A and Z become friends

Left foot left foot left foot right. I’ve zombie walked through most of my classes the next morning.  But when I feel the sting of a wad of paper hit my neck in math class, I know it’s Zain before I even turn around. I see Sarah’s eyes pop open in surprise as she catches my wince and silent curse from across the room. We were all used to being comatose during calculus, my yelp though muffled might as well have been a gun shot. I didn’t think Zain was capable of something as ordinary as throwing a spitball. The teacher continues to drone out integration formulae, thankfully oblivious.

I throw a dirty look behind me, and he smirks back un-phased. Does a head nod, meaning he wants me to open it. Confused and curious, I look at the offending note. I can feel his eyes on me, but I resist temptation to look at him. I toss the note out the window next to me, startling an eighth grader passing under. I look back and throw a smile at his narrowed eyed annoyance, before going back to my notes. Math wasn’t my favorite subject actually, not that I would ever admit to such a cliché.

“Mr. M, I can’t see the board, is it ok if I sit up front” Ripples of confusion electrify the class. I see some girls perk up at his voice and turn to try to identify the source. I smother an eye-roll. He’s already collapsed into the empty spot next to me when Mr. M turns around, peers nearsightedly, and noticing nothing different continues on with derivatives.

“I’ll start singing a Bieber song if you make this difficult”

I choke back the insult I was going to fling at him, and my cheeks traitorously glow red. “I. Do. Not. Like. Bieber” I have to hiss so no one hears us, but it’s hard because the curiosity is palpable. I lean close, and notice that his eyes are coal black under the purple shock of hair. “What do you want!”

“Just hangin”

“Do you really want to do this right now?” He ignores me, smirks, and reaches over and corrects an answer in my notebook.

“Relax! You clearly need my help, I am here to offer it to you”

“For what!?”

“Come to the chemistry lab during recess. Bring your hot slutty friend”

“What! Sarah is not slutty” It’s a little sad that I instantly know which friend he’s referring to.

“Whatever. Be there or be square blondie”

“Dear lord purple ranger. The dye has leeched through your hair and damaged your brain” 

My eyes open in horror as he brings his hands forward to start miming a song. Thankfully the recess bell rings, saving me. I get up so fast I nearly knock my chair over, and run. 

***

After much debate Sarah and I arrive at the aforementioned lab, but no one is in sight.

“It was a joke! Let’s stop wasting time and grab some food” I try to grab her arm but she shrugs out.

“I want to see what he wants to say Amal!”

“Fine” I say with little grace, and collapse onto a nearby stool.

Sarah is still looking around, but I look up when I notice the lights flicker. We’re in the original school building, which must be 100 years old. The labs are probably the creepiest place in the entire campus. High ceilings, no sunlight, perpetual tubelights swinging with a mysterious breeze overhead. I noticed a hole in the tile once, and with horror realized that there wasn’t concrete but a black abyss underneath, which the janitor claimed was just the underground plumbing. I could only imagine the rats that had nested there for a hundred years.

I shift uncomfortably and am about to demand we go outside, when we’re plunged into darkness.

“Sarah!” I shriek.

“Ow! DAMMIT” is her response. “What on earth did I just hit. A chair?”

“I don’t know, it’s dark!”

“Turn your phone light on”

I fumble for my bag, but it thumps and falls to the floor. I can hear things pattering out of the open top and rolling onto the tiled floor. I shudder and try not to think of the underground plumbing, which probably houses Tom Riddle and several horcruxes.

“I dropped my bag Sarah! I don’t have any light!” I try to keep the tight panic. I’m breathing fast, and that’s always a precursor to my revealing my poor mental health to random bystanders.

 “Relax! I’m getting min- WHAT WAS THAT”

And then we both hear it. The deep wheezing of… someone laughing? My ears are ringing, and the room is fading in and out. I reach out to touch the wall to stay in the present.

The lights flicker on, revealing Zain, standing there face crumpled in hilarity as he looks at Sarah.

“YOU ASSHOLE” Sarah shoves him. He’s startled, then notices my face and is struck silent. His expression flickers.

**

“Well are you coming up or not”

“No way! I’m wearing a dress!” Sarah is pretty outraged at the suggestion.

I shrug. Used to climbing the mango trees in our yard, I find an easy foot grip, and pull myself up a branch. “You be lookout then”. It will be an easy climb, the tree is around a hundred years old and thick and gnarled with handholds.

