Love from A to Z(12)

“Which brings me to operational details, part two. When I’m at work, you can move around on your own using my Uber account.”

“What about the bus?”

“The bus system here is not the best, kiddo, but, woo-hoo, a subway is on its way!” Auntie Nandy grinned wide suddenly, and now she looked more like Mom—their lips thin out the same way, almost turning inward, so you see two rows of neat teeth. “I’m so happy you’re here, Zoodles! Earlier than your mom, I mean! We can LIVE IT UP, GIRL.”

She leaned over, punched my arm again, and then drew her hand away for a high five.

I paused nibbling the corner of a cheese cube and fived her. “Can we go out tonight? To the souk? Shopping?”

“Ah, no. Sorry darling. Tonight is a no. We’re going to a party.” She fixed herself a plate with a bit of everything, but she did it in a circular way, so that in the end it looked like a strange flower with part of an omelet as the center. “I’m on a clean-eating regime. I want to be toxin free by the end of summer.”

I reached for the serving plate and tore a piece off the omelet to try. Also cold.

Auntie Nandy took her plate to the black leather sofa in the living room adjacent to the dining area. Tucking her legs under her on the couch, she picked up a remote and looked at me while turning on the TV. “If you want, we can go to the souk now and then come home in time to get ready for the party?”

“That’s okay—I’m going back to bed. It’s the middle of the night back home. Thanks for the breakfast. I’ll heat it up and eat some more when I’m really awake.” I stood up. “About the party . . . do I have to go? Isn’t the party invite just for you?”

“I thought you said you like to go out at night? It’s absolutely not just for me. The other teachers are bringing their families,” Auntie Nandy said.

“Oh, it’s a school thing?” I frowned. Now I really didn’t want to go. I was done with school.

But I guess that’s what I got for spending my suspension week with an international schoolteacher. And Auntie Nandy had taken me in, instead of letting me stew at home, which meant I had to act grateful to her. She was watching car racing and hadn’t seen my frown, so I undid it quickly.

“Don’t worry; it’ll be a nice party.” She turned to me. “Lots of kids your age.”

? ? ?

This Is What You Missed, Bulletin I by Kavi Srinivasan, filed as FYI for Zayneb Malik:

Fencer talked to the class about rage and how much of a destructive emotion it is.

And how rage is the root of a lot of world problems, namely terrorism and genocide, and how he wanted to apologize to everyone for how rage had disrupted the class yesterday.

I tapped my laptop keyboard furiously: So I’m terrorism and genocide?

I’m not done.

Noemi, blond-bangs girl on the lacrosse team, put her hand up and asked if, in Fencer’s estimation, rage is ever justified.

He said in an ideal world no, but he recognizes we are not ideal, and so we get enraged over so many things.

What about rage at being victimized? Noemi asked.

He said sometimes victimization is in our heads, a perception problem.

(I’m pretty sure I heard a small group of people gasp at this.)

Noemi then said that she’s studying sexual assault for her art project and how that’s NOT a perception problem.

He said OF COURSE NOT. I’M TALKING ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED IN CLASS YESTERDAY WITH A STUDENT WHO FELT IT WAS WITHIN HER RIGHT TO THREATEN A TEACHER BECAUSE SHE WAS ENRAGED AT HEARING FACTS.

He actually raised his voice to say that. Then the bell rang, and Noemi said “asshole” under her breath as she was leaving.

So, again, I’m terrorism and genocide?

And also enraged at facts. Don’t forget that part.

You know what? I’m going to a party tonight. It’s a boring party, but it’s a party nonetheless. I’m going to forget demon Fencer.

And, in a nod to my previous botched cutlery-drawing attempt, I added a long train of knife and fork emojis to finish off our communication.

? ? ?

For the boring party, I wore one of the nicer things I’d brought: a beige shirt with flared sleeves. I wore it with jeans and a dark blue chiffon hijab, and Auntie Nandy, in jeans herself and a tunic top, said I looked great.

She slipped a shawl around her shoulders before we left the apartment. She wasn’t Muslim, but maybe having lived in Arabian Gulf countries for so long, she was used to scarves.

“Each year, the week before spring break starts, the head of the school, David, hosts a get-together at his house. It’s like a thank you, you’ve made it this far party.” As Auntie Nandy drove, she went on describing the people who’d be there and how much she liked this school compared to the other international schools she’d taught at, but I was drifting in and out of her words.

I was looking at Doha at night.

It was a strange mix of unbelievably glamorous, futuristic architecture and industrial concrete boxes, aka apartments. And, being a city in a predominantly Muslim country, the whole landscape was also dotted with the spires and domes of traditional-looking mosques.

It was like the old and the new and the future joined together in a small explosion, because there was also construction debris here and there that contrasted with the glitzy look of some of the neighborhoods.