An Infidel in Paradise Read online

I’m just about to hurl myself on the floor and fake a choking fit when suddenly he laughs. Not the predictable awkward laugh of the First Day, when you really don’t get the joke, but a genuinely happy sound. It’s arresting, and I’m shocked that every single kid in the entire room is not staring at him like I am. He’s laughing like he does at home when I’ve done an impersonation of one of our teachers. He’s laughing like he laughs with me, or at least used to.

  “Take a picture, it lasts longer.” I turn to see a petite, dark-eyed girl with olive skin, a gorgeous mane of black hair cascading down her back, and a mischievous, elf-like grin. From her accent, I’m guessing she’s American.

  “What?”

  “The guy you’re crushing on. If you want him, staring at him like a stalker is so not the way to go.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I really don’t. Who is this strange little elf?

  “Tousled blond hair, baby blues, great butt, the guy you’ve been drooling over for a solid five minutes. You are way not subtle.”

  I can’t decide if I’m more shocked by her description of my brother or her assumption that I’m after him. “So, you think he’s cute?” I ask.

  “You kidding? He’s hot, but if you want a shot at him, you’re gonna have to get in line. And I gotta tell you, Michelle has him pretty much sewn up. She’s the tall chick sitting next to him who can’t keep her hands off him.”

  “You noticed that too?” I’m starting to like this girl.

  “Oh yeah, but go ahead and make your move. You’re new, blonde, hot. You’d make a cute couple. Take out that Michelle bitch. I’ll support you.”

  “Great idea. Just one small hitch. He’s my brother.”

  “Yeah, I knew that.” She grins again, and it’s such an unaffected, happy grin, I find myself grinning back at her. “I was just messing with you. Your brother is hot, though.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” She really is an odd little thing. There’s something fearless about her, like she doesn’t know the rules. I want to protect her, or get out of her way.

  “Come sit with me.” She grabs my hand. “I’ll introduce you to your new friends.”

  I want to snatch my hand back. I have a method for starting over in a new school. It’s like figuring out your role in an ecosystem. The structure’s already in place; all you need to do is keep a low profile until you decide where you fit in. This girl is moving way too fast. Before I have time to react, she’s dragging me over to a table full of raucous girls in the middle of the room. I’m just thinking that if I could choose one table not to sit at, this would be it, when she barks out orders to at least half a dozen girls to shift – and a space opens up. She plops down on the bench, dragging me down with her.

  “So, tell us about yourself.” She glares around the table. “Shut up, girls,” she orders and grins.

  “You shut up,” says a girl directly across from me, who I’m pretty sure is breaking dress code with her low-cut top and multiple piercings. “I’m Jazzy, and I should warn you, the sooner you learn not to take orders from Angie, the happier you’ll be.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” retorts Angie. “You couldn’t dress yourself if you didn’t have me picking out your clothes.”

  “Only because I’ve got more important things to do than read fashion magazines all day.”

  “Right, you’re too busy trying to get Johan to notice you,” says Angie.

  “Get with the program, Angie.” Jazzy sniffs. “Johan is so last year.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t get him last year. Don’t tell me you’re finally giving up?”

  “Not giving up. Moving on. I don’t even like him anymore.”

  “Oh, of course. We understand,” says a girl on Jazzy’s right. Her kohl-darkened eyes sparkle, and her multiple gold bangles tinkle together as she lightly pats Jazzy’s shoulder. “Johan has only grown three inches over the summer and become even more handsome, but why would you care? You don’t even notice him. Isn’t that right?”

  “Don’t tease her, Leela,” says a girl sitting beside me, the seams of her shalwar kameez straining as she leans across the table. “Perhaps Jazzy has decided to become more serious this year. You would do well to follow her example.”

  Leela’s bangles clink again as she covers her mouth to stifle a smile. “I’m sorry, Jazzy. Tira’s right. We must all be serious. What must this poor dear girl think of us?” She turns to me and flashes an exaggerated look of apology. “And we haven’t even introduced ourselves.” Leela goes round the table, rattling off names, most of which I promptly forget.

