Page 27

The Bangla Mela falls on Sunday just a few days later, giving me no time to angst over boys—well, a certain specific boy—since Amma and Chai Ho have stalls at the festival.

While my mother and grandmother push to complete as many individual pieces of clothing to sell as they can the day before the mela, I text Ximena to request her help in making an eye-catching banner. She comes over, and it’s the first time we’ve hung out alone since school ended.

As we laugh watching Resna add colorful handprints around the borders of Ximena’s creation, I find that I’ve really missed spending time with her, but I’m not sure what to do about it. She gives me a very long hug before she leaves, perhaps thinking along the same lines.

Later that night, Mr. Tahir calls to say, “Consider yourself on reserve during the festival, Miss Khan. I have the girls assisting me. Your mother needs you more.”

I appreciate this, because the festival begins booming with activity bright and early. The aromas of curries and kebabs, mishti and sanasur, float through the air, which pulses with the beating of drums. Police cruisers block off both ends of Union Avenue, from Totowa to Wayne. The everyday shops are shuttered and parked cars have been moved, replaced by hundreds of stalls selling everything from jewelry and henna designs to street food.

At the very heart, a tall stage has been set up with speakers arranged around it. A growing crowd gathers there, waiting for whatever shilpi has been flown in from Bangladesh to perform. Tiny children with bangles tinkling on their wrists and bells chiming on their ankles dance to the music the DJ plays, while their parents clap.

Other children, like my own sister, tear through the swarming bodies in vibrantly colored face paint and papier-maché masks that make them look like packs of tigers, flocks of birds, and other wild beasts, out-of-breath chaperones—Arif, in Resna’s case—at their heels. People from the neighborhood watch and whoop from their patios. Nanu, who can’t walk for too long without her arthritis flaring, accompanies one of her fellow grandmas in doing exactly that.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Amma, who’s still stubbornly giving me the silent treatment. I refuse to be the first to break, so it’s through a series of grunts and meaningful glares that we communicate enough to get her garment stall set up—a foldout plastic table Meera Khala found in her shed, with Ximena’s banner flapping above.

Before she busies herself with her sewing equipment, however, she raps me on the back with the length of her measuring tape, a wordless, Stop hunching and model my dress properly. Grumbling in the stuffy anarkali suit, I troubleshoot for customers as she haggles over prices and takes aunties’ measurements.

A woman who must be all of four feet holds her bangled arms out for that purpose. When Amma kneels to wrap the tape around her waist, she says, “Ever since you got that wedding party job, you’ve been impossible to get ahold of, Zaynab Afa. How is that coming along?”

Pink-cheeked, my mother murmurs, “It hasn’t been without its ups and downs.”

Mostly downs, I grumble internally.

“I hope the bride likes the final pieces,” Amma finishes, oblivious to my thoughts.

“Nonsense,” drawls a new voice. “Don’t be humble, Zaynab. Your work is impeccable.”

To my absolute surprise, we turn to find Pushpita Emon. Harun skulks behind her, bags of his mother’s purchases hanging off his arms. In spite of their weight, his fingers twitch in a covert greeting, before he clenches them into a fist and frowns.

My ears burn from the knowing stares of the crowd bustling around us, no doubt vibrating with curiosity over how we’ll deal with seeing each other again. Ever since we fought, every reminder that he doesn’t hate me has filled me with visceral relief, but since admitting my feelings for him to myself, just being together steals my breath.

I raise my hand, then pretend to tuck a loose strand behind my ear. Harun’s eyes crinkle at the corners, like he sees right through my act but doesn’t mind.

It’s already gotten through town that Harun Emon and Zahra Khan famously do not get along. Somehow, the story of Resna throwing her mishti doi at him evolved into my siblings and I trashing the Emons’ entire house. Some said uppity Pushpita Emon had it coming. Others tut as they observe us now. There really are no secrets in Paterson.

“You’re too kind, Pushpita Afa,” Amma says. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten the commission in the first place. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Pushpita Khala shakes her head. “I’m not the sort of woman who suffers fools, dear. I never would have recommended you if your work didn’t merit it. Just because our, ah, little arrangement didn’t work out doesn’t mean I won’t still support your business. So let your afa see what else you’ve been cooking up!”