I scramble up to the next few branches, and I’m suddenly next to him. We’re around ten feet off the ground, almost eye level with the first floor classrooms in the distance. We’re both bathed in green filtered sunlight. The shrieks of the school at recess mute to the background. I instantly feel peace.

“What are you doing” I realize I’ve muted my voice to match the atmosphere of secrecy.

“I hang out here to get away for a bit. Thought you might want to come here, being that you’re crazy and all”

It takes me a second. “I’m not crazy!” But the darkness is there. The shrieks. The ambulance. I clench my jaw, and will it all away. The dead black eyes from the corpse threaten my precarious grip on reality, but then I can see a different pair of black eyes emerge in front of me. His expression pulls me back. How does he keep doing that.

“Why do all the boys call you blondie? You have brown hair?”

And suddenly I smile, feeling like I should hug him.

A meets Z

My untied shoe laces start clicking on the marble as soon as I walk in. I notice the sound and bend down near the reception counter to fix it. When I rear back up, I see three people have magically teleported in front of me, and we’re mutually startled. I recognize the boy as the new transfer student from my school. Somewhat typical badboy, tattoos, colored hair, way too much black for the tropical heat. Rumored to have run away from military school. Good looking enough to make be render me mute, but that’s teenage hormones for you.

He blinks in surprise, taking a step back, his purple faux hawk making an almost perfect comic exclamation mark on top of his expression. His mouth slacks open, and I notice his tongue is pierced, which is something I’ve never seen in the year of math classes we’ve shared. My mind brings up a shadowy name with a Z. Zaid? Suddenly with horror, I realize it’s coming back. I’m breathing fast, my brain pulling me down to a flashback, drowning in a swimming pool at night with someone screaming a name. Please don’t embarrass yourself! Get a grip!  I grit my teeth and pray for a miracle. I usually surface a few minutes later, on the floor, concerned faces forever marking me as crazy. Not today! Please God!

“Do you… work here?” his hesitant baritone pulls me back to the present, surprising me. I blink in confusion. Was it because he sounded so self-assured compared to the almost broken falsettos of our other classmates? I realize he hasn’t spoken even once in math the entire year. And then I realize my prayers are answered, the shadowy poolside screaming has dimmed, and I’m back in the present. He looks sullen and wilted, and hasn’t noticed my flashback or breathlessness. I feel a twisting of something, camaraderie, pulled from my past to him now. He’s practically left scuff marks on the floor as his reluctant feet have been dragged here.

I’m about to smile, but then notice that he has two extremely ordinary people behind him, a woman with a headscarf, lips paused temporarily in anticipation of my voice. I can imagine those lips fervently praying over the clicking beads of a tasbeeh, blowing on purple hair, praying for his salvation in the car on the way over. The man is average. Middle aged. Bland. Typical. Artificially black mustache jarring next to his son’s purple head, slim legs with amazing paunch like a basketball hidden under his sweater vest that spoke of many second helpings of home-made curry finished off by halwa served helpfully by a dutiful wife.

“Err no I’m here for an appointment myself” I move away from the counter that has caused all this confusion.

They exhale together, with slight annoyance mingled with relief.

The cute t-shirt from my favorite band suddenly feels satanic as the woman’s eyes narrow on to my chest. I resist the urge to pull the back of the shirt to cover my denim clad bottom. Good Muslim girls wear shalwar kameez her voice wafts telepathically between us, unbidden, familiar echoes of elderly intrusive aunties hell bent on enforcing the patriarchy through girls’ clothing.

“Zain beta please hold my bag I need to sit” her voice says instead, frail with hypochondria but with underlying steel, familiar with matriarchal dominance. She demands the attention of her family away from my usurping outfit.

Zain wilts more under her request, his almost six foot body hunching in defeat, but he dutifully holds his hand out. He looks back and squirms when he notices I’m still looking.

A door opens, cracking through the awkward silence, and Dr. Khan walks out. Plush carpet, a comfortable sofa, and wall to wall windows in front of Karachi’s beach open up behind him. Sure enough Zain’s parents are impressed by his shock of white hair, imposing black outfit and Italian loafers. But then I see their expressions all snap in unison to the tattoos creeping out from under Dr. Khan’s rolled up sleeves. I wonder if the woman will demand an explanation like my mother did all those years ago, rousing her red rimmed eyes to question his credentials and potential gang membership.

