listen—be careful around Haytham, okay? Especially since he’s staying here in the guesthouse. Him, Sarah, and Dawud.”
I turn from Dad and Linda’s bedroom door to face him. “Why? What do you mean, be careful?”
“I mean just know that he’s… really unaware of his magnetic qualities. On people.” Muhammad laughs.
“You mean, he’s a player?” I don’t let my heart sink. Because this is officially good news.
Haytham is a player. Which is UGH. So I’m on firm ground—not one iota near falling for a gorgeous, baking, chivalrous, singing player. Who’s great with kids.
“No way, no, of course not!” Muhammad looks alarmed. “Never. He’s the president of his MSA. Or he was last year. And he’s studying Islamic studies.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” I frown. As if any of it proves anything. The monster who attacked me two years ago was considered a “pious good boy” at the mosque.
“I know, but in this case it does. He’s legit. The man doesn’t fool around at all. And is serious about stuff like that.”
“Oh.” I wonder if my face looks as contorted as my heart feels. It felt tons better when Haytham could be written off. Because I write off people like that immediately—people who pretend to be saintly.
“I mean Sarah’s told me he’s gotten into things where people have thought he was interested in them when he wasn’t. And it’s all because he’s cool and kind, you know?”
“Oh my God, Muhammad!” I open the master bedroom door, anger mixing with embarrassment. “Do you really think I think he likes me? I just met him! Plus, I don’t even find him interesting in that way?”
“I thought you might have, you know, fallen for the you know what.” He points at his brow. “ ’Cause I noticed the way you looked at that forehead. In the lake. It was in awe, Janna.”
I go inside and close the door in his face.
Siblings know all the unmentionables about you.
* * *
Somehow I find myself in the third-floor bathroom.
I have no idea why I gathered my clothes from my second-floor bedroom and bypassed its beautifully appointed en suite bathroom and lifted my feet up the steps to the alcove guest bedroom.
It is steamy, but the fogged-up mirror is slowly clearing. At the edges, not the middle.
Are those words?
Someone’s written something onto the mirror, into the fog.
The weight of your soul
Joined with its many kindreds
Will light upon
The rest of the verse disappears into the now reappearing mirror.
I look at my reflection in the clearing parts.
My face is lit by the light of intrigue, the beginnings of fascination.
On top of being a kid tamer and a baker and a singer, he’s a poet, too?
I can’t wait until Nuah gets here tomorrow.
* * *
After my shower I find Sarah in the basement, in the storage room, counting boxes of something. She immediately wraps me in a hug. “Janna! Assalamu alaikum, my Janna!”
Sarah Mahmoud, my sister-in-law-to-be, is beautiful, kind, and completely determined in a steely, iron-grip CEO kind of way, while radiating positivity. Even her clothes beam joy—right now she has on a bright mustard-colored shirt over jeans, topped with an even brighter chiffon-mustard scarf, perfectly peaked at the top of her head à la the latest hijab style, round sunglasses resting atop it all.
Her entire vibe all the time is Joy to the World (That I Plan on Dominating)!
“Wait, you didn’t go into the room next door, right?” I say, worried she saw the way Linda and I decorated it for the henna party tomorrow night. It’s a surprise we organized under the supervision of Linda’s friend, Ms. Mehta, who’s super into the latest desi decor and fashions. She showed us how to throw the “most authentic mehndi party ever,” which included draping lots of brightly colored, long, sheer saris all over the walls, with twinkling lights in between them. My arms are still tired from all the work yesterday.
But, I have to say, Yay for Ms. Mehta! Linda and I aren’t well versed in desi things, since she’s from a Greek family and I didn’t learn any culture, with parents from two distinct backgrounds. Dad’s family is originally Indian, and Mom’s is Egyptian, but they were both born in America. So we really needed the “education” Ms. Mehta gave us; though, honestly, after a while, my mind got tired from hearing all the “rules” for a proper henna party according to her.
I went along with it all because of my love for Sarah. I wanted to surprise her with something spectacular, something