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MAYBE THE PRAYERS HAD FINALLY WORKED. JAMEELA scanned the growing crowd in the New York Public Libraryās sixth floor. She was impressed. Her publicist, Arlene Baker, waved. She had on her uniform: a powder blue pantsuit last seen on Hillary Clinton or Chairman Mao. Jameela waved back.
āGreat crowd,ā gushed Arlene as she tottered up to Jameela in matching heels, windmilling her arms to maintain her balance. She air-kissed Jameela with her perfect raspberry pout. Jameela wondered how her lipstick never came off. Maybe it was tattooed on.
āI havenāt seen a book launch this big in a while,ā Arlene said. āAnd Iāve been to two others already this week.ā
āI know why theyāre here,ā said Jameela. āIāve been trying something new.ā
āWhat?ā
āPraying.ā
Jameela hadnāt prayed since Jamal. But now there was something she needed badly. After decades of work, Jameela had finished her memoir. She looked up, trying to find God in the tin-stamped ceiling.
Remember what we talked about, she thought. You will make my book go right to the top of the New York Times bestseller list like You do for all the white people You love so much: J. K. Rowling, George R. R. Martin, or even better, Margaret Atwood. That woman doesnāt need any more number one books. And she has enough hair on her head to stuff a whole pillow. Do any of those people even believe in You? Probably not. In the Qurāan, Prophet Solomon asked for a kingdom greater than anyoneās before or after, plus to talk to animals, and You gave it to him. So now itās my turn. I want a literary career greater than anyone elseās. I donāt want to talk to ants or anything. Unless they know how to order a book from Amazon. So thatās it. IMMORTAL LITERARY SUCCESS. If You need to send me a sign, use a grilled cheese sandwich. Thatās what You do for Christians, right?
Arlene touched Jameelaās arm and brought her back to earth. āThatās so funny, sweetie, I thought you said āpraying.ā So much press here. So fantastic. And your mom and her friends came, too. How sweet.ā
Jameela turned to see her mother, Nusrat, arriving with five of her Pakistani friends, all wearing bright, jewel-toned shalwar chemises. She acknowledged them with a curt nod, her right hand in her jacket pocket, rubbing the blue marble prayer beads her brother, Jamal, had given her as a child. People streamed in by the dozens. She should have tried praying long ago. Who knew God could be so responsive?
But then Courtney Leland entered. Jameela froze. The familiar chill of dread ran up her spine, even after all these years. Why was that woman here?
Oh no. Suddenly it made sense why people were rushing to get front row seats. Jameela clutched her prayer beads so tightly her fingers hurt. Fear and anxiety sparked through her body. She was instantly transported back to high school, a time when she and her mother had constantly fought over her clothing choices. She was forced to wear pants under her dresses, and any hairstyle besides pigtails was deemed too alluring. If Anne of Green Gables had been brown, with a unibrow and a mustache, Jameela would have been her doppelgƤnger.
During that tumultuous period, her brother had convinced her to join the yearbook staff to gain experience as a writer and develop confidence. By her senior year, she had become editor of the school yearbook and eked out a niche for herself ā until Courtney joined the team and, like a black hole, absorbed all whose eyes gazed upon her. In that yearās yearbook, their group photograph featured a smiling Courtney standing in the front of everyone, hands on hips, partly blocking Jameelaās face. The caption editor was typed under her photo.
She looked exactly the same now as she had back then, maybe a bit thinner and blonder. Her clothing choices perhaps had become more cutting edge. She wore knee-high black suede boots with stiletto heels over black leggings, a miniskirt, and an orange jacket with metal zippers everywhere. It looked like sheād just thrown the outfit together, but Jameela could tell that it was all high-end designer. I am not in high school anymore. I am an accomplished woman. Please, everyone look at me, she thought. The cameras swung toward Courtney. Arlene came and sat beside a devastated Jameela.
āHow did she know about this event?ā Jameela whispered through clenched teeth. Reporters mobbed Courtney, who was turning her head at an angle perfected by a thousand Instagram photos. Her lips were parted just so, and her eyes looked off into an unknown distance. She even took out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and posed with one of the ends lightly touching her lip. Was that even sanitary? Courtney put them on while tossing her hair, which also seemed to know exactly where to land. She screamed āsexy librarian,ā while Jameela suddenly felt matronly in her sensible brown walking shoes.
Arlene picked a piece of fluff off her lapel.
The truth finally hit Jameela. āYou didnāt!ā
āJameela, listen to me. Youāre a first-time author of a good book, yes, but you donāt have name recognition yet. We have a hard time getting people to Margaret Atwood anymore. It was the only way.ā
āWhat do you mean, āthe only wayā? Itās my book launch! Why does she get top billing?ā
āI may have suggested to her that it was going to be an interview-style launch with āā
āCourtneyās going to interview me?ā
āYou were best friends in high school, so it makes perfect sense.ā
āWe were not best āā
Arlene stepped on Jameelaās toe as Courtney approached the women, a cloud of perfume following her like low-lying cumulus clouds.
āArlene, thanks for asking me to be part of your event. It was so kind of you.ā
āThanks for fitting us in,ā replied Arlene.