This moment stays silent though, steeped in accusatory judgement which Dr. Khan ignores easily. He shakes hands with Zain’s father, hand on chest to acknowledge the mother. Maisa magically appears behind him, winks at me, her head respectably covered, white lab coat, and the mother relaxes with the relief of familiarity.

“Since this is your first appointment, Dr. Maisa here will handle the paperwork, and then I’ll see you in an hour” He looks over at me. “Ready to go Belieber?”

I ignore the mountain of embarrassment instantly coloring me pink. Death by false accusation of being a fan of pop. “Sure Dr. Fanilow” His eyes crinkle in amusement as I flee the waiting area into the comfort of the familiar sofa.

***

I’m cross legged on the sofa.

“Let’s start with the meditation exercise” Dr. Khan also assumes the position, but on the ground.

While I’m used to the routine, I always find it hard to clear my mind. I close my eyes, and try to think of nothing. Blackness intrudes, and I’m frightened by the memories lurking behind it. I quickly think of bright sun, a meadow, purple flowers. Am I thinking of purple because of Zain? Does he think I’m a Justin Beiber Fan because of what Dr. K said. Why does Dr. K always have to try to embarrass me!?

I hear the rustling of Dr. Khan getting up, and know the exercise is over.

“Why did you try to embarrass me just now Dr. K?”  

 He’s sitting on the chair, notepad and old school fountain pen in hand, his face impassive as always.

“That’s an interesting viewpoint. Did you notice how you said I embarrassed you. I challenged your music affiliation. If anything I embarrassed a very superficial aspect that will change in the coming years”

“Music is a part of my identity”

“Is it?”

I sit back. Are all conversations with a shrink supposed to be this confusing? “Are your tattoos a part of your identity? Why haven’t you lasered them off or something. It would make parents more comfortable”

He smiles, the sun emerging from dark clouds. A close lipped stretching of the lips reluctantly pulled from the serious, calm, still pool of his face. “They are a daily reminder of my past. I would like to keep them”

“Even if the reminder causes you pain?”

“Do old reminders cause pain? It made me who I am. I have to embrace it”

I mull over that for a while.  “My reminders aren’t physical. Should I get a tattoo?”

“That is for you and your parents to decide. But if anything, use my example as a reminder that decisions made in youth can be permanent”

I huff, feeling like I’m going around in circles. I fall back on the sofa and put my feet up.

“Have you had any more flashbacks this week?”

I think about the one outside just now. Darkness. A name being screamed. “No”. The memory waits for me, at the lip of my consciousness. I stare at the beach appearing in the distance from between my shoes, willing my mind not to embarrass me.

He sighs. “You don’t have to be honest with me all the time Amal. But I would ask you to give in to the flashback if you can. Embrace the fear. What’s the worse that could happen?”

For some reason tears threaten to fall. “No. I can’t do that. Not yet. Don’t ask me”

He stands up and brings me a glass of water, and waits for me to sit up and sip it.

“Water is like oxygen. If you find yourself getting overwhelmed, take a deep breath, and then take a sip of water. I trust you are remembering to carry your bottle with you?”

I want to hate him. I really do. But I can’t deny the soul as pure white as his hair. He’s faced his demons. I desperately wish I could do the same. I look up at his eyes, a muddy grey, looking into the depths of my soul. “Yes Dr. K”

“Tell me about your week”

For the rest of the session I talk about school, home, my parents, and the latest exploits of Fundi and Fahdi the wonder twins at college.

Grief

I’m in the Principals office. I like it a lot actually. He lets me sit on the big sofa, which reminds me of the nice doctor’s office. I’m swinging legs back and forth, back and forth, while the Principal writes something in the piles and piles of files in his desk.

We both look up as my mother finally walks in. She has a permanently red nose and eyes these days. Her face is serene and still though. She commands the room, and for a second I am glad to see her. But then I see her eyes, and I know the unbearable depths of sadness are still there, and as I look at them, I’m plunged into the cold abyss of grey as well. I look at the concrete floor between my feet, and fight the overwhelming feeling of heaviness in my chest. I feel something damp on my cheeks, and realize it’s from my eyes.

