Sway with Me

Chapter One

“Everything’s going to be okay, Arsalan. You’ll be fine.”

That was a lie and, unfortunately, deceiving yourself when you already know the truth about something is almost impossible. As a result, I’d been standing in front of a full-length mirror in my bedroom for quite a while, struggling to convince my reflection that the quest upon which I was about to embark was no big deal. All I had to do was be cool.

But I knew that in my seventeen years on Earth, I had managed not a single moment of cool. Also, the task before me was actually daunting. Momentous. Herculean, even. Today, after school, I was going to talk to a girl about love.

“Are you quite done preening?”

I jumped at the sound of Nana’s voice. My great-grandfather rarely came by my room. Stairs, like everything else in the world, irritated him. When I turned toward the door, I saw that he was hunched over his cane, still in his fraying velvet dressing gown, looking rather miserable. He was never agreeable until after I’d made him his morning tea.

“I wasn’t preening… exactly,” I protested. “I was making sure I was presentable.”

Nana’s critical gaze traveled from my freshly polished—though hopelessly scuffed—dress shoes, to my zealously ironed khaki pants, to my green blazer, and then to the laboriously perfected knot of my dull yellow tie. When his eyes fixed upon my hair—I’d made certain the side part I’d had since kindergarten was flawless—he asked, “Since when do you care about what you look like?”

That was a good question. Nana had a habit of asking those.

“And are you aware that you’re running half an hour late?”

Nana also had a habit of asking a second question before I could answer his first. I wondered, sometimes, if I’d find him as endearing as I did if I hadn’t spent almost all of my life with him.

I looked around and realized there was a lot more sunshine in my room than I was used to in the mornings. I’d lost track of time. That was unusual in the extreme. I had, in fact, never been late for school—not that this was all that much of an accomplishment. I’d only been going to Tennyson High for a few weeks. Nana had homeschooled me before that.

“I got distracted.”

“Like Narcissus,” he said.

I shook my head. That particular figure of Greek mythology had nothing in common with me. Narcissus had been so enchanted by his own beauty that he had spent his life staring at his own image. I knew perfectly well that I was not a pretty face. I’d just been trying to look a little better than I usually did, less like the definition of the word “dweeb.”

“So,” Nana asked, “I assume a young lady is responsible for your newfound vanity?”

“There is no—”

He raised his extraordinarily bushy eyebrows.

“Fine,” I muttered, surrendering to his disbelief. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I admitted, “I was going to talk to a girl after school.”

“Excellent,” Nana cheered. “You will do marvelously with the fairer sex. After all, you have an exceptional vocabulary.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. As if that is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is. Girls like nothing better than a strapping lad who sounds like he reads the thesaurus every night before bed.”

I wasn’t exactly a “strapping lad,” and in my experience—limited as it was—Nana’s theory about what impressed girls was more than a little incorrect. Either that or every single one of them at Tennyson was a brilliant actress in the making, pretending to be totally uninterested in my mastery of language.

I’d tried explaining this to Nana before, but he was nearly a hundred years old now and held the opinion that he had outgrown being wrong.

“You see, the size of your vocabulary tells a girl the size of your most precious organ.”

I frowned, genuinely confused. “How?”

“It lets them know you’ve got a large brain, Arsalan.”

Oh. Right. The brain. Also important.

“Syllables, my boy,” he declared, “are irresistible.”

“If you say so.”

“Come, now. You look positively dejected. Muster some confidence.”

“That’s what I was trying to do when you walked in.”

Nana waved a dismissive hand in the direction of my mirror. “You cannot rely on your looks. You have to show off your strength. What is the most impressive word you can think of?”

I shrugged. “‘Incomprehensibilities’?”

He made a face to show what he thought of that effort.

“‘Impedimenta’?”

“Adequate,” he conceded.

“‘Sesquipedalianism.’”

Nana grinned. “There it is! Who would not be impressed with such brilliance, hmm? Tell me, do you not feel better about yourself?”

I had to admit that I did, actually, though maybe that was because Nana almost never gave out compliments.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Nana made his way over to place a hand on my shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay, Arsalan,” he said, repeating what I’d been saying to my reflection. “You’ll be fine.”

At the end of the day, after classes were over, I made my way through the deserted corridors of Tennyson High and tried not to think about how deeply alone an empty school could seem. It was like walking into an abandoned mosque or a mall that had shut down. It felt wrong somehow.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t like being by myself. I was used to that. But there’s something sad about stumbling upon solitude in places you don’t expect to find it. It makes you miss strangers you’ve never met and friends you’ve never had.

Anyway, I didn’t like it, so I walked as quickly as I could.