Jameela could sense Arlene was trying hard not to gush. If they hadnāt been surrounded by people, Jameela would have throttled Arlene for picking the one person on earth who had betrayed her during her most vulnerable time. She had to appear gracious, or people would suspect the truth: she was jealous of Courtneyās career success.
āYeah, thanks,ā she added.
āOh, youāre so welcome,ā said Courtney, turning her attention to Jameela. āWe were besties in high school,ā she told Arlene. āJameela let me take over the yearbook so I could use it on my rĆ©sumĆ©. And it worked! I became the editor in chief of Dazzle. Launched my literary career. Under my leadership, we now have more subscribers than Cosmo.ā
āThatās so kind of Jameela,ā exclaimed Arlene. āAlways thinking of others before herself.ā
āYes, so how could I keep away when I heard about Jameelaās book? I wanted to be part of the excitement.ā
Jameelaās fingers dug deeply into Arleneās arm.
āOuch!ā she yelped, pulling her arm away.
Thank God guns arenāt allowed in public libraries. āYou shouldnāt have. Really, you must be so busy with your own book promotion.ā Jameela tried to slow down her breathing.
āThink nothing of it. My own parties are getting exhausting. But enough about me. Nothing like the first book. Almost like having a baby, isnāt it? Except that it doesnāt ruin your body. Oh, but you look great, considering. Did you only have one?ā Courtney looked critically at Jameelaās stomach.
āThanks,ā said Jameela, pulling her cardigan protectively around her. āIs that gray hair?ā
Arlene yanked Jameela toward her and whispered fiercely, āBehave. She brings more publicity to your event. Look, sheās already onstage. Follow her.ā Arlene went up to the mic and took some papers out of her powder blue purse. Jameela wondered if sheād had each piece of her outfit dyed together in the same vat.
āIād like to welcome everyone to the official launch of Jameela Greenās Mainly Muslim, a tour de force memoir about a woman born in suburbia to conservative Pakistani parents. To help us celebrate, we have a special guest, Courtney Leland, the author of Will Anyone Save Me? ā a book about her harrowing year in captivity in Iraq before her dramatic rescue by Navy SEALs. Itās been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than thirty weeks with no sign of slowing down.ā
Courtney sat in a plush burgundy velvet chair opposite Jameela, who saw her short skirt get shorter. She reeked of sophistication and glamour, while Jameela felt like a frumpy, middled-aged mother. After the applause died down, Courtney took off her orange jacket to reveal a transparent black blouse with a racy red bra underneath. Every eye turned to her. Even Jameela had a hard time looking away. Courtney took the mic, which was sitting on a small table between them.
āSo, Jameela, Iāve read your book. It was very funny.ā
āThank you. I thought I could read from the first chapter?ā
Courtney looked like sheād just realized the event was about Jameela and not her.
āIs it a short chapter?ā
Jameela ignored her and opened her book to the section sheād marked, and began reading.
āWas your mother always so strict?ā interrupted Courtney.
Not always, thought Jameela. She remembered trips to the West Coast when she and Jamal were young. Those were the days when her mother didnāt care about the scantily clad men and women lying on the beach or what anyone was drinking. She was another person. Jameela had been fourteen and had just started high school where Jamal was a senior. He died a week before his graduation. āShe became strict when I started high school.ā
āSpeaking of high school, didnāt your mother have an issue with the shorts that were mandatory in gym class? You rebelled by wearing them at school behind her back, even though you didnāt know how to shave your legs. You describe yourself as looking like a hairy tarantula in boxers, but I thought you looked adorable.ā
Jameela bristled at Courtney for trivializing her personal stories of assimilation. āMy mother wasnāt exposed to hair removal. Boys and girls both wore cotton shalwar chemises at school. Thatās a long shirt with baggy trousers, so their legs were always covered and not judged the way they are here.ā
Jamal had been the one to tell her to be patient with their parents. Shorts and gym class were foreign to her mother, who had grown up in Pakistan and needed time to adjust. He came up with the idea of Jameela wearing track pants, and even went to talk to the principal about changing the dress code, which allowed Jameela to participate in sports at her motherās comfort level. But after Jamal died, there was no one to mediate, and a wall went up between Jameela and her parents. They wanted her to become a doctor, but she wanted to study creative writing and become a writer. She might as well have told them she wanted to become a ferret. If Jamal had lived, she would have had an ally. But after he died, she had no one until she met Murray in college, where Jameela secretly took writing classes and started chronicling her experiences growing up in an eccentric American-Muslim-Pakistani household. It had taken her a decade and half to finish her memoir and find a publisher, but here she was.
Courtney turned to Jameela. āBut the cultural differences are deeper than clothes. Some Muslims donāt date in high school. Why is that?ā
Jameela was glad that brown skin could hide the color rushing to her face. She knew what Courtney was trying to get out of her. She hadnāt written about Jamal.
āSome Muslims, like some Christians, believe dating or āgetting to knowā someone is a means to an end, specifically marriage. And if theyāre not ready for marriage, they donāt date.ā
āOh, please. Whatās wrong with just dating for fun and sex? This isnāt the eighteenth century,ā Courtney snorted, while looking at the audience for support. Some people tittered uncomforta...
