“Why?”
“Everyone else here is Muslim.” She casts a glance around her, like if somebody hears her confessing to not being Muslim, something bad will happen. “They keep saying ‘salam’ to me, and I don’t know if I should say it back or not.”
“You know if somebody says ‘salam,’ they’re just saying hello in Arabic?”
“Yes, but—”
“If someone says ‘Dia dhuit’ to you, which by the way means ‘God be with you,’ do you say ‘Dia is muire dhuit’ or do you just—”
“Okay, okay,” Ishu concedes, rolling her eyes. “I just … meant, are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”
“Yes, obviously.” I reach over and slip my fingers into hers for a moment, giving her a gentle squeeze. She takes a deep breath, and that seems to calm her down a little at least.
“Hani?” Abba waves me over from where he’s standing by the grill. He’s surrounded by the Muslim men from the mosque that he’s got to know more and more over the past few weeks. In fact, I’ve been seeing more of Salim Uncle nowadays than I have of even Ishu. It seems he’s at our house all the time.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Ishu, before slipping away from her and toward Abba and his friends.
“Hey, Abba,” I say as I approach, casting a wary glance at Salim Uncle.
“We wanted you to meet someone,” Abba says, pointing to a girl standing beside Salim Uncle. She has long, wavy black hair and she’s wearing a baby blue summer dress that goes all the way down to her ankles. She’s also almost as tall as Salim Uncle himself.
“This my daughter,” Salim Uncle says.
“Hey, I’m Aisha.” She waves.
“I’m Hani.”
“Her bhalo nam is Humaira.” Salim Uncle beams, like he couldn’t be prouder of the fact that I’m called Humaira.
“Oh … like the nickname Prophet Muhammad gave to Aisha!” Aisha exclaims.
“Nobody really calls me Humaira though.”
“Her girlfriend is over there.” Salim Uncle points to where Ishu is standing by herself, looking a little lost and out of place. “I thought maybe Aisha could keep the two of you company.”
“Oh … sure,” I agree. “Come on over.” I turn and begin to lead Aisha toward where Ishu is standing.
“So … girlfriend,” she says thoughtfully. “Brave of you to bring her here.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think we were even telling people that,” I say. “I mean … not hiding it but not exactly showcasing it. But my dad must have told yours.”
“You know, when Leo Varadkar became Taoiseach I thought my dad’s head might explode—a gay prime minister: He couldn’t wrap his head around that. But I feel like he’s really come around to a lot of stuff since then,” she says. “I mean, he’s sort of had to, I guess, because my brother’s gay.”
“Yeah?” The thought of another queer Muslim in this community makes my heart fill up with joy in a way that I hadn’t quite expected.
“Yeah! And I mean, we wouldn’t go around advertising it to everyone, you know. But my dad really likes yours … and he must really like you too.” Aisha casts me an appraising look. “My brother is about your age, I’d say. He’s going to do his Leaving next year.”
“I’m doing my Leaving next year too!”
She grins. “Well, I’d introduce you if he were here, but he somehow managed to wrangle his way out of coming to this thing. I think he feels a little weird sometimes … he’s still figuring things out, being Muslim and gay.”
“Oh … well. Maybe we can talk sometime. I mean, I’m …” I trail off, unsure if I want to finish that sentence. The last time I told someone I was bisexual didn’t exactly go well. But back then, with my friends, I had so much to lose. I’ve only just met Aisha. “I’m bisexual, so maybe it won’t be the same, but …”
“Honestly, I know when I tell him about you, he’s going to lose his shit. He’s going to be so annoyed he didn’t come today.”
“Hey …” Ishu says hesitantly when we’re within earshot. She smiles at Aisha—and her smile doesn’t look constipated. She’s been working on that.
“Ishu … this is Aisha, Salim Uncle’s daughter,” I say. “This is Ishu.”