Page 17

I toss and turn all of Monday night. By the next morning, I have the seeds of a plan.

Oh hoh, do I have a plan! And it happens to be named after a common Bengali expression following an epiphany or the realization that you’ve made a big mistake: OH HOH!

It’s a classic foil for Operation Zahrun. If that’s supposed to make Amma think Harun and I are incompatible, Operation Head over Heels—or OH HOH—will hopefully help her realize that Nayim is my perfect match.

If she simply meets him, perhaps she’ll be swept off her feet by his irresistible charm like the rest of the aunties who visit the tea shop, and by Eid, we can all laugh together.

A girl can dream, right?

Because lately, all my dreams have started to feel possible.

On Wednesday, I roll out of bed before my alarm rings.

It’s so early, I’m able to corner the Tahir twins at Chai Ho without their dad present and fill them in on the specifics of my intrepid plan for the evening. As they have another of their psychic conversations, I squirm from foot to foot, wringing my hands.

“Do you think I should just leave well enough alone with Nayim?”

“No!” they exclaim simultaneously, startling me with their assurance.

Dani heaves a sigh. “Look, Zar, you’ve gotta be selfish every once in a while, especially when it comes to something like falling in love.”

Her voice goes whisper-soft, her eyes uncharacteristically serious, and God, I could just smack myself.

When Dani first came out to us, she was so scared we wouldn’t accept her and Ximena. Then Dalia burst into tears and hugged them, and I joined in, and soon we were a desperate tangle of blubbering preteen limbs rolling around the floor of Ximena’s bedroom until Mrs. Mondesir-Martínez found us all, wiped our snotty faces, and made us chocolate de maní to sip.

That was the easy part.

Coming out to her parents was so much harder. Eventually, they came to believe their love for their daughter overcame every other obstacle, but it was a long, rocky journey back to a happy family for the Tahirs.

Ximena’s finally gotten to the point where she’s invited to family events without either of Dani’s parents complaining when they have innocent moments of PDA in public. Most of the community assumes they’re just “gals being pals,” because while Ximena is essentially out and proud, brandishing bi flag pins on most of her belongings, Dani’s not out-out as a lesbian with extended family or many other people. It might never be safe for her to be.

Meanwhile, here I am complaining about my straight-girl problems.

As Dalia wraps an arm around her sister, I suck in a grounding breath. “You’re right, Dan. I’m going to be so selfish. The most selfish. I promise.”

Dani cracks a smile. “Yeah, you’d better, goody two-shoes.”

“Better what?” asks Nayim, loping into Chai Ho with one hand gripping his guitar case. He staggers back a step when we turn to face him in one synchronized motion, like a pack of wolves closing in on their prey, but the instant I see him, I freeze up.

Nayim looks… perfect.

He picks at the button on the cuff of his white dress shirt, probably resisting the urge to drag his fingers through his hair, which appears to be a few inches shorter than when I brought up the possibility of him meeting my family during our walk home last night.

“The imam’s wife gave me a makeover,” he tells me ruefully. “I told her I was interviewing for another job, but clothes like this always feel so stuffy to me. Do I look too much like a waiter?”

I shake my head, but the words are stuck.

I don’t know why I ever doubted him. Of course he could pull off playing the part of the perfect boyfriend. He’s so good at being exactly what he needs to survive, like a chameleon changing colors. But he doesn’t look like my Nayim anymore, and a wave of guilt crests over me at the thought of forcing him into something he isn’t, even for one night.

Can it be only for tonight?

Or will he have to keep up this pretense forever, as long as we’re together?

Aren’t I doing to him exactly what Amma has done to me?

“Zar, you all right?” he asks, brows knitting together in concern. “Did I… step in it again? I can go home and change, if you want me to? I’ve never met a girlfriend’s family before, and I have to admit, I’m out of my element here.”

The twins exchange a glance at “girlfriend.”

My stomach does a flip. I shake my head once more.

Luckily, my friends have the wherewithal to take over for me and flit to either side of Nayim. While her sister supervises, Dani untucks the hem of his shirt from his dress pants, removes his belt, and tugs up his sleeves to expose his forearms, oblivious to his, “H-hey.”

“Much better,” Dalia says, appraising their work.

“Less office worker on the verge of going postal, more Vogue ,” adds Dani.

“ Vogue ?” Nayim parrots.

“Yeah, you know,” she explains. “When they have the models looking all rumpled, but on purpose. It’s hot, trust me.”

“If you say so,” he relents, but he’s watching me.

The Tahir girls peer between us, then make up some excuse about smelling smoke in the kitchen to give us time alone, with a final warning from Dalia about being careful not to wrinkle or get stains on his shirt. Nayim frowns at his shoes, which look pinchy and uncomfortable, and that’s the last straw.

Uncaring of whether anyone’s spying, I barrel into his arms and ignore his resulting “Oomph!” to whisper into his chest, “Thank you. I swear never to make you do this again.”

The comforting thump of his heart lulls me. I feel him smile into my hair as his arms settle at my waist. “Don’t worry. I’m doing this because I want to.”

And in that moment, there’s no more denying it.

I think I’m falling in love with him.

My revelation about Nayim is yet another frayed thread on my nerves.

I’m a ball of contained panic throughout my shift, a bomb on the verge of exploding into bits of frilly apron, but somehow, I manage to contain the eruption until we close at five.

Dalia and Dani exile me and Nayim with a box of ribbon-wrapped treats to go, stressing that they’re on the house, while their father watches on in consternation. On the walk home, I become a rambling wreck—reminding Nayim of all the best ways to get into my family’s good graces.

“At least you’re bringing her mishti,” I finally finish, trying to find a bright spot in my chaotic chasm of angst. Bangladeshis don’t visit anywhere without bringing some sort of gift, typically in the form of sweets like cookies—which everyone calls biscoot even in the US—or mishti or boxes of mangoes.

Nayim frowns. “If you’re that worried, we don’t have to do this tonight. We can do something more fun like—”

“No!” I exclaim. He shuffles back a step at my shout, but our eyes remain locked. “We’re doing this tonight. I won’t back out. Just—”

“Just?”

Stay with me.

“Do to my mom that thing you do to all the other old ladies of the world, okay?”

A jaunty smile draws my gaze to his mouth. “I promise, Zahra.”