Amma’s incandescent smile makes my heart sing.

Harun must have smoothed things over with his parents. I think I see now why my own mother likes his so much, and why he’s such a devoted son. There’s compassion beneath her bluster. The same compassion in him.

Even knowing this doesn’t stop my jaw from dropping when he strides past me toward Amma and clears his throat. “Khala… afnare help khortham farmu nee?”

Amma’s jaw joins mine at his valiant effort at Bengali and the timid Good Bangladeshi Boy smile that accompanies it, but she manages a sputtered, “Oh, thank you, thank you! What a bhodro sele you are. Of course you can help. Will you be fine with Zahra?”

Pushpita Khala beams in approval.

Harun nods and slinks over to my side. “Need a hand?”

I squint. “You sure those delicate rich-boy hands can handle the manual labor?”

He rolls his eyes, but his cheek dimples. “My boss is pretty demanding, so I guess I’ll have to learn on the job.”

“You’ve got that right, Emon.”

Despite my brazen assertion, a tingle courses up my fingertips as he accepts from me the money I’d been about to count, lingering for a second too long. His eyes widen and dart away from mine to the bills, but I can’t help stealing peeks at his studious profile, admiring the sooty shadows cast by his lashes over his cheeks, the way he chews on his bottom lip when concentrating, and his frankly criminal cheekbone-to-jaw ratio.

Harun’s mother glances up from our wares to consider us, and I sense another familiar stare boring into my back. Immediately, I snap my gaze away from Harun and fish out the customer-service smile I’ve perfected at Chai Ho, willing the heat to desert my face.

The other aunties exchange eager looks, then trail Pushpita Khala to our table, rifling through the sharis, shalwar kameezes, anarkali suits, and accompanying accessories Amma created. There are even a few hand-stitched khethas made by Nanu that will be perfect to decorate their beds with on cooler summer nights.

Soon I have fistfuls of twenties aimed at my head, and Amma is fielding query after query about whether she’ll be taking future commissions.

In that way, although they’re not the ones wearing animal costumes today, aunties are a lot like wolves: they take cues from the alpha, crowding around whatever carcass she’s chosen. Whatever else they might say about her, Pushpita Emon is that alpha.

Like this, an hour trickles by.

Harun continues to collect the cash while I show off different materials to our customers. As we get more and more patrons, a sudden shrill squeal pierces through the crowd, louder than the bickering of the aunties fighting over the last beaded blouse.

The groping hands and griping voices around us fade when a colorful figure parts the bodies around her with a wave of her bell-sleeved arms. She’s a young woman, probably around Sammi Afa’s age or a little younger, and makes a statement in the heavily embroidered tunic she wears over jeans. An entourage of women varying in age follow her.

“Zaynab Khala, you didn’t tell me you had a stand here today!” she squeals again. “And Pushpita Khala’s here too?”

“Um.” I glance between our loud new customer and my mother, who has become a ghastly shade of pale. “Welcome?” It comes out as a question. “Please, take a look.”

She already is, rummaging through our offerings and tossing whatever she doesn’t like aside. Occasionally, one of her crew pipes up with input on the things she holds up, but more often than not, she brushes aside their commentary and the disapproving murmurs of the other customers she’s cut ahead of at the booth.

I turn to Amma again, lifting a hand in a WTF? gesture.

She grimaces but mouths back, Bride-zolad…

Oh… Oh! Crap, talking to her never ends well. I haven’t personally had the displeasure, but I have witnessed the fallout, with my mother and grandmother frantically trying to change the thread color in the hem stitches of every blouse, or whatever other bizarre request she’s made.

Smile stiffening, I interrupt, “Is there something specific I can help you find today?”

“No,” she snaps at once, before really taking notice of me. A slow smile spreads across her face as she eyes me from head to toe. “You must be Zaynab Khala’s daughter! You’re so lucky, having your mother around to make you such gorgeous clothes.”

I start to nod, then blurt, “Hey!” when she reaches across the table to rub the material of my anarkali skirt between her fingertips, humming all the while.

