Today, however, I’d needed the walk.
I’d purchased a slice of pizza from a beloved local place, a place run by a guy named Giovanni. Giovanni was never able to hide his disappointment when I showed up. Giovanni always broke into a sweat when I walked in, his eyes darting around nervously as I ordered. Giovanni and I both knew his real name was Javad, and he’d never forgiven me for asking him, out loud, in front of a long line of people, whether he was Iranian.
When he’d denied it, looking aghast at the insinuation, I was dumbstruck. I’d stared at the crayon drawings taped to the wall behind his head, shakily done stick figures with titles like baba and amoo.
Dad. Uncle.
I hadn’t known it was a secret. His Iranian accent was so thick I was astonished anyone was dumb enough to accept it as Italian. And I’d heard such great things about Giovanni’s that, when I first showed up and discovered a Persian man behind the counter, I was delighted. Proud.
Javad never looked me in the eye anymore.
I bit into my cold slice of pizza, retrieved the newspaper from my waistband. I cracked the paper open with one hand, took a second bite of pizza with the other. I felt a familiar dread as I scanned the headlines, and prepared for a deep dive into a brand-new existential crisis.
“Hey.” A body collapsed beside me with an exhale, blocked my view of a particularly dirty minivan. “Okay if I sit here?”
I stared, unblinking, at the newcomer.
To say that I was confused would’ve been a disservice to the maelstrom of thoughts suddenly kicked up in my head. Noah from AP Art History was sitting next to me, and I gaped at him like he’d opened a third eye. I’d forgotten my manners entirely.
Noah’s smile faded.
He picked up his plate, the paper graying with pizza grease. “I can go,” he said, moving to stand. “I didn’t mean t—”
“No. Oh my God. No, of course you can stay,” I said too quickly, too loudly. “Please stay. I was just—surprised.”
His smile grew back, bigger this time. “Cool.”
I attempted a smile of my own before picking up my newspaper again. I shook out the crease, tried to find my spot. I didn’t mind Noah sitting next to me, not as long as he was willing to be quiet. I’d never had a chance to finish reading a piece about the terrifying similarities between the Iraq and Vietnam Wars, and I’d been waiting all day to get back to it. I took another bite of pizza.
“So, um, your name is Shadi, right?”
I looked up. Felt the distant world come back into focus.
I saw only Noah’s eyes over the top of my paper, and I realized then that I’d never studied him closely. I folded the paper down; the rest of his face came into view. His black curls were cropped close to his head, his deep-set eyes a couple shades darker than his brown skin. He had unusually striking features—something about his cheekbones, the line of his nose. He was undeniably good-looking. I didn’t know why he was talking to me.
“Yes.” I frowned. “You’re Noah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes lit up. He seemed delighted by this, the revelation that I knew his name. “I just moved here. Like, last month.”
“Oh. Wow.” I gestured with my pizza to the damp, depressing parking lot. “I’m sorry.”
He laughed. “It’s not so bad.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He bit back another laugh. “Yeah, okay. It’s pretty bad.”
I cracked a smile then. Picked up my paper.
“So, um, you’re Muslim, right?”
I was still reading when I said, “What gave it away?”
He laughed for a third time. I liked that he laughed so much, so easily. The sound alone made my heart kick a little.
“Yes,” I said, my face buried in the article. “I’m Muslim.”
Gently, he pushed the newspaper down, away from me, and I flinched at his closeness, sat back an inch. He was staring at me with barely suppressed mirth, like he was fighting a smile.
“What?”
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. I’m going to say something right now, and please don’t take this the wrong way or anything”—he held up his hands—“but I didn’t think you’d be so funny.”
I raised both eyebrows. “Don’t take this the wrong way?”
“You just seem so intense all the time,” he said, his whole body like an exclamation point. “Like, why are you always reading the newspaper? That seems unhealthy.”
I frowned at him. “I’m a masochist.”
He frowned back. “Doesn’t that mean you like to hurt people?”
“It means I like to hurt myself.”
“Weird.”
“Hey, how do you know I’m always reading the newspaper?”
Noah’s smile slipped. He looked suddenly nervous. “Okay—please don’t freak out—”
“Jesus Christ, Noah.”
“Wait—are you talking to me?” He pointed at himself. “Or are you just listing prophets?”
My eyes widened.
He couldn’t stop laughing, not even when he said, “Okay, okay, complete honesty: I’ve been, like, trying to figure out how to talk to you for a little while.”
I sighed. Put down the paper. “Let me guess: you’re a serial killer.”
“I’m not! I swear, I just—I promised to do my mom a favor, and I didn’t know exactly how to approach you.”
I straightened. Noah suddenly had my full attention; I was one hundred percent freaked out. “What kind of favor?”
“Nothing weird.”
“Oh my God.”
He spoke in a rush. “Okay, so, my mom was dropping me off at school one day and she saw you on campus and she wanted me to talk to you.”
“Why?” I was suddenly wishing I’d never gone out for lunch. I was suddenly wishing I’d told Noah not to sit next to me.
He sighed. “Because we’re new here, and my parents have been looking for a mosque to go to, and my mom thought you’d—”
“Wait.” I held up a hand, cut