“Good afternoon ma’am” the Principal courteously offers my mother a chair. He freezes when he finally sees her face, a microscopic tick flicks his face into profound sympathy, before he rearranges his expression to one of polite professionalism. “I’m sorry to have bothered you to come all this way, but Amal had another incident during recess, and I thought it best to have you collect her.”

I want to sink through the floor into the waiting nether. Mercifully he stops there and doesn’t go into the details of finding me curled up in the middle of the playground, confused middle-schoolers clustered all around me. A sports teacher clueless, churlishly screaming at me to stop being dramatic and get up or I’ll get detention.

“Do you know what triggered it this time?” my mother’s flat monotone quivers a little at the end.

“Unfortunately the shadow teacher wasn’t present at the time, we usually let Amal play with her friends during recess. We will of course be rectifying that” He coughs to cover his embarrassment.

“Dr. Khan says she’s making progress, but this will take time. Thank you for your support with us at this difficult time”

“Of course maam. Anything we can do to support Amal”

And then suddenly her red rimmed eyes turn to me, and pinned to the sofa that was my refuge just a short minute ago. I see a ghost version of her standing in the pool, staring at me dead eyed, sari folds soaking wet. I cover my eyes, and the gush tears out with my wails. 

After the beginning

Fundi and I lay on the grass outside, excluded and forgotten while the grownups go through the rites of grief. So many people had come, that someone had to erect a tent in the lawn, with helpful fans blowing cooling mist for the comfort of the people paying their respects. Almost everyone brought food, a mountain of mismatched crockery lying abandoned on the dining table inside. Not a single meal had been served in the last three days. We just snuck in and opened the containers, finding food in various stages of decay, happily munching on cold congealed curry and dry naan under the table. I didn’t mind flicking away the ants and eating the food, but Fundi was more particular.

When people would notice they would snatch us, to press food or money or cluck over our hair or clothes. Fundi would grab my hand and we would escape to the little area behind the rock fountain. He didn’t have the fortitude to withstand the pity laden on us, the patronizing platitudes smeared with clumsy, blunt, buttery strokes, tearing through the fabric of our grief.

The beginning

One second we were hosting a poolside soiree, and the next it all changed.

My mother, with her pearls and sparkly earrings, holding her bumpy ostrich skin bag, is the first to start moving and screaming. Not her usual somewhat muted but sheathed in melodious steel call to the waiter to bring plates or drinks to a guest, but a hyena screech that would raise goosebumps on a grown man if he heard it in a tent at night. The mosquito I had been swatting suddenly slows in motion, so I can see each wing flap past my eyes. All sound stops, except for the buzzing whine. I turn, knowing I will hear that hyena scream in my dreams for years to come.

“Mama!” someone screams. Of course it’s me. Fundi is asleep on the sofa inside. I instinctively want her to come back, come to me, knowing I’m losing her with every crazed step she was taking away from me.

In the space of one breath, she pushes aside a waiter, who teeters and falls, landing with a crack on his ankle. Unnoticed. Collateral damage. She jumps the last four feet into the pool, her scarf flaps uselessly, her heels not enough to give her adequate purchase, and her hip catches the edge and she lands badly in the water. Her hair clip launches to the side on impact, black stands flapping free, but she doesn’t notice. My father intent in his conversation, jerks a bit at the commotion behind him, and his eyes absently flick. What he sees sends a shockwave through this face. His eyes bulge, his mouth twists, his fingers clench, and then his knees finally start moving and he pushes his beloved barbeque grill aside to get to her. It tips, sparking a separate batch of screams from those strafed nearby. He can’t run, he just launches himself from where he’s standing towards them. My mother has already reached, bag still under elbow, gold chain catching the pool lights, clutching the baby to her chest, continuing to scream as body tries to catch up with brain. She realizes she doesn’t know what to do. My father’s belly slaps the surface of the water loudly, his blue evening jacket instantly soaking purple like a bloodstain. He pulls the baby away from her rudely, wading back to the side with urgent clown-like leaps despite the water weighing him down. She’s left standing in the shallow side, shirt hideously see-through outlining all her stomach folds, unable to move as the rock waterfall happily sprays water behind her, and she continues to scream, watching.

“Mama!” I have another lungful now to holler again. Everyone is blurred through my tears. I want her to come to me, help me understand what was happening. Her eyes finally go to me, but she doesn’t see. Her eyes are black, dead. The reality of my mother is suddenly more frightening me than any ghost story Fundi has whispered to me under the covers at night. 

