{"id":17053,"date":"2021-08-01T00:01:22","date_gmt":"2021-08-01T05:01:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=17053"},"modified":"2021-07-31T17:00:00","modified_gmt":"2021-07-31T22:00:00","slug":"nine-eyes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/17053","title":{"rendered":"Nine Eyes"},"content":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s July. Surveillance state season, Layla calls it. Everyone is watching, or threatening to: the feds; our parents; the aunties on WhatsApp; the gora boys at Wawa. Always, of course, Allah. Before I leave the house, Ma throws salt on my face to ward off the jinn and says no boys or else: \u201cWhen a boy and a girl are together, the devil\u2019s the third.\u201d What about when a girl and a girl are together, I don\u2019t ask. Is an angel with them instead?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/span><\/p>\n

We ride our bikes up and down the Henry Hudson Trail, though we spend more time looking down than up. Needles, cans of Red Bull, plastic hangers\u2014the path is littered with shit and if we\u2019re not careful we\u2019ll go flying.<\/span><\/p>\n

Once, we almost do.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI knew it,\u201d Layla says, jumping off her bike. \u201cOf course it\u2019s him.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

By him she means Trump, or at least the campaign sign with his name that\u2019s half-attached to a squashed metal stand. She pulls a Sharpie marker out of her bra and starts drawing a giant dick on it, a detailed one, with tiny hairs and everything.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGross,\u201d I say.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d she goes. \u201cHe is, isn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I nod, though he\u2019s not all I meant.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We walk along Keansburg Boardwalk, rolling our jeans into capris and eventually shorts. Tourists tap our shoulders and tug our arms. Which way is the Lost Lagoon? How far is the nearest porta potty? Where are you from? Your parents? India, Iran? Oh, Pakistan, they say when we respond, if we respond. That\u2019s where they found Saddam, right? Or was it Osama?<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We pass a vape pen back and forth under the trees along the trail. Plastic bags hang from the branches instead of leaves, and they fill with traces of our smoke. She flicks her tongue before putting her mouth on the pen, and heat rises in my chest, my legs, places I thought would only ever remain cold.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not a lollipop,\u201d she goes when it\u2019s my turn, when I keep my lips pressed against the imprint of hers. \u201cYou need to open your mouth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/span><\/p>\n

We read aloud from a book of Rumi poetry. I hold one end; she holds the other.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cKnow that my beloved is hidden from everyone,\u201d I say. \u201cLike the shadow I am and I am not,\u201d she says back.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s my idea to cover the book with a book sock. The galaxy kind, so our parents think we\u2019re studying for AP Bio in the fall.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d she goes. \u201cIt\u2019s not like we\u2019re reading a porno.\u201d Still, whenever the fabric slips, she readjusts it and when it finally tears, she duct tapes the wound.<\/span><\/p>\n

We flip through essays from the appendix. Who was Rumi\u2019s lover? One scholar says a woman with a Marilyn Monroe mole. Another says Allah. A third says Shams.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s Shams?\u201d I ask. \u201cA man,\u201d she says. I\u2019m not sure if the book shakes because of her hands or mine. \u201cHis teacher.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/span><\/p>\n

We get our mustaches waxed at Raheela Aunty\u2019s parlor. Aunties crane their necks from the waiting area as we wince. They wear oversized t-shirts from The Dollar Tree that say \u201cJersey Girl\u201d in neon-lime print and read us news from their WhatsApp group chats.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Turmeric cures PMS. Princess Diana was murdered, did you know? Sana Masood took a leave of absence from Rutgers because she was depressed. Her poor family. Shame, shame.\u00a0 They tell us what they like about us and what they don\u2019t. Big nose. Tip top brows. A bird\u2019s frame. Hazel eyes, under the vanity lights. Mashallah, mashallah.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We pick up halal meat from Shahnawaz Grocery. Uncles sit on concrete benches outside and play Snakes and Ladders, yelling beinchodt! sisterfucker! when they roll a number they don\u2019t like. They turn to one another as we pass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhose girl is she again?\u201d they ask, though it\u2019s unclear which of us they mean. \u201cWomen,\u201d Layla hisses after we lose sight of them. \u201cWe\u2019re women.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre we?\u201d I go.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDuh,\u201d she says, raising her finger to my chest. My nipple is hard, and her eyes widen when she feels it. \u201cHow else do you have these?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We share a stuffed pretzel from the express case at Wawa. Salt falls from the corners of her mouth onto my lap. In the parking lot, gora boys snort crushed Adderall from Altoids tins and shout Princess Jasmine! or sometimes just Jasmine. Twice, Malala.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAt least they got the country right,\u201d Layla says.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We buy anti-aging eye cream from CVS.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The cashier tells us, \u201cDon\u2019t bother.\u201d Her sister is a gyno and has seen it all. Babies with our skin, our blood, whatever. Alive for five seconds, but with those dark circles? It\u2019s like they\u2019ve lived for fifty years.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStraight from the womb,\u201d she says. \u201cBorn tired.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We play Fuck, Marry, Date.\u00a0 Date, not kill, because of the verse in the Qur\u2019an that says killing one person is like killing all of humanity. She picks the people. Michael B. Jordan. Idris Elba. Liam Hemsworth. His brother. Sometimes she throws in wild cards. Like Tariq, our name for the jinn under her bed, or Johnny Bravo.<\/span><\/p>\n

