Zara Hossain Is Here Read online

  To all those who leave home

  for a better world.

  To Jaanu, forever my home.

  To my greatest pride and joy,

  Sonya and Sanaa.

  And to my beloved Nikki, who fills

  my world with light.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sabina Khan

  The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali Excerpt

  Copyright

  Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

  I focus on each breath, pushing the anger to the back of my mind. It’s nothing new, this need to punch something, to rage at the world. This is my reality and I’m used to it. That almost angers me more than the actual microaggressions I deal with daily. I concentrate on each pattern as I step, kick, and punch, chasing that elusive feeling of peace. Finally, it’s there, the calm after the storm, and I stop to catch my breath.

  Mr. Clair’s last class of the day is just finishing up, so the students are filing out of the rec center.

  “Hey, Zara, I haven’t seen you here for a while,” he says, stacking the last of the boards and placing them inside the cabinet. He was my tae kwon do instructor for years, ever since I was six and just starting out.

  I’m glad Abbu didn’t let me quit after I got my green belt. I remember being so frustrated when I didn’t pass the exam the first time that I just wanted to stop. But Abbu would help me with my patterns and Ammi would quiz me on the tenets: courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit. It didn’t help that I used to be terrified of Mr. Clair and that every time he looked at me I turned into a noodle. These days we can both laugh about it. I still go there sometimes to help him out with the white belts. But on days like today, when I feel like I might lose control, it’s a sanctuary.

  “I’ve just been super busy with school,” I reply. I want this space to be free of all the other stuff in my life right now. Mr. Clair knows my family well, given that all three of us spent a great deal of time here up until I was fifteen. That’s when I finally got my black belt.

  I give him a hand with the sliding room divider, and then we start. He goes easy on me at first, just a few basic jump kicks, axe kicks, and hook kicks. Then he steps it up, and I have to watch out. I use a roundhouse kick as bait. I step into the maneuver, anticipating his counter. But I continue to spin, executing a perfect hook kick. Just like he taught me.

  He throws me a smile. “I see you haven’t forgotten. Good.”

  I smile back. “Thanks for letting me hang out.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “You know you’re welcome anytime.”

  I step out into the night and wait for Abbu to pick me up. My blouse sticks to my skin, and my hair has morphed into a giant ball of frizz in the eighty-degree heat of this humid evening. Just because I’m used to living in a perpetual sauna doesn’t mean I like it. At all. Abbu’s BMW rolls up, and I slide in gratefully to let the coolness from the air-conditioning vent blast in my face.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I say, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “I was just on my way home, so it worked out perfectly,” he says. “Did Ammi need the car today?”

  I nod silently, looking out the window. It’s almost nine o’clock, but it’s still a little light out. Wherever I end up moving for college next year, I want to go someplace with actual seasons.

  “What’s the matter, beta?” Abbu looks at me before checking his backup camera as he pulls out of the parking lot. “You look tense. Everything okay at school?”

  It’s not, but I don’t want to worry him. On the other hand, he’ll worry more if I don’t tell him.

  “Things have been weird lately,” I begin, still hesitant to confide in him.

  “Weird how, beta?” Abbu turns on South Staples, passing a row of apartment buildings and a Circle K.

  “Just some kids at school. They’ve been saying stuff lately. Stupid things about Muslims.”

  The light turns yellow, then red, and Abbu brings the car to a stop. He turns to me, concern deepening the lines on his forehead.

  “Zara, you have to tell us these things,” he says.

  “I don’t want you to be scared every time I go to school. You know how Ammi gets.”

  “Yes, beta, I know,” Abbu says. The light turns green, and we’re moving again. “But we need to know what’s happening. You know how quickly things can get out of hand.”

  “I know, Abbu. And I promise I’ll tell you.”

  “But let’s just keep it between us,” he says. “No need to worry your mother.”

  The peace I felt is gone now.

  The truth?

  I worry enough for all of us.

  “Zara. Zaaarrraaa. Come down and eat breakfast.”

  Ammi’s shrill voice carries up from the kitchen, into my bedroom and beyond. I won’t be at all surprised if our neighbors are lined up by our front door expecting breakfast.

  “Coming, Ammi,” I call before she starts shouting again. I put on the finishing touches of eyeliner, dragging out the ends into wings. A dab of pink lip gloss, then I select a pair of large silver hoops from the crystal bowl on my dresser, grab my bag, and go downstairs.

  My bichon puppy, Zorro, follows me, forever my shadow. Ammi is at the kitchen island preparing lunches for Abbu and me while simultaneously keeping an eye on the stove. I walk up to her and kiss her on the cheek.

  “Good morning, Ammi.” I hug her, tucking back a few errant strands of hair behind her ear before settling on a stool at the breakfast counter. She smiles and places a plate of steaming paranthay and scrambled eggs on the embroidered place mat in front of me.

  “Good morning, meri chanda.” She hands me a steaming mug of coffee. I take it from her and breathe in the deep hazelnut aroma before taking a sip.

  “Is your abbu coming down or what?” Ammi asks, sliding another parantha onto the platter. “His breakfast is getting cold.”

  She pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down on the stool next to me, the flowing sleeves of her silk kaftan brus
hing softly against my bare arms.

  “Iqbaaaal!” she screams without warning, and the sound sends shock waves through my entire body. It’s hard to believe that such a tiny person possesses a vocal power of nuclear proportions.

  “So, anything exciting planned for today, Ammi?” I tear off a piece of parantha, use it to scoop up some scrambled eggs, and pop it in my mouth. Mmm. Heaven.