As the gym—not my natural habitat—neared, handmade signs told me I was drawing close to the dance audition where I knew I’d find Beenish Siraj. I’d waited until almost all the other students had gone home before seeking her out. This way, if I embarrassed myself, at least it wouldn’t be in front of a large group of people.

My worries felt entirely justified. Beenish was terrifying. I didn’t know her personally, but I’d heard tell. Apparently “Beans,” despite being the younger sister of a teacher, had been suspended last year for punching some guy and breaking his nose. She was rumored to be prickly, stabby, and sharp. Definitely the kind of person I would usually avoid.

Why was I about to talk to her, then? Because Beenish was the daughter of Roshni Siraj, the premier matchmaking aunty of the Greater Sacramento Area. There was no one better at setting up arranged marriages in all of California.

Unfortunately, Roshni Aunty likely wouldn’t help me if I reached out to her on my own. She had an exclusive client list. The men she did business with were always in possession of a good fortune and in need of a wife.

I was not a man, though I was scheduled to become one within a year.

Also, I didn’t have a fortune. My total net worth was around twenty dollars.

Finally, I didn’t really want to get married. I was too young for that. I needed a rishta aunty to work her magic on my behalf because I wanted an assurance—a guarantee—that no matter what happened, I wouldn’t end up alone in the world.

I needed an engagement, and if I impressed Beenish maybe she’d convince her mother to find me a match.

“Clinomania,” I whispered to remind myself of my conversation with Nana that morning. “Mellifluous. Surreptitious.”

Never having been to a dance audition before, I’d imagined an event with music and lots of frantic activity. That wasn’t the case. The gym was empty except for a single table at the exact center of it, where Beenish Siraj sat.

I took a deep, bracing breath, stepped toward her, and pasted on the biggest smile I could manage. I probably looked like the Cheshire Cat had escaped Wonderland.

“Greetings,” I said—squeaked, actually—and bowed my head a little. “I would very much appreciate the opportunity to converse with you.”

Not bad. The bow had been unnecessary, and I hadn’t used any really big words yet, but it was a decent start.

Beenish, however, seemed distinctly unmoved by my performance.

For my part, I thought her rather remarkable. She had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. They were pretty in an “is there even a soul inside this person” kind of way. I noticed also her black hair and her T-shirt, which said THE NIGHT in bold, capital letters.

“Maybe stop perving out and look at my face when you’re talking to me?”

I blushed and yanked my gaze away from her shirt.

I’d never!

Okay, so perhaps “never” is overstating things a bit, but in this case I definitely hadn’t been staring at… I hadn’t been staring there.

“I was looking at what you’re wearing. Honest.”

“Sure.”

“It’s true,” I insisted. “What does that mean, anyway, ‘The Night’?”

“It means I’m dark and full of terrors.”

There was a pause as she waited for me to react to what she’d said. This happened a lot. People made pop culture references and then waited for me to get them. I usually didn’t.

“Well, anyway, if it is not too much of an inconvenience, I was hoping to procure your assistance in a delicate and confidential enterprise. You see—”

“Why are you talking like that?” Beenish demanded.

“Like what?”

“Like you just stepped out of a Dickens novel.”

I frowned. “I endeavor only to make a good impression.”

That earned me a puzzled look. “Why would you want to impress me? I don’t even know who the fuck you are.”

I gasped. It wasn’t so much her awful language that was shocking. It was the carelessness with which she’d used it, as if she said words like that all the time.

“Dude,” she said with a grin. “You’re a trip.”

“I am, in fact, Arsalan Nizami,” I corrected with as much dignity as I could manage in the circumstances.

“Uh-huh. And does Arsalan Nizami dance?”

“Not when people are watching. And also not when no one is watching.”

She pointed to a sign saying this was a dance audition.

“That’s not why I’m here,” I explained. “I need your help finding a girl.”

“You lose someone?”

“Yes. I mean… we’ve all lost someone. But I haven’t lost any girls, no.”

“Who’d you lose?” Beenish asked.

I blinked. That wasn’t the kind of thing you asked people you’d just met, was it? It was private. I’d come here to discuss completely impersonal things. Like marriage.

“I need your mother’s help finding a girl,” I clarified, hoping to get our conversation back on track.

“Oh. You’re one of those. Look, Nerd Scout—”

“Nerd Scout?”

“Because of your outfit. What are you wearing?”

I adjusted the knot on my tie and tugged at the lapels of my sport coat. “It’s my uniform.”

“Tennyson doesn’t have a uniform.”

I shrugged. “The school doesn’t. But I do.”

Beenish didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “Whatever,” she ultimately decided. “Look, my mother doesn’t do that arranged marriage crap. My stepmother does.”

“What difference does that make?”