  “Now, Emma, tell us all about yourself,” Leela says. “Don’t leave anything out. We want every detail. Isn’t that right, girls?”

  “Yeah, but you can leave out the bit about your dad’s coma,” says Angie, smirking. “We already heard about that.” The entire table erupts in laughter.

  Busted! I’m silent for a few long seconds, trying to think of something to say that will achieve the perfect balance of boring but not stupid. The goal is to discourage further interrogation without sounding like an idiot. I consider myself a bit of a master at this.

  “I’m Canadian.”

  Angie is not impressed. “We know that.”

  “My mom runs the consular section at the embassy.”

  “Know that too.”

  “I have a birthmark on my right shoulder.”

  “Really, that’s fascinating. We’d love to hear more about that, but first maybe you could tell us what exactly you said to Musa Khan this morning?”

  “Musa who?” I ask innocently, hoping to buy a little time. In a perfect world, the bell would ring right now and we’d all have to rush back to class.

  “Nice try, but you may as well tell us. Aisha’s going around telling her version to anyone who’ll listen. She has a lot of people convinced you’re some snotty North American looking down your nose at everything. And, FYI, that’s not someone you want to be in this country.”

  “Thanks for the news flash,” I say grimly, staring down at the table.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter what you really said. Aisha’s a queen biatch. She thinks every girl in this school is after Mustapha. Most of us she’s not worried about, but with your looks, she’s gotta be freaking out, and half the school saw you in his arms this morning. Even if you hadn’t attacked their country, she’d be out to get you.”

  “I didn’t mean what I said.” How long is the lunch break here? My head is starting to throb.

  “Of course you didn’t.” Leela reaches across the table and puts her hand on my arm, her bangles cascading down her wrist. It would be more comforting if I didn’t get the definite impression she just likes to jingle her bangles.

  “Still you must apologize,” says Tahira. Though she and Leela are both wearing shalwar kameezes, Leela’s bindi sets her apart. She’s Indian and Tahira’s local. I flush at what Tahira must think of me.

  “What she should do is stay out of their way,” argues Angie. “Anything she says will only be used against her.”

  “Definitely,” agrees Jazzy. “Mustapha’s in twelfth grade. She may not even run into him again.”

  “On the other hand,” says Angie, “she could easily have him in one of her classes.”

  “Whether she has him in her class or not, she needs to apologize. Musa is from a good family. He will accept your apology, and that will be the end of it.” Tahira is beginning to sound annoyed.

  “Tira’s right,” says Leela. “No good can come from avoiding the issue.”

  They all begin talking at once. I’m pretty sure I could walk away right now and not one of them would notice.

  “You’re all missing the point.” Angie shouts to be heard. “Aisha isn’t trashing Emma because of what she said. She’s trashing her because Mustapha isn’t.”

  For a tiny girl, Angie has a shockingly loud voice. Everyone at the table stops talking at once. Unfortunately, so does everyone at every other table in a five-mile radius.
Is it inevitable that Aisha is only two tables over and now glaring at me with a heat that could melt glass?

  For a nanosecond, I think of making a penitent face, staring at the ground, and beaming “sorry” thoughts her way. But the entire school is watching, so when our eyes lock, I go with a friendly smile and a little wave I once saw Queen Elizabeth do on TV.

  Jazzy bursts out laughing in the same moment Tahira gasps. Leela shakes her head and reaches for my hand as if there’s still time to save the situation, and Angie abruptly stands up, pulling me with her.

  “Lunch is over,” says Angie. “Come on, Emma, I’ll show you where to fix your makeup.”

  “But I’m not wearing makeup.” I grab my bag as she drags me to my feet.

