Ayesha At Last(36)

AYESHA drove straight to the Taj Mahal, but Hafsa wasn’t home. “She’s at the mosque,” Samira Aunty said when she answered the door, cradling a cordless phone. Her aunt looked at her with disapproval. “Sulaiman told me you haven’t been showing up at the mosque to help Hafsa like you promised.”

Ayesha was tempted to tell her aunt the truth, but she swallowed her irritation. “I’ve been so busy with school,” she said instead. “I’ll try to do better.” Back in her car, she texted Hafsa.

We need to talk. Where are you?

Hafsa replied almost immediately. Busy. Talk later.

Ayesha felt her face grow hot. Fine. I’ll tell your parents who really attended those meetings.

There was a pause. Then: I’m at the mall. Usual spot.

The Scarborough Town Centre was the largest mall in the east end of the city, and one of the busiest. Ayesha parked close to the theatres and made her way through the food court to the bubble tea stall. She ordered a lychee mango drink and waited.

Hafsa was in front of the Laura Secord ice cream stall with a young man who was dressed in late-nineties’ fashion: baggy pants and wallet chain, Doc Martens, white tank top and a single cigarette behind his ear. His dark hair was buzzed, his skin a tanned taupe. As Ayesha watched, Hafsa leaned in close to the young man and whispered something. He nodded and took a seat at the food court. Ayesha got a good look at his face: baby round, light stubble, hooded eyes. There was something off-kilter about his carefully cultivated appearance. He looked like a little boy pretending to be a badass.

He was nothing like Khalid, she thought. Khalid, whose face transformed when he smiled, who had gentle brown eyes and broad shoulders hidden under his long robe, thick, curly hair beneath his prayer cap. Khalid was a surprise, Ayesha admitted to herself; funny and thoughtful and maybe even a tiny bit cute.

She shook her head. What was she thinking? Ayesha remembered her words to Clara only a few nights ago: He’s a fundamentalist.

And Clara’s response: No, he’s not. He’s a good guy.

Hafsa walked up to Ayesha, smiling but uncertain. “You’ve been avoiding me all week,” she said.

Ayesha was still checking out Hafsa’s friend. He had a lighter in his hand now and was flicking it on and off, moodily posing for the mall crowd. “What happened to one hundred rishtas and a wedding?”

Hafsa followed her gaze. “That’s Haris. We’re just friends.”

“What do you and Haris talk about? Your twenty-two rishtas?”

Hafsa tossed her head. “Mostly he tells me how pretty I am, and I tell him about my business plans.”

Ayesha closed her eyes. “Hafsa . . .” she began.

“Before you say anything, I want to thank you for covering for me. You’re the best!” Hafsa leaned over the table to give her older cousin a half hug, but Ayesha was stiff.

“Marriage is a lot of responsibility,” Ayesha began again.

Hafsa puffed out her cheeks, eyes scanning the food court. “As if you would know,” she muttered.

Ayesha stopped, anger rising.

“You’re acting like a child,” she blurted. “Do you know how busy I am? I’m working all day, and then at night I go to these stupid meetings at the mosque for you! The least you can do is show up.”

Hafsa’s eyes filled with tears. “I know,” she said. “I’m such a screw-up.”

Ayesha’s anger immediately deflated, and she reached across to squeeze her cousin’s hand. “Don’t say that, Hafs.”

Hafsa wiped her eyes. “I’ve had forty-five, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Proposals. Rishtas. All the guys were too poor, too ugly, too boring or too old.”

“You don’t have to get married,” Ayesha said. “Finish school. Start your business. You’re only twenty, there’s no rush.”

“Yes, there is. I don’t want to leave it too late and end up like you. You’re almost thirty and nobody wants you.” The note of pity in her cousin’s voice was clear. “You think I’m silly and keep changing my mind about school, but I know what I want. I want to be rich and married. In the meantime, I want to have some fun with Haris.”

Ayesha shook her head. “You’re stalling. What have you been doing while I impersonated you at the mosque all week?”

“Dad was so happy when the imam told him I’d shown up. He offered to give me five thousand dollars for my business.” Hafsa sniffed. “As if I can do anything with that.”

Ayesha stared at her baby cousin, who loved flowers and makeup and thought that rishtas were knights coming to woo the princess. She didn’t recognize the spoiled brat sitting in front of her.

As if sensing Ayesha’s thoughts, Hafsa’s eyes flashed. “You always behave like the saintly star of the story. Well, you’re not. Exciting things can happen to me too. You’re not Jane Eyre. I’m going to find my Mr. Darcy, and all my problems will be solved!”

“I think you mean Elizabeth Bennet, not Jane Eyre,” Ayesha said. “Mr. Darcy is the hero of Pride and Prejudice.”

For an instant, Hafsa’s face wobbled. Then her eyes hardened. “You can tell my parents about the conference meetings if you want,” she said. “They’ll only blame you for not keeping a closer eye on me. And what kind of a saint will you be then?”