That earned me a look that threatened to scald my soul. Apparently, it made a great deal of difference. “Sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t really sure what I’d done wrong.

“Why are you even bothering me?” Beenish asked. “Just have your parents call Roshni and set things up for you.”

“This wasn’t… This isn’t an idea my parents came up with, exactly.”

She looked at me as if I were completely incomprehensible. “You actually want to meet a rishta aunty to ask for an arranged marriage?”

I shrugged again. “I need help.”

“Obviously. Listen, I’m sorry, all right? I don’t get involved in anything Roshni does. Ever. Now, as you can see”—she gestured expansively at the massive gym—“I’m super busy with this audition.”

“No one is here,” I pointed out.

“There’s time,” Beenish said. “People could still show up.”

“Is this for cheerleading or something?”

“Do I seem like a cheerleader to you?”

I laughed at her dark tone. “Not even a little.”

For some reason, that caused her eyes to narrow.

“What?”

“Get,” she snapped, “out.”

So I did.

In the school parking lot, I put my head down on the steering wheel of my great-grandfather’s ancient Cadillac and closed my eyes. That had sucked. Not only was Beenish not going to help me, I already knew that some of the things she’d said with casual, thoughtless brutality would bother me for a long time.

I don’t even know who the bleep you are.

Nerd Scout.

What are you wearing?

I’d remember it all for years.

I wondered if other people were like me, if small hurts haunted them the same way. Maybe I was the only one who obsessed over every faux pas I made and cringed at the memory of every minor slight I’d endured. I often felt bad for things that had happened forever ago and, at the same time, felt petty for obsessing over what were, after all, minor bruises. Surely the rest of humanity was better than I was. Surely.

I sat back up and glanced over at the passenger seat, where the beat-up briefcase I carried—Nana thought backpacks were juvenile—sat mocking me.

You are different, it said. You’re strange. Everyone laughs at you.

I sighed and turned the ignition. The old car gasped, sputtered, sounded like it was preparing to perish, but then rumbled to life.

Before speaking to Beenish, I’d planned on going back to Nana’s. Now the long silences my great-grandfather and I shared seemed like too heavy a burden to bear. My heart and mind were full. I needed to speak to someone who would listen to me without trying to offer advice, and without interruption.

There was only one person like that, and I always knew exactly where to find her.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

She didn’t answer, but she never did.

Not anymore.

It was a nice autumn day. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with a few scattered clouds. Birds I couldn’t see chirped in trees that were still hanging on to their leaves. In a few months, the cemetery would no longer be full of their song.

“How are you?”

A cool breeze picked up slightly. I knew that it was not a response from my mother. And yet…

I lay down next to Mom. Up above, in the light blue of the sky, I thought I could just make out the moon, which was always there, but often veiled by the brightness of the sun.

“I finally spoke to that Beenish girl I told you about. It didn’t go great.”

I really shouldn’t have to do this, I thought. You should be here. But there was no reason to be unkind. As a general rule, I tried not to complain about my life when I visited my mother. Whatever my troubles, she had it worse, being dead and all.

“Anyway, what about you? Anything interesting happening?”

I closed my eyes and listened to the silence around me.

Two years ago, I’d have been freaked out by the thought of being in a graveyard as the sun began to fall from the sky. Now I knew it was a peaceful place where I could be around the only person who’d ever really known me.

Of course, she wasn’t actually present. This was just where her body was. Her spirit was elsewhere. I wondered what that felt like. Maybe it felt like a dream.

I don’t remember the room. I want to say it was cold and clinical, but I’ve forgotten a lot of details about that day, even though it ended up being the most important one of my life.

I remember holding my mom’s hand as she lay on the hospital bed. I remember how little it seemed to weigh. There were deep, ugly, purple bruises on her face, but they didn’t look so bad. Not bad enough to die from.

It’s internal bleeding, doctors told me. You can’t see it.

Where’s your father?

I didn’t know.

Do you know if your mother has insurance? Are you eighteen yet? There are these forms that… We’ll give you a moment.

A moment. A moment to hold her hand.

Allah said he made human beings from clay.

You forget that, until they break.

Then she opened her eyes and I dared to hope.

She managed a smile. It was small, but it was the world.

“Hey,” she said, very, very softly, her parched lips struggling to part.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How much time do I have?”

“What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“You know you shouldn’t lie, Arsalan.”

I remember crying and crying and crying and not being able to stop.

I remember her stroking my hair as best she could.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Arsalan,” she whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know how to live without you, Mommy.”

She was in tears too now. Her hand dropped away; her breathing came faster. “You will. Search for love and you’ll see. Life is beautiful.”

Her eyes closed and she couldn’t open them.

They sedated me and darkness fell upon me too.

I woke up.

She never did.