Harun, for his part, jerks like he intends to put an arm between us, then resigns us both to our fates with a sigh. “Hey, Sonia Afa.”

“Oh, hi, Harun,” she says distractedly, without glancing away from my skirt. Her head whips up to beam at Amma behind my shoulder. “Khala, why haven’t you ever shown me this darling tulle material?”

My mother’s jaw works as her grip tightens on the measuring tape she holds. The auntie she’s been tailoring gapes between her and the bride-zolad. Amma gulps, takes a breath, and in the meekest voice I’ve ever heard, says, “You told me which fabric to use from day one. Don’t you remember the sketches and photos you sent me? There were so many photos.”

“What do I know?” the bride-zolad scoffs. “You’re clearly the expert. I mean, just look at this!” She tugs on my skirt again, ignoring the way I grab the edge of the table to keep from tipping forward, and Harun’s steadying grasp on my elbow. “Layering lightly embroidered netting over the rest of the dress is inspired, I tell you!”

“Um, well, if you like it so much, you can have it!” I interject. “I’ll take it off right now.”

Harun’s eyes go huge, but the bride-zolad waves her hand. “Aren’t you funny? I meant for my wedding shari. None of my friends’ sharis had such a unique feature.”

“B-but,” Amma says, “all the material has already been purchased. The pieces are close to being done. To make such a big change at this stage would be—”

“Money is no object,” the bride-zolad counters breezily. “You know my fiancé works for a big hedge fund, don’t you? He told me I could have whatever I want.”

My eyes widen as the realization of what she’s asking for hits me with the full force of a truck. After all the money and time and labor we’ve funneled into her wedding party outfits, she’s suddenly had a drastic change of heart?

What’s more, it’s a costly one.

“Now, Sonia,” Pushpita Khala steps in at last. “Don’t you think you’re being unreasonable? Your mother told me about the caterers and the florist and—”

A woman in an earth-toned shari behind the bride-zolad—presumably her mother—shakes her head for dear life.

Sonia’s brown eyes turn icy and her upper lip curls. “Khala, I did you a favor by hiring your friend. Because you asked and I respect you so deeply. But I’m the customer, and the customer is always right. If she’s not experienced enough to meet my needs, perhaps I should take my business elsewhere?”

“No!” Amma exclaims.

The sound of her outburst summons yet more murmurings from the surrounding aunties, this time of pity. Red splotches fill the apples of my mother’s cheeks. She clears her throat. “That is, thank you, Pushpita Afa, but you don’t need to fret. Sonia simply has superb taste, but I’m certain I can make exactly what she wants.” She rubs her hands together, squeezing the measuring tape too tightly. “Perhaps after I close up my stand, we can discuss another advance on my payment? The cost of this—”

“My fiancé will handle all that at the end,” Sonia says dismissively. I seethe. She’s not the least bit grateful. “He’s too busy right now.”

Amma’s eyes flick to me at once, glistening with an emotion she can’t reveal in front of so many people, even if most can venture a guess at how she’s feeling. Covering the cost of this new material without another advance will be impossible. If she bows to the bride-zolad, she can’t pay me back as soon as we’d both like, but if she doesn’t concede, the bride-zolad might not pay us at all, and then everything will be in vain.

Amma clears her throat once more. “Still. I’d like it if you could get him on the phone.”

“We’ll see,” comes the breezy reply.

A white-hot blade of rage twists in my chest, the sting of it briefly overtaking the sadness that bleeds beneath. Before I can leap across the table to throw myself on the bride-zolad, who is already sashaying away now that the damage is done, Harun’s fingers around my bicep stop me once more.

A few seconds later, she and her entourage vanish into the parade of people swarming us, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. I stare after her blankly, so shocked by this sideswipe that I don’t notice Harun speaking to me or the swell of other concerned voices rallying around my mother.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I shake my head, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.

Amma puts on a brave face for her own audience, who tut at the rumors of the bride-zolad’s treatment of her other employees.

“I heard that she just switched caterers,” says one auntie.

“She fired the florist, too,” adds another.

A third auntie peers off in the direction of the food stalls. “She’s such a nightmare, even Mr. Tahir turned her down when she asked him to take over dessert catering, and you know he never says no to money. Made an excuse about being short-staffed now that the Aktar boy is gone.”

