Ayesha At Last(31)

“The mandate of Muslims in Action is to help communities,” Tarek said. “As I mentioned, we are a non-profit organization. In exchange for hosting our summer conference, the mosque will be given all proceeds, less our administrative fee. We have a proven model for success and can raise a large sum of cash in one weekend. However, considering the situation, I’m not sure we can help you out of this financial mess.”

“Ammi thought the conference was a bad idea,” Khalid said. “Maybe she was right.”

Tarek looked at Khalid. “Your mother, Farzana?” he asked, his voice sharp. “She didn’t want the conference to happen?”

Khalid didn’t hear Tarek, his attention focused on the imam’s bleak expression.

“I prayed for a miracle, and Allah sent me Brother Tarek,” Abdul Bari said.

“We can’t sell the mosque,” Khalid said.

“I would hate to see such a well-established mosque community suffer,” Tarek said, his voice casual. “Maybe we can help you out after all.”

The imam nodded, determined. “Then it is settled. We must ensure the conference is a success and move the date to May. I see no other option.” He turned to Khalid. “Sister Hafsa had to leave early. Can I count on you to coordinate with her to spread the word on social media? I know you would be heartbroken to see our beloved mosque turned into a strip mall.”

Khalid agreed reluctantly. He resolved to call Hafsa from work, where there would be less chance of their conversation being prolonged. He would be succinct and businesslike, with no unnecessary laughter. And definitely no more smiles.





Chapter Thirteen

Ayesha played the movie Mean Girls during first period. She had been substitute teaching for a few weeks now, and she knew the drill. When teachers called in sick, they usually left work for students to finish, or a group assignment. English teachers loved to throw grammar exercises at their classes, and science teachers usually left textbook work. But math and history teachers always left movies. As a substitute teacher, she had sat through Marvel superhero movies and Pixar adventures, but the most popular choice by far was Mean Girls, Lindsay Lohan’s classic portrait of high school life.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, just as Lindsay was being inducted into the popular crowd, a shadow detached itself from the class. The door opened, letting in a shaft of light from the hall and illuminating a small figure.

Ayesha sighed. There was a runner in every class. She followed the student into the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she called after the speed-walking teen.

“Washroom, miss,” the girl said. She leaned her weight on one leg and looked Ayesha up and down. “Mrs. Gerard always leaves that movie. Someone needs to get her a Netflix account.” Ayesha remembered the girl from attendance. Tanisha Mills, back row, far left.

“You’re not supposed to leave the class without letting me know first,” Ayesha said.

The girl huffed. “I had to pee. I know the way.”

“I’m the teacher. You need to let me know before you walk out.”

“You’re the substitute teacher.” She pivoted on one foot and stalked toward the bathroom without a backward glance.

Ayesha looked back at the closed classroom door. Great. She didn’t have a key. She would have to knock and hope that one of the students would open it for her. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would just laugh from the window while they snapped pictures. She was just a substitute teacher, after all.

She leaned against the wall. Is this what I’m supposed to be doing with my life?

When she had worked in insurance for a few years after graduating with her B.Sc., the only downside had been the boredom and a few unreasonable supervisors. But she’d had her own desk, she was assigned work that needed to be done on a computer, and mostly she was left alone to get on with it. The only time someone was rude to her was when her boss was having a bad day, and it was easy to avoid one person.

Now she was belittled by kids who weren’t allowed to use the bathroom without permission, and left instructions by absent teachers who took delight in leaving work their students would hate. Or the same movie the class had watched so many times before.

Her cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number. She knew she shouldn’t answer her phone during school, but what if it was an emergency?

“Assalamu Alaikum,” a deep voice said. “Is this Sister Hafsa?”

“Who is this?” Ayesha said cautiously, though she had a pretty good idea.

“Khalid Mirza. From the mosque. The imam gave me your number.” There was a burst of female laughter in the background and Khalid cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. I’m at work right now.”

Where did he work, a beauty salon? Ayesha tried to picture Khalid surrounded by women in rollers waiting to get their hair blown out and hanging on his every word. “I’m at work too,” Ayesha said.

There was a pause. “You have a job?” Khalid asked, surprised.

“I also dress myself, bathe myself, drive a car and have opinions about things,” Ayesha said.

“I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry to have assumed . . . When you picked up your cell phone, I just thought . . .” Khalid floundered.

Ayesha took pity on him. “I’m a high school teacher, and you’re right. I shouldn’t have picked up my phone during school hours. What can I do for you?”