Misfit in Love (Saints and Misfits #2) - S. K. Ali Page 0,71
bother me. Talking in a steady, brave way.
And not just with Dad.
And not just about some things, but everything important to me.
I can start by telling Haytham a bit more about what happened with Auntie Rima and gain the courage to talk to Dad—after the wedding.
“Auntie Rima was the one who reamed me out,” I say. “Just ’cause the fabric on my body was cut in a certain way and the designs of the embroidery weren’t from the geographical area on earth that she approved of.”
“Man, I’m shocked, but then not shocked.” He puts his hands on his hips and frowns and shakes his head so hard, his floppy hair flops even more. “I’m sorry big-time on behalf of my family. Can I ask what you did?”
“I didn’t do anything. I just stood there stunned. But my friend Sausun shredded her.” I smile, remembering Sausun’s poise. “You might know her. She runs the Niqabi Ninjas YouTube channel? Well, she IS the original Niqabi Ninja.”
Haytham stops moving. “What? THE Niqabi Ninja? SHE WAS HERE LAST NIGHT?”
I laugh and start walking, grabbing the laddoos’ hands in turn to get them to climb the porch steps. “Oh my God! Are you a fan too?”
“Seriously? How did I not know?” Haytham follows, but it’s with a big spring in his steps. He practically bounds up the steps after me. “Wait. That means she’s going to be at the wedding?”
I nod.
“Okay, now I’m really nervous. Muhammad asked me to sing when Sarah walks down the aisle to the gazebo. And with the Niqabi Ninja—What’s her name again? She never says it on the show.”
“Sausun.”
“Sausun. Such a cool name.” He pauses for a bit in the foyer like he’s relishing it. “Sausun. Yeah, so with Sausun as a wedding guest, I’m going to be scared I’ll wreck the song.”
I wait before descending to the basement. “Why?”
“Because she’s amazing. Her channel is amazing. The way she talks about Muslim stuff. And current issues. Even my non-Muslim friends watch and share it. She’s funny. She’s brave, and she doesn’t back down. So she has my mad respect.” He’s about to follow me to the basement, but I stop him and ask him to get water for our flower painting.
He salutes me and goes toward the kitchen to do my bidding. But then circles back when I’m two steps down. “Hey, I’m truly sorry for what my aunt said. That’s not gonna happen again. I’m going to tell Sarah after the wedding’s done. And then we’ll take care of it together. And I mean it—because we’ll let you know what’s been done, okay?”
I nod and smile and take the laddoos to their playroom downstairs. I open the cupboard where Linda keeps all their arts and crafts stuff neatly organized to take out a few fat paintbrushes, some jars of paint, a massive pad of heavy white paper, and a bottle of glue. I put these items into a huge canvas shopping bag I brought down with me from the kitchen.
Then we move back to the kitchen, where Haytham’s at the sink, water on, filling some jars he found in a cabinet.
We take all this to the side of the house. Hope is still working on her flowers and only briefly looks up when we spread out our stuff.
Haytham goes into complete uncle mode and settles the laddoos down by modeling how to sit against the house cross-legged to listen while I demonstrate what I want them to do. Which is just plop paint any which way on each sheet of the paper I give them. And just keep doing this while Haytham and I use hair dryers to dry the paint and then cut and assemble flowers according to a YouTube tutorial I found while in the basement.
The laddoos, sitting back like Haytham, clap their hands when I tell them they can just go crazy painting.
I was careful to only select jars and tubes of yellow paints. No bold Pacers-blue paint.
Hopefully, it will look tasteful. Hopefully.
* * *
“Luke keeps splashing me and not the paper!” Logan squeals for the tenth time, standing up and stepping away from where Luke’s flailing around, giggling.
Why are siblings so different from each other?
Luke: erupting in maniacal laughter each time he flings paint on the paper and it splatters or makes some type of a mess. His face, hands, clothes are smeared with paint—mostly on purpose. He occasionally wanders off, at which point I have to run after him and show him a new