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and notice a little arm flop out from under my father’s cuff-linked wrist, perfect little fingers the size of a matchstick. The nails look wrong, tipped purple. He starts CPR. I knew it was CPR because I had just seen a Tom and Jerry cartoon just that same afternoon, and Fundi had explained it to me.

Other people around me have started screaming now, catching up to the chaos. Staff are running here and there. Guests agape, the injured holding various body parts but everyone, everyone, arrested by the scene of our family breaking apart atom by atom in front of them. Every white knuckled pump, thump, desperate grunt from my father in his ocean of silence, trying to save his youngest son, seems to echo through the party. 

The Middle

The air becomes thinner as they go up higher, and even though she’s filling her lungs, she’s not getting enough oxygen. Grey spots threaten her consciousness, and she’s about to sway, but shakes her head. Left foot left foot left foot right. Ridiculous Dr. Seuss phrases flash through her mind.

“Tough luck being the only girl huh” Mr. A comes up next to her and smiles, the sun halo-ing his head as she blinks up at him. He’s the campus jock, often seen chirpy, awake, and freshly showered after his morning jog heading to breakfast at 7 AM. She’s usually stumbling out from the computer lab after an all-nighter at that time.

“I’m just glad they’re not witnessing my humiliation right now” she manages between gasps, and they both laugh. She’s a good foot shorter than them all, and as they curse in the knee deep snow she has to pull her leg out of the thigh deep white powder one leg at a time, slowing them all down.

“We’re all secretly glad we’re getting breaks while you catch up to us you slowpoke” offers someone in front of her chivalrously, breath hitching as they all struggle uphill.

“Plus you smell nicer than these guys!” Someone else calls out from the back of the line. There’s a rumble of male snickers.

The faculty member chaperoning the college expedition casually strolls to the side, unzips, and takes a piss into the snow, making her realize he’s not much older than them.

“I’m horrified how easy men have it when camping. I had to strip off three layers to go to the bathroom earlier this morning, nearly got frostbite” she whispers so only Mr. A can hear, making him snort.

Someone calls for a break, and the line halts. They’re all feeling the burn now. People are bent over, hands on knees, sweat dripping. Skinny college computer science majors, smokers, gamers, frequent hash users, unable to deal with extended winter break adventure in the Pakistani mountains.

Someone passes a bottle down the line, and everyone takes a swig, oblivious to germs and backwash. She desperately rolls the orange flavor on her tongue, trying to absorb the essential salts.

“Look behind you, you can see the five red dots of our campsite.” Mr. A ducks down close to her, completely unaffected by exertion, and she feels a little breathless again, which has nothing to do with the altitude. The mountains have given him a he-man type aura, his day old fuzz ridiculously attractive.

“It’s about to get steep” the guide says from the front of the line. Mr. A hands her his ice pick, the view behind him opening up to astounding white mountains.

She stumbles, face planting in the snow. She manages to turn, still lying flat on the ground panting up while classmates step around her. She glares at the sky, trying to catch her breath but not quite succeeding because of the thin air.

He joins her on the snow, “It’ll be easier to breathe if you stand up” he offers kindly. He watches her flop around slipping trying to get up, and hauls her up with one easy tug. “You haven’t done this before have you?” He states the obvious.

“Born and bred at sea level” she loses some of her breathlessness now that she’s upright. Somehow she manages to start walking again.

“Yeet! The final point!” someone whoops from around the corner. Fresh enthusiasm ripples through the group, and she hears the clicks of untied carabiners and ice picks falling as bodies collapse in relief up ahead.

She grits her teeth and staggers forward, sweating yet freezing, shamelessly gripping Mr. A for support, and goes onward.

Leaving Z

Time slows as I fumble with the door handle, clumsy. I can’t seem to feel my fingers. I see Z’s lips move in impatience, but I can’t understand him because of the roaring in my ears. I feel an invisible weight holding down my chest. My arm is numb, and I’m suddenly having trouble breathing. I manage to grip the latch in my sweaty hands and push open the car door. A tinny voice calls out a flight boarding in the distance. The ceiling is high, and I notice pigeons near the fans that move in slow motion, not creating any breeze.  I almost close the door and tell him to take me back. I’ve made a mistake.