One day she says, \u201cWhat about Red?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHuh,\u201d I go, pretending not to hear. It\u2019s what we call the Wawa boy with orange-red hair that\u2019s more orange than red.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe seems like a decent fuck,\u201d she says, and my throat dries. \u201cNot perfect, but decent.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We watch Bollywood movies: <\/span>Bajirao Mastani<\/span><\/i> and <\/span>Desi Boyz<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>Kuch Kuch Hota Hai <\/span><\/i>and <\/span>Devdas<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you looking at?\u201d she asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTheir dance moves,\u201d I say. \u201cTheir saris. Their henna.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We take Buzzfeed quizzes. I take \u201cWhich Kardashian Are You?\u201d again and again, and though I change my answers I get Kendall every time.<\/span><\/p>\n

Layla gets Kylie.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re such a Kendall,\u201d she says. \u201cYou mean I\u2019m a model?\u201d I tease.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says too quickly, and when my face falls her voice softens. \u201cI mean you should play basketball.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

We eat frozen kabobs and blizzards from Dairy Queen for my birthday. Layla comes over and wears a dress covered with flying clocks. It\u2019s new, and I wonder if she got it especially for me, for today. \u201cSee,\u201d Ma says and rips the checkered snapback off my head. \u201cShe looks like a daughter. What about you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The three of us sit on the floor and eat off a bedsheet covered with Looney Tunes characters.\u00a0 Ma flips between <\/span>The Sound of Music<\/span><\/i> and Fox News. She flinches when Bill O\u2019Reilly speaks but doesn\u2019t change the channel when we ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe have to know what they think of us,\u201d she says. \u201cHow else are we going to survive?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Ma says she hopes my dreams come true and that hers don\u2019t. Not the one she had last night, anyways. The one where I was doing hanky panky with a boy. My chest tightens. Ma is always having dreams like these, and always someone visits her in them. Her own Ma, her Abu, her Abu\u2019s Ma, her Ma\u2019s Abu, her sister. All of them in her dreams and all of them in the grave.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat kind of boy?\u201d Layla asks. Her words slur like they do when she\u2019s nervous or excited.<\/span><\/p>\n

In my room, we play SZA and turn the tower fan on full blast. Dust particles from the blades land in our eyes. \u201cHopin’ my 20 somethings won\u2019t end,\u201d we sing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Layla is fifteen and, as of today, I am too.<\/span><\/p>\n

We lay side by side, her leg pressed against mine. I can\u2019t tell whose stubble I feel. She gives me a gift: <\/span>The World Almanac and Book of Facts: 2000<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere do you think we were then?\u201d she asks. We were born a year later.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWherever we\u2019ll be once we die,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

She reads me fact after fact. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie got married, just not to each other; eHarmony started; the number nine carries the vibrations of all the numbers that come before it; one plus two plus three plus four plus five plus six plus seven plus eight equals thirty-six and three plus six equals nine; Boo Radley was a jinn.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo way,\u201d I say, and she laughs before handing me the book.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour turn,\u201d she says. \u201cTell me something I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I flip through the pages, but the ink blurs, and all I see are the words in my head.<\/span><\/p>\n

Look\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

Allah made me one way and everyone else thinks I\u2019m another; I didn\u2019t kiss Dylan McCormick in sixth grade, I just said I did because you said you wanted to; your name means \u2018night\u2019 in Arabic and mine means \u2018light,\u2019 and shouldn\u2019t that count for something, anything, maybe even everything?<\/span><\/p>\n

Look, look\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNoor?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe world was supposed to end,\u201d I say. \u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI thought that was 2012?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She sounds disappointed, deflated, or maybe that\u2019s my own voice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c2000, too,\u201d I go. \u201cBecause of the Y2 computer bug. They thought planes would fall from the sky, nukes would launch, power plants would turn off. Everything pitch black. All the electricity gone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, aren\u2019t we lucky.\u201d She turns her back to me. The jagged edge of her pinky toe scratches my skin. I pray for a scar to form though I know the cut isn\u2019t that deep.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGlad we weren\u2019t around to see that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Aisha Bhoori<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s July. Surveillance state season, Layla calls it. Everyone is watching, or threatening to: the feds; our parents; the aunties on WhatsApp; the gora boys at Wawa. Always, of course, Allah. Before I leave the house, Ma throws salt on my face to ward off the jinn and says no boys or else: \u201cWhen a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2247,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[69],"tags":[20],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4r3","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17053"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2247"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17053"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17053\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17136,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17053\/revisions\/17136"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17053"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17053"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17053"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}