Amma, who’s been listening intently, jerks another glance at me upon hearing that, but I avoid her and Harun’s gaze, not wanting to see the I told you so in the former or pity in the latter. Especially when aunties can smell secrets like sharks smell blood in the water.

“Ekh bar-eh zolad-nee,” they all agree, denouncing her as a total mean girl.

Pushpita Khala shakes her head, wrapping an arm around Amma. “I can’t help feeling responsible for this, Zaynab. She’s demanding, but between her own family’s money and that bush-managing fiancé of hers she’s always going on about, I assumed she could at least be trusted to pay you properly.”

“No, don’t blame yourself,” my mother replies. “I… she will pay. We’ll be fine until then. Perhaps her fiancé will be more reasonable.”

She forces a smile. Everyone is paying attention to her, so I let my own smiling mask crumble, fists shaking where they’re balled up in my skirt.

That answer was her pride talking.

We’re far from fine. My dreams for college might once again become as flimsy as the tulle that is currently ruining my life. It’s hard to have my future ride on the gauzy whims of a person like the bride-zolad. There’s only so much more I can take.

“Amma, can I go check on Chai Ho?” I ask, loud enough to cut through the chatter.

She hesitates, but then Harun jumps in. “I can stay and help khala clean up.”

Amma looks surprised but smiles graciously at him and gives me a nod. “Go on then, Zahra, we’ve done as much as we can here.”

Casting a grateful glance at Harun, I escape without another moment’s notice.

It’s not a lie that I want to go to Chai Ho, but when I get there, rather than the sympathetic ear I hoped for, I notice Dalia and Mr. Tahir working frantically to serve the customers lined up in front of their booth, no Dani in sight. Mrs. Tahir is there in her stead, an unusual sight.

Something’s not right.

Dalia’s round face is drawn, her brown eyes big and sad.

But I can hardly cut in front of all the customers like the bride-zolad did, so I reluctantly wade deeper into the mela, letting my feet take me anywhere they please.

Hours later, I make my way home.

I don’t realize I must look like a tragic Bollywood heroine in my princess dress and runny makeup until I enter the apartment and startle a gasp out of Amma, who is stooped over the brocade of the wedding shari, carefully undoing the intricate golden pattern so she can replace it with the tulle the bride-zolad demanded.

“Ah, Zahra!” She does a double take at my appearance but doesn’t comment on my tears, though her throat bobs. “Your brother and I looked for you earlier so I could show you some of the trinkets I picked up for you, but we couldn’t find you or the Tahirs. You should have answered your phone.” I bow my head at her reprimanding tone until her expression softens. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you found some time to enjoy yourself with your friends.”

I stand in the doorway, simply watching her. She keeps blinking her own bloodshot eyes and her hands are quivering. She shouldn’t be working on the bride-zolad’s commission after spending all day tailoring dresses for customers at the festival, but somehow, she even found the time to buy me a present.

I wonder where she got the money for it.

Where she’ll get the money for the new fabric.

Nayim wasn’t wrong. Sometimes I do feel suffocated by Amma’s expectations for me. Sometimes I fear that her desires will suck all the life out of my own dreams. But as I observe her in the faint light of the lamp, I can’t resist getting drawn in by something with no name other than love, and can’t imagine going so far away that she wouldn’t know where I am.

“Can I help, Amma?”

She taps her chin. “I suppose it may be time to try it on someone.”

This time, I don’t mind posing as her mannequin. Her brown eyes glaze over at the sight of me dressed like a bride. I can tell she’s imagining my wedding day, see the influx of emotions in the firm press of her quivering lips, the way a smile twitches at the corners, the way she uses an excuse to kneel so she can dab at her cheeks with the shari’s hem. But she won’t say so because she thinks I’ll get mad, shattering the fragile cease-fire between us.

I’m grateful.

I desperately want to tell her everything.

Instead I return to my room to find a set of gold-plated suris on top of the library books on my desk. I rub my thumb over the floral embossment on each, more troubles in my head than there are jewels in the bangles.

It’s not an apology, but it’s close enough.