  “Well, obviously that’s one of the things we’ll have to fix.” Still holding me firmly at the elbow, she begins pushing me ahead of her, out the nearest door. She’s muttering something under her breath, but in the general hubbub of other conversations, I can catch only a few words, which sound a lot like head case and death wish.

  Inside the girls’ bathroom, Angie leans on the door to keep other kids out. She has a pained expression on her face, and her eyes are closed. I think we’re going to be late for class. Maybe if we’re really late, there won’t be time for me to introduce myself. I’m not even sure what my next class is, and I definitely have no idea where. I slip my bag off my shoulder and begin rummaging for my schedule. Finally, she opens her eyes and looks at me earnestly.

  “Don’t worry. We can still fix this.”

  This is a lie and we both know it, but at this very moment, what’s really worrying me is her use of the word we. I hardly know this girl, and I wouldn’t say up until now she’s done a brilliant job of protecting my interests. She just told the entire freaking school that this Aisha girl is threatened by me. I’m pretty sure that is not going to help smooth things over.

  “I know you’re probably wondering why you should trust me.”

  Now that’s just creepy. How could she know that?

  “You live on Compound B, right?”

  I don’t answer, which apparently doesn’t matter because she keeps talking.

  “I’m right across the road on the American embassy compound. I’ll come over after school, and we’ll work out what you should do.”

  “Great,” I say without enthusiasm. I sling my bag back over my shoulder and make a move for the door.

  “Don’t worry,” she says with a grin, stepping aside and following me out. “I’ll grow on you and we will fix this.”

  Just before we part ways in the middle of the courtyard, Angie grabs me again and pulls me in close for some final intel. “Mustapha and Aisha are kind of important people here.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “You need to understand. They come from these rich families, and they’re, like, promised to each other or something. I’m not totally sure what the deal is. But the thing is, you don’t want them for enemies, if you know what I mean.”

  I nod my head, but I’m pretty sure the boat’s sailed on that one.

  CHAPTER 4

  I get lost on the way to my last class and have to stop twice for directions. I’m looking for a large freestanding building that looks like a theater, beyond the lower-school classrooms. After twenty minutes of wandering, so overheated I feel like I’m going to pass out or vomit, I find myself standing outside a large freestanding building that looks nothing like a theater but decide to go in anyway. At this point, all I really care about is getting out of the heat. The sun has gone from aggressive to violent, and I would go into the boys’ changing room right now for five minutes of air-conditioning.

  Of course, my luck being what it is, the building I enter is not only hotter than outside but has the added agony of being humid as well. Even delirious with heatstroke, I realize I’m in some kind of greenhouse. The long corridor in front of me is a riot of color with flowering plants on both sides. The air is thick with perfume. I’m obviously in the wrong place, yet weirdly it’s the first thing that’s felt right all day. I know I’m late for class, but something pushes me forward through the maze of branches until I stop in front of a small flowering bush. There were hundreds like this in the Philippines, two in my own backyard.

  I close my eyes, breathe in the smell from the flowers, and suddenly I’m transported out of this dry, dusty country back to Manila, with its lush greenery and towering palms. It’s like I’m on the edge of a time portal. If I can just find a way to step through, I could be back in my garden, sitting on the patio swing overlooking the pool, sipping iced tea, and telling Zenny about my First Day of school. She’d want to know what everyone had worn, since we always agonized the night before about what I was going to wear. We’d share a laugh over the worst fashion disasters, and she’d reassure me I looked good, even if I didn’t. Of course, in my fantasy, this would have to be before I found out she was sleeping with my dad.

  “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  I jump at the disembodied voice that sounds alarmingly close, though all I can see in every direction is leaves. A man steps into the corridor, emerging from the plants like a pod-person.

  “What are you looking for?” His voice is stern, but the eyes in his deeply lined face are gentle.

  “We had these at home.” I finger one of the branches.

  “In America? Are you sure? That’s Medinilla. They don’t grow in cold places.” I don’t bother telling him I’m not American. Once you leave Canada, everyone on the entire planet assumes you’re American. After a while, you just go with it.

