suitors, only it hadn’t worked. They’d all withdrawn their marriage proposals after meeting Deya. Each time Fareeda had realized that no marriage would follow, that there was no naseeb, no destiny, she had smacked her own face with open palms and wept violently, the sort of dramatic performance she often used to pressure Deya and her sisters to obey her.
Deya carried the serving tray down the hall, avoiding her reflection in the mirrors that lined it. Pale-faced with charcoal eyes and fig-colored lips, a long swoop of dark hair against her shoulders. These days it seemed as though the more she looked at her face, the less of herself she saw reflected back. It hadn’t always been this way. When Fareeda had first spoken to her of marriage as a child, Deya had believed it was an ordinary matter. Just another part of growing up and becoming a woman. She had not yet understood what it meant to become a woman. She hadn’t realized it meant marrying a man she barely knew, nor that marriage was the beginning and end of her life’s purpose. It was only as she grew older that Deya had truly understood her place in her community. She had learned that there was a certain way she had to live, certain rules she had to follow, and that, as a woman, she would never have a legitimate claim over her own life.
She put on a smile and entered the sala. The room was dim, every window covered with thick, red curtains, which Fareeda had woven to match the burgundy sofa set. Her grandparents sat on one sofa, the guests on the other, and Deya set a bowl of sugar on the coffee table between them. Her eyes fell to the ground, to the red Turkish rug her grandparents had owned since they emigrated to America. There was a pattern embossed across the edges: gold coils with no beginnings or ends, all woven together in ceaseless loops. Deya wasn’t sure if the pattern had gotten bigger or if she had gotten smaller. She followed it with her eyes, and her head spun.
The suitor looked up when she neared him, peering at her through the peppermint steam. She served the chai without looking his way, all the while aware of his lingering gaze. His parents and her grandparents stared at her, too. Five sets of eyes digging into her. What did they see? The shadow of a person circling the room? Maybe not even that. Maybe they saw nothing at all, a serving tray floating on its own, drifting from one person to the next until the teakettle was empty.
She thought of her parents. How would they feel if they were here with her now? Would they smile at the thought of her in a white veil? Would they urge her, as her grandparents did, to follow their path? She closed her eyes and searched for them, but she found nothing.
Her grandfather turned to her sharply and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you two go sit in the kitchen?” Khaled said. “That way you can get to know each other.” Beside him, Fareeda eyed Deya anxiously, her face revealing its own message: Smile. Act normal. Don’t scare this man away, too.
Deya recalled the last suitor who had withdrawn his marriage proposal. He had told her grandparents that she was too insolent, too questioning. That she wasn’t Arab enough. But what had her grandparents expected when they came to this country? That their children and grandchildren would be fully Arab, too? That their culture would remain untouched? It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Arab enough. She had lived her entire life straddled between two cultures. She was neither Arab nor American. She belonged nowhere. She didn’t know who she was.
Deya sighed and met the suitor’s eyes. “Follow me.”
She observed him as they settled across from each other at the kitchen table. He was tall and slightly plump, with a closely shaved beard. His pecan hair was parted to one side and brushed back from his face. Better-looking than the other ones, Deya thought. He opened his mouth as if to speak but proceeded to say nothing. Then, after a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m Nasser.”
She tucked her fingers between her thighs, tried to act normal. “I’m Deya.”
There was a pause. “I, um . . .” He hesitated. “I’m twenty-four. I work in a convenience store with my father while I finish school. I’m studying to be a doctor.”
She gave a slow, reluctant smile. From the eager look on his face, she could tell he was waiting for her to do as he did, recite a vague representation of herself, sum up her essence in one line. When she didn’t say anything, he spoke again. “So, what do you do?”
It was easy for her to recognize that he was just being nice. They both knew a teenage Arab girl didn’t do anything. Well, except cook, clean, and catch up on the latest Turkish soap operas. Maybe her grandmother would have allowed her and her sisters to do more had they lived back home, in Palestine, surrounded by people like them. But here, in Brooklyn, all Fareeda could do was shelter them at home and pray they remained good. Pure. Arab.
“I don’t do much,” Deya said.
“You must do something. You don’t have any hobbies?”
“I like to read.”
“What do you read?”
“Anything. It doesn’t matter what it is, I’ll read it. Trust me, I have the time.”
“And why is that?” he asked, knotting his brows.
“My grandmother doesn’t let us do much. She doesn’t even like it when I read.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks books are a bad influence.”
“Oh.” He flushed, as though finally understanding. After a moment he asked, “My mother said you go to an all-girls Islamic school. What grade are you in?”
“I’m a senior.”
Another pause. He shifted in his seat. Something about his nervousness eased her, and she let her shoulders relax.
“Do you want to go to college?” Nasser asked.
Deya studied his face. She had never been asked that particular question the way he asked it. Usually it sounded like a threat, as though if she answered yes, a weight would shift in the scale of nature. Like it was the worst possible thing for a girl to want.
“I do,” she said. “I like school.”
He smiled. “I’m jealous. I’ve never been a good student.”
She fixed her eyes on him. “Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“That I want to go to college.”
“No. Why would I mind?”
Deya studied him carefully, unsure whether to believe him. He could be pretending not to mind in order to trick her into thinking he was different than the previous suitors, more progressive. He could be telling her exactly what he thought she wanted to hear.
She straightened in her seat, avoiding his question. Instead she asked, “Why aren’t you a good student?”
“I’ve never really liked school,” he said. “But my parents insisted I apply to med school after college. They want me to be a doctor.”
“And do you want to be a doctor?”
Nasser laughed. “Hardly. I’d rather run the family business, maybe even open my own business one day.”
“Did you tell them that?”
“I
