t enjoy it. Coming from Mr. Gansler, this taste of home is bitter with expectation.
Before long the kids come swooping in, red-faced and sweaty and still wearing roller skates. Bastien shows them what to do, and they are thrilled to be liberated from utensils. Eating with their hands becomes the highlight of the party, and the room grows loud.
“Who’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?” Emmy points to Amir, who notices and scowls in response. “He’s very … intense. He’s got that whole brooding thing working for him. It’s kind of sexy.”
I laugh so forcefully that it comes out as a snort. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’d be mortified.”
I sneak a glance at him. Sexy? Amir? To me he just looks sullen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed high on his chest, wordlessly announcing his stubborn refusal to enjoy himself. But that’s nothing new. His cousins have agreed to start working with my mother
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