The baby protests in my arms and I refocus. The sudden sunlight after the air-conditioned car is bothering her. I automatically shade her face with my free hand, dropping the suitcase I’m pulling out with a loud clack. My ears throb, and my chest makes similar cracking sounds, like my heart is throbbing hard trying to break free. Squeezing my ribs from the inside, somewhere between heartbreak and heartache. I gasp, and grit my teeth so tears don’t fall out. I press my palm on my chest, trying to will myself to move forward.

Z hisses and throws the car into park, his brown eyes irritated as gets out. The grey t-shirt I got him last summer flexes over his biceps as he lifts up the suitcase easily and automatically holds my arm as he guides me to the correct gate. He was the first boy to hold my hand, he had just grabbed it as we walked over to the dance floor at Sarah’s party in eighth grade. I remember being dizzy with excitement, trying not to smile to hide my braces as my friends frantically gave thumbs up signs and high fived each other in a smoky corner as I slow danced with him. He was the jock, the most popular boy in school. My heart hammers to be let out again, and I have to look away from his hold.

I catch a teenager elbow her sister as they watch us, his six foot movie-star like handsomeness still attractive. He’s leaning over me, concerned, but all I see are my eyes exaggeratedly big reflected in his aviators. He’s worried because I lost thirty pounds on my already thin five ten frame. It was like post-partum sucked everything out of me, leaving only sadness. My arm feels like a brown twig, ready to snap if I take the weight of the suitcase. My mother had packed it for me last week, her eyes more lined and her hair more grey than I remembered. She had also helped me pack up all my other things, seven years of marriage fitting into ten boxes. I had smuggled them out, one carton at a time, while she sang nursery rhymes to distract the baby.

I hold up the line to enter the terminal, pausing awkwardly adjusting the suitcase to a more comfortable spot on my hand, juggling the baby and my handbag trying to find my ticket. A suited man glares and jostles past me, and I move to the side. Z appears again, takes the baby out of my hands and reaches into the front pocket of my suitcase and pulls out the ticket. I see the crease in his eyebrows and I know he’s annoyed that I didn’t remember to take it out in the car.

He hesitates, and then surprises me by leaning forward, his lips cool against my sweaty cheek. We haven’t kissed since we had the baby ten months ago. We haven’t had sex in over a year. I close my eyes, but my traitorous body responds, and I’m back in the Maldives on our honeymoon, we’re sweating at Male airport and he’s kissing me while we wait in line at immigration. We were so young and stupid, embarrassingly oblivious to everyone around us.

“It feels different this time. It’s hard to see my little girl go” he says. He’s still holding the baby, and I feel a different kind of horror. I quickly snatch her back, the wrap slipping to the floor. Z’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, his lips in a line of familiar irritation. He bends to pick up the cloth. I grip the ticket a little tighter, cold air-conditioner wafting from the freedom of the airport beyond the doorway.

I’m at the doorway, but hesitate before I cross to the other side. Z ignores the protesting security guard and pulls me be back. The suitcase falls unnoticed to the floor. He holds us, ignoring the stares, his face crumpled. For the first time in the lifetime I’ve known him he’s crying. “Don’t go please” he’s holding me, begging in my ear. “I know I don’t have any right to ask after what I’ve done” He clutches me desperately, his voice rasping low and urgent, his neck strained. “Just one more chance. Please. I swear it will work this time”. How did he even know? We’re making the baby protest with our jostling. We pause to look at her, this perfect little being I would fight a war for. I look at him, knowing he doesn’t feel the same way. I notice the tiny wrinkles around his eyes. I want to stay, but time is passing, everything’s growing old and nothing has changed. I disentangle from his arms, step back and turn around, baby still crying.

The Wonder Twins

Her arm muscles are quivering with agony. She is gasping for breath so loudly, she becomes scared someone will hear. She's wearing black, head scarf covering her hair, trying to climb over the boarding school fence at five minutes to midnight.

From experience, the guards that patrol the grounds at night are fairly indifferent to the background sounds of woods and mountains. But if she's caught, they will take her straight to the Principal, a formidable Jesuit missionary who will definitely cane her again. Her backside still throbs with the echoes of last week's episode.

Suddenly, she's over, and momentum swings her to the other side and she thuds painfully on her side. She's up, a quick careful check for her precious money and water bottle, and then runs to the corner of the road where the last bus will stop at midnight and take her to the sweet freedom of Islamabad, where she will catch another bus to her hometown Lahore.

