He was dedicated to people. Even though he was a serious person, with a lot on his mind, he made sure to let you know he remembered you. Always. He smiled at jokes even if they were only sort of funny. He remembered that it was a person who was telling the joke, so he smiled for that person.
He was dedicated to reading good books, even if they were from another generation or didn’t make complete sense to him. He read the first Harry Potter when he was ninety years old because someone told him it was good. He would have read the rest of the series if that someone had been able to find the large-type versions in the library for him.* He smiled one of his loudest smiles ever at the Shel Silverstein poem about a pet snowball. But his favorite Shel Silverstein poem was “The Little Boy and the Old Man.”
Like the old man in the poem, he was dedicated to someone too, dedicated to helping her find out what the really important things for her were. What she should be dedicated to. She misses him but was happy to have had someone like him in her life. Thank you, Mr. Ram, for the warmth of your hand.
*Someone still regrets that they didn’t find the rest of the HP books for him.
I send friend requests to Mr. Ram’s son, his wife, and Nuah and invite everyone already on my friends list to Mr. Ram’s page.
Tats writes on the wall first: Mr. Ram was a good friend to my best friend, rest in peace, xoxo.
Muhammad: To God we belong and to Him we return. Thanks for putting this up, sis.
Then news: Nuah Abdullah has accepted your friend request.
I cringe, only now remembering that he’s going to be able to see all the tagged crazy pictures of me put up by the Pringles.
I click on Nuah’s profile. In his album I find a photo of him on hajj with his hair shaved, as is typical of pilgrims. I feel awful noticing his forehead, but I do. It’s an okay forehead, well balanced with his smile.
Notification: Nuah Abdullah wrote on your page, Mr. Ram, You’ll Be Missed.
Nuah: It’s true, Mr. Ram was dedicated to people. He had a lot of friends at the community center and he made them by honoring them. That’s rare. Thanks Janna for doing this and please pass on that the funeral will take place on June 25 at 4 p.m.
That’s the day of Lauren’s party. Now I have the perfect excuse for not going with Tats.
? ? ?
I walk across the street to Tats’s building. The elevators here are normal, and within a minute I’m at her front door.
Her brother Alex lets me in and then goes back to playing a video game on the couch.
I find Tats in her room, looking at Matt’s Facebook page. She gives a start when she sees me.
“You just made a page for Mr. Ram. How are you here?”
“I’m fast. Thanks for posting.” I sit on her bed. “About the party.”
“You promised.” Tats twirls to me in her chair. Her hair is tied up in a huge severe and shiny bun. No tendrils of hair escape it. Her hair secret, a bottle of almond oil, stands on her dresser.
“Mr. Ram’s funeral is on the same day.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.” I shrug my shoulders.
She turns her chair and checks something on her laptop. “But it’s at four o’clock.”
She faces me again. “Lauren’s thing is at eight. Can’t we do both?”
“How can I be in party mood and funeral mood at the same time?”
“Can you at least think about it? Otherwise I’ll join you for the funeral and then go on my own to the party.”
I panic at that. I can’t imagine Tats at the mercy of the Pringles. They’ll eat her alive, and she’ll think she’s having fun.
“Okay, give me time to think about it.”
She turns back to Facebook. “So, Nuah? Yesterday at your place? How do you know him?”
“He’s this guy who works at the community center I take Mr. Ram to. Used to take him to.”
“Does he like you?”
“No. What do you mean?” I peer over her shoulder. She’s added him as a friend, and apparently he’s accepted because she’s scrolling through his profile.
“He’s really Muslim, huh?” She pauses at the hajj pictures. “You like him, don’t you?”
“No. I mean, he’s a nice guy.”
“Better than this Farooq guy Jeremy told me about?”
I cross my arms. “Tats, Farooq is a pervert. He tried to . . . I can’t tell you.”
“What?” She’s off her chair and in front of me. “What did he do? Who is this guy?”
“He’s the cousin of an ex-friend of mine. I can’t talk about it now.”
“Why does Jeremy think you guys are going out?”
“I don’t know. Can we drop it?” I get up and move to the door. “I’m dealing with it. Just know that.”
“Will you call me if you want to talk?” She follows me to the front door. “This is going to bother me.”
I turn to her. She’s such a great friend. I lean over and hug her. “You’re right about Nuah.”
“What part?”
“The really Muslim part,” I say, not telling her I also mean the other part: You like him, don’t you? I wave at her from down the hall.
? ? ?
Fizz and Aliya are waiting in the condo with Muhammad when I get back. I look at Fizz. She looks away.
Aliya speaks first. “We heard about Mr. Ram and wanted to give our condolences.”
Muhammad comes out of the kitchen with drinks.
“Thanks.” I sit down on the armchair and keep my gaze on Fizz. I want to talk to her. Alone. But that would mean leaving Aliya with Muhammad. I take a breath. “You guys want to see my new room?”
They stand and follow me to Mom’s room. I close the door behind them.
“Your cousin tried to rape me on the day the twins had their Qur’an party. Yes, Farooq.” I look unflinchingly at Fizz’s face, but my lips close up after saying his name. If I go on, it won’t be clearly.
“Bullshit.” Fizz has finally raised her eyes to mine. “I thought you’d make up something like that. To cover what you’re up to with this guy.”
Anger floods over my grief at having to talk about this. It blankets and quells me, and I regain my steady voice. “I’m up to nothing. True, I fell for Jeremy. But that’s all that’s happened. It’s not a crime. On the other hand, your cousin is a criminal.”
“Let’s get out of here, Aliya.” She reaches for the door. “This bitch here is trying ruin Farooq’s good name.”
I put my hand on the doorknob and hold tight. I push in and turn the handle to lock it.
“Your cousin ruined himself. And you enable it with your stupid belief that just because he memorized the Qur’an he’s untouchable. The Qur’an is a book of messages. And he didn’t get one of the main ones in it: respect.”
“Janna, you’re saying something serious. How can we believe you?” Aliya’s face is flustered, vacillating between concern and disbelief.
“Aliya . . .” I pause, swallowing the urge to break down on seeing glimpses of care in her eyes. “Why would I make up something I can’t even bear myself?”
I let go of the door and sink to the floor, spent. Fizz unlocks the handle, yanks the door open, and walks out. Aliya places an arm on my shoulder before following her.
Flannery: The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
? ? ?
Muhammad knocks on the privacy screens.
“Yes?”