A Woman Is No Man(9)

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 did. But they said I had to go to college, and if not for medicine, then engineering or law.”

Deya looked at him. She had never known herself to feel anything besides anger and annoyance during these arrangements. One man had spent their entire conversation telling her how much money he earned at his gas station; another man had interrogated her about school, whether she intended to stay home and raise children, whether she would be willing to wear the hijab permanently and not only as part of her school uniform.

Still, Deya had questions of her own. What would you do to me if we married? Would you let me pursue my dreams? Would you leave me at home to raise the children while you worked? Would you love me? Would you own me? Would you beat me? She could have asked those questions aloud, but she knew people only told you what you wanted to hear. That to understand someone, you had to listen to the words they didn’t say, had to watch them closely.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nasser asked.

“Nothing, it’s just that . . .” She looked at her fingers. “I’m surprised your parents forced you to go to college. I’d assumed they’d let you make your own choices.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You know.” She met his eyes. “Because you’re a man.”

Nasser looked at her curiously. “Is that what you think? That I can do anything I want because I’m a man?”

“That’s the world we live in.”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. It was the closest Deya had ever sat to a man, and she leaned back in her seat, pressing her hands between her thighs.

“You’re strange,” Nasser said.