  “I meant the Philippines.”

  “Achcha, the perfect climate. You don’t look Filipino.”

  “No.”

  “And now this is your home.” He takes a step closer, and I look away.

  I don’t know how to answer. There are a million words in my head right now, but none of them cuts it. Why is one place home and another place just isn’t? We have an awkward moment.

  “How do you like Pakistan?”

  I really want to say something nice. After all these years, why am I suddenly overwhelmed by this question? We have another awkward moment.

  “Come.” He gestures that I should follow and turns away into the greenery. I’m not sure I want to follow, but what else am I going to do? Taking a few steps after him, I see there’s a narrow overgrown walkway through the branches. We walk for several minutes, twisting and turning deeper into the maze. It occurs to me this would be the perfect place to murder someone. No one would ever find the body, and you could use the rotting corpse for compost. Why didn’t I think of something nice to say about his stupid country?

  Suddenly he stops and points to a large flowering bush with frilly orange petals and hanging tendrils. “It is my favorite. The Red Bird of Paradise.” He smiles proudly.

  I definitely don’t see the big deal, but I smile politely. I wonder if the heat’s gotten to him as well.

  “This can grow in your country.”

  “The Philippines?”

  “Yes. And America. And Pakistan.” He gives me a look like he’s sharing something important. “Allow me to show you.” He seems a little frustrated now and starts scrabbling in the dirt at the base of the plant. I surreptitiously look around for an exit. “Look!” he shouts triumphantly and yanks a long gnarly root out of the ground. “The roots are very deep. You see? The temperature can be very cold or very hot. The plant gets no water for many days. Still it will not die. One day you think it is dead; the next you have a flower.”

  “Can you tell me how to find the theater?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and I fidget with my bag while he reburies his root. Turning away, he heads back the way we came. “Follow me. I will take you.” His voice is über-polite, and I know I’ve disappointed him. I wonder how many more people I’m going to let down before this day finally ends.

  We emerge from the greenhouse, both shielding our eyes against the blinding intensity of the late
-day sun. “It is your first day, isn’t it?” I don’t even wonder how he knows. “How is it?”

  “Great,” I lie, finally having the wherewithal to put my game face on.

  “It is always difficult in the beginning. You think no one will like you.”

  I know no one likes me. Well, maybe Angie. But that’s not the point.

  “Soon you will make a friend.”

  I have friends, or I had them anyway. I’ve made friends everywhere we’ve lived and had them wrenched away every time we moved. You could sink an ocean liner with all my friends. But not one of them is here.

  “I think I got off to a bad start with some people,” I say.

  Where did that come from? I’m blurting out my life story to total strangers now?

  “A known mistake is better than an unknown truth.”

  Oh God, another Yoda moment.

  “So, what do I do about it?” Rewind! What did I ask him that for? What the heck am I doing? This man is not my friend. He doesn’t even know me. But I hold my breath as I wait for him to answer.

  “You make it right,” he says, as if anything can ever be right again. I wonder what it would be like to live in his world.

  “How?” We’re crossing a field now. I wasn’t even close to the theater.

  “Allah will show the way. You just have to let him,” he says calmly. I sigh and pass my hand over my eyes. It’s been a really long day, and my head is throbbing again.

  “This is the theater.” We stop outside a large freestanding building that does indeed look like a theater. “Aap ka naam kya hai?”

  This is the first thing he’s said that I completely understand. Mom makes me take survival language lessons every time we change countries. I do my best to learn nothing so she’ll finally take the hint and stop moving us, but no matter how hard I try, I always pick up the basics, just like she knows I will.

  “Emma Grey,” I tell him, looking up into his wizened face and wondering how many kids like me have passed through his life and what difference it makes who I am.

  “I’m always in the greenhouse, Emma Grey. I am Mr. Akbar.” He gives me a look so full of empathy that I feel tears welling up in my eyes and have to look down to blink them away.