![]() We don’t get why your uncle took so long to ask him.” “His parents are like, finally! Farooq finished memorizing the Qur’an two years ago, you know. “So guess what? Your uncle asked Farooq if he would lead some of the Taraweeh prayers for Ramadan this year.” Fizz beams at me. ![]() ![]() Fizz is prone to remedying me and would invariably seek the answer to my “problem.” There it is, beside the tissue package she takes out, the little green book with embossed-gold writing that she carries around with her, One Hundred and One Evils and Their Islamic I decide against discussing the newest development with Jeremy revealed by Tats last night. I mouth an apology to Fizz and watch her rooting in her bag as the bus pauses. But I’m just having a zone-out moment, when there’s nothing going on inside but it feels good against the blur of noise on the outside. I’m not staring at the guy near the front, but I know why Fizz thinks so: He’s pretty good-looking plus he falls into the admirable-forehead category. And you’re staring at that guy near the front.” ![]() “Janna,” she says, holding tight to the strap overhead. Being the handy friend she is, she twists herself to smack me with her laptop bag. She’s telling me about Rambo’s addiction to Wonder Bread, a sure feline prediabetic indication, but I’m not listening. I’m on the bus with Fizz, en route to the mosque open house. ![]()
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