Sweat runs down her back, even though its a cold night. The bus is coming up the street, and she's made it to the stop, but is still terrified someone from the school gate will look out and spot her. Finally, the bus pulls up with a squeal of rusty brakes, and she jumps in. She's the only passenger at this stop. 

The driver gives her a look. An avuncular fellow, who clearly knows she's from the school and on an illicit mission. She had planned to slip him fifty rupees, but given her nerves and his look, she gives him the full two hundred and whispers "chai paani kay liyay" (for some tea or water) a universal declaration of the polite intention to give a bribe.

  

He looks at her, then the red currency notes, then his eyes flick back to the passengers that are either half asleep or indifferently watching. The notes disappear down his shalwar and he nods her to the back of bus.

Fundi

They thump down the stairs like a herd of elephants, and crash into the living room destroying the peace.

 “I’ve baked two pies for you kids.” Her mom is dwarfed by the crowd, on her way out to a meeting.

Choruses of “thanks Mrs. S” are heard as they swarm the kitchen table like ants. A jingle of a key, a quick kiss on a cheek, and the door shuts.

“Hi blondie” my brother’s best friend Fadi ruffles my hair, and thumps on the sofa next to me, his legs covering up most of the three seater.  “What’s going on in blondie land?” He snatches my book with one hand, holding a can of string cheese in another. He presses it directly into his mouth.

“One - Go away. Two - that’s disgusting. Three - my hair is brown.” I use the cushion to swat him away like the pest he is, and grab my book before he reads the love scenes out loud like last time.

“Come on! You should be swooning that I’m even talking to you!” Grinning, he tosses aside the cheese string and moves on to the whipped cream can. “I’m hot stuff since I made captain”

“Fundi! The captain is bothering me!” A rumble of chuckles ripples through the group interspersed by repellant smacking sounds of perpetually starving teenaged boys eating.

“Yeah dude, stop torturing little kids.” My brother says unhelpfully.

“I’m ONE year younger than you. We could practically be twins!” I try not to yell, but it’s an effort.

“Relax blondie. We’re about to start our game anyway.” Fadi says.

“I hope you all lose!”

Disapproving looks dart towards my sofa as they make their way back up to Fundi’s room.

“Yeah then we’ll have to call you again to save us” Fadi says, grinning, not moving. He’s remembering last weekend when he had to wake me up and drag me to the Xbox to join their raiding party against some Korean team and I had gotten in a surprise head shot.

“Yeah Fundi threw those pajamas away without telling me. Those were my favorite!”

“Yeaahhhh I’m with him on that one. Those rags were obscene”

I eyeroll. “Yeah obscene like you cashing in Sarah’s v-card.”

He’s pauses mid-unfold getting up, and his eyes widen. “How on earth did you know that!?”

“More like she popped his cherry.” Fundi offers from the stairs. “Are you coming or not man?”

“Does the whole school know!? What the fuck!”

“Chillax dude, panties, twist, all that” Fundi’s voice recedes as he goes up the stairs.

“It’s like that rumor about you and that douchebag with the blue hair blondie”

“One – a rumor is not the truth, like you are Sarah. Two – he has purple hair. Three – a tattoo makes him cool, NOT a douchebag. Four - the boy is just a friend.”

“Yeah a friend who wants to get in your obscene pajamas.” He makes finger quotes around the word friend. “Boys are disgusting blondie. Tell me if you want me to talk to him”

“Don’t you dare talk to him!” I mimic his finger quotes around the word talk. “You guys have frightened away enough boys from liking me anyway, it’s exasperating.”

“Oh please. Dunking one kid in the pool doesn’t count as frightening away anyone. He was telling everyone he made out with you, it’s a good thing I heard him”

“Because he DID make out with me. And he didn’t after the dunking incident. You should be my wingman, not the cockblocker”

“Ergh that word blondie. Never want to hear that from you” He mock shudders.

“Cock. Dick. Penis. Schlong. Peter.”

He’s making a face but then he howls with laughter. “Peter? You’ve named my penis peter?”

“Argh no I have NOT. It’s a thing. People call penises’ peters”

“You’re hilarious blondie.” His shoulders are shaking as he gets up, hazel eyes lit with mirth. “If you ever decide to stop reading those trashy romance books and start talking to real people, give me a call.” He starts walking back to the game.

I throw the cushion at his retreating back, and go back to my book.