A Woman Is No Man(31)

“Of course it’s a blessing,” Isra said. “Of course.”

“I don’t understand what’s so special about having sons,” Sarah said. “Is your mother this way, too?”

“Yes,” Isra admitted. “I hoped things would be different here.”

Sarah shrugged. “Most of my American friends at school claim their parents don’t care. But you should listen to my mom’s friends. They’re unbelievable. If it was up to them, we’d still live in Arabia and bury our female infants alive.”

Sarah made a face at her, and Isra couldn’t help but feel as though she was looking at a younger version of herself. She’d never imagined they’d share anything in common: Sarah was raised in America, had attended a co-ed public school, had led a life so different from her own. Isra attempted a small smile and was rewarded when Sarah grinned back.

“So, do you know any English?”

“I can read and write,” Isra said proudly.

“Really? I didn’t think anyone in Palestine knew English.”

“We learn English in school.”

“Can you speak it?”

“Not well,” Isra said, blushing. “My accent is very heavy.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. My brother said you went to an all-girls school, and that I should be thankful our parents send me to public school.”

“I can’t imagine what that must be like,” Isra said. “You know, going to school with boys. My parents never would’ve allowed it.”

“Well, my parents don’t have much choice. They can’t afford the all-girls schools around here. Technically, I’m not supposed to talk to the boys in my class, but what am I supposed to do? Walk around with a sign on my head that says ‘Please don’t talk to me if you’re a boy’?” Sarah rolled her eyes.

“But what if your parents find out that you disobey them?” Isra asked. “Fareeda almost slapped you earlier. Won’t they beat you?”

“Probably,” Sarah said, looking away.

“Do you . . . Do they hit you often?”

“Only if I backtalk or don’t listen. Baba beat me with his belt once when he found a note in my bag from my friend at school, but I try to make sure I never get caught doing anything they won’t like.”

“Is that why you sneak your books home?”

Sarah looked up. “How did you know that?”

Isra gave another small smile. “Because I used to sneak books home, too.”

“I didn’t know you like to read.”

“I do,” Isra said. “But I haven’t read in a while. I only brought one book here with me.”

“Which one is that?”

“A Thousand and One Nights. It’s my favorite.”

“A Thousand and One Nights?” Sarah paused to think. “Isn’t that the story of a king who vows to marry and kill a different woman every night because his wife cheats on him?”

“Yes!” Isra said, excited that Sarah had read it. “Then he’s tricked by Scheherazade, who tells him a new story for a thousand and one nights until he eventually spares her life. I must have read it a million times.”

“Really?” Sarah said. “It isn’t that good.”

“But it is. I just love the storytelling, the way so many tales unfold at once, the idea of a woman telling stories for her life. It’s beautiful.”

Sarah shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of make-believe stories.”

Isra’s eyes sprung wide. “It’s not make-believe!”

“It’s about genies and viziers, which don’t exist. I prefer stories about real life.”

“But it is about real life,” Isra said. “It’s about the strength and resilience of women. No one asks Scheherazade to marry the king. She volunteers on behalf of all women to save the daughters of Muslims everywhere. For a thousand and one nights, Scheherazade’s stories were resistance. Her voice was a weapon—a reminder of the extraordinary power of stories, and even more, the strength of a single woman.”

“Someone read the story a little too deeply,” Sarah said with a smile. “I didn’t see strength or resistance when I read it. All I saw was a made-up story starring a guy murdering a bunch of helpless women.”

“Someone’s a cynic,” Isra said.

“Maybe a little.”

“What’s your favorite book?”

“Lord of the Flies,” Sarah said. “Or maybe To Kill a Mockingbird. It depends on the day.”

“Are those romances?” Isra asked.

Sarah gave a harsh laugh. “No. I prefer more realistic fiction.”

“Love is realistic!”

“Not for us.”

It was as though Sarah’s words had smacked her across the face, and Isra looked down to regain her composure.

“If you want,” Sarah said, “I can bring home some books for you tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re romances.”

Isra smiled, a brief uneasy smile. She thought of Fareeda, catching her one day as she read an English novel, a romance even. No, she didn’t want to upset her. She swallowed. “It’s okay. I prefer Arabic novels.”