  “Yes, Zara, I have a very exciting day planned for myself. Dishes, groceries, all so thrilling.”

  “Okay, Ammi, I get it.” I grin at her as I finish up my eggs quickly before sliding off the stool. “I’ll do the dishes right now.” I begin to clear the kitchen island.

  “Thank you, Zara. Actually, I was hoping to organize the study a little today.”

  I look up from loading the dirty plates into the dishwasher. “It’s Tuesday. Don’t you have book club today?”

  “Yes, that’s tonight. I hope that Shireen has actually read the book this time. Sometimes I think she only comes for my carrot halwa.”

  A couple of years ago, Ammi started a book club with a few of her friends. There’s really not much else to do in Corpus Christi for a Muslim immigrant from Pakistan with a love for reading. Her social group includes the only two other Muslim women she knows in Corpus and Meredith, a colleague from the local library where Ammi works part-time. They pick books mostly by South Asian authors and discuss them over chai and delectable Pakistani snacks. I love Tuesdays mainly because I can stuff my face with chaat, samosas, and halwas. And, of course, the aunties. They’re my trusty source for anything Bollywood.

  Abbu finally walks into the kitchen and grabs a few bites of parantha and egg, while Ammi fusses over his tie.

  “Iqbal, when will you listen to me and slow down? Your patients will still be there, even if you take ten minutes to eat a proper breakfast.” My mom pours coffee into his travel mug before handing it to him, then disappears into the pantry. We can hear her grumbling to herself inside.

  “I don’t know why I bother to make a nice hot breakfast for you if you’re just going to gobble it down,” she complains to the neatly stacked containers of rice, lentils, and canned soups on the shelves. She emerges with a couple of Ziploc bags of trail mix. Abbu obediently takes one, as do I. It’s easier than arguing with her.

  “Nilufer, don’t forget, I’ll be late coming home today,” Abbu reminds her, grabbing his stethoscope off the coffee table and stuffing it into his briefcase. “I have that dinner with the new partner, remember?” He kisses Ammi on the forehead before he heads out the door.

  “Zara, beta, what’s happening at school?” Ammi says, finally sitting down to finish her coffee. “Your father told me you seemed really upset last night.”

  I will never understand why either of my parents pretend they can actually keep secrets. They have to tell each other absolutely everything. It’s kind of sweet except that now I know Ammi will worry.

  “It’s nothing, Ammi,” I say dismissively. “Just some ignorant jerks. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  She looks at me, her dark eyes full of concern. “Beta, I’m always scared these days. With everything on the news lately … things are changing and you have to be careful.”

  I hate that she feels like this. We have lived in Corpus Christi for fourteen years now, eight of them waiting to get our green cards. My parents brought me here with them from Pakistan when I was three so Abbu could start his pediatric residency. Eventually the hospital where he’s worked for years agreed to sponsor his green card application, but we knew it could take years. We’re almost at the end of the arduous process now, and the lawyer said we should expect to have our permanent resident status in just a few more months. It can’t come soon enough since I graduate at the end of this school year and don’t want to have to apply to college as an international student. We’re a little afraid to be too optimistic, but I can’t help feeling hopeful. It’s what keeps me sane while I deal with idiots at school like Tyler Benson, aka jock, racist, moron.

  I’d be lying if I said I don’t worry sometimes when I’m at school. Tyler and his buddies certainly don’t make any effort to hide how they really feel. As the only Muslim at school, I’m well aware that their comments are aimed at me. I just choose to ignore them, because the majority of the students are pretty great despite their homogeneity.

  Most of the students at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour High School are Catholic. Then there’s a handful of us heathens, I mean non-Catholics, at the school. There’s Priya, whose family is from Kerala. Her father is an anesthesiologist and works with Abbu. Then there’s Divya from Mumbai, whose mom is an engineer, and Andy from Taiwan, whose dad works in IT. Finally there’s me, a Muslim girl from Pakistan.

  Of course, there’s also my best friend, Nick Garcia, who is third-generation Mexican American and a star on our school’s football team. I see him standing by the lockers waiting for me as he does every morning. He gets here early for football practice most days. Other days, Abbu gives us both a ride since we live only two houses down from each other. He’s like the brother I never knew I wanted. We’ve been best friends ever since I crashed my bike in front of his house when I was five.

  “Hey, there you are,” he says after I drop my bag on the floor with a loud thump.

  “Did you finish the chem assignment after I left yesterday?” I ask, pulling out my textbook for first period.

  “I tried, but I got, you know, distracted,” he says with a smile that would melt most girls’ hearts. But I’m immune to his charms because I know how disgusting he can be when he’s not trying to impress a girl.

  “Mhmm, I know you think I’ll do your homework for you, but guess what? I’m busy,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

  He looks at me with his big brown eyes, just the way Zorro does when he wants a treat. “Pleeeease,” he says with an exaggerated smile. “Coach is mad at me already because I missed practice yesterday.”

  At almost six feet tall, Nick towers over me, his broad shoulders a stark contrast to my petite frame. I can’t help noticing the envy-tinged glances thrown my way by girls passing by on their way to class, and I want to laugh. My relationship with Nick is far from what they probably think it is.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” I say. “You better come over, and I’ll go over the chapter with you. I’m not going to be responsible for you getting kicked off the team if you fail another test.”

  He gives me a bear hug. “You’re the best, Zara.”

  He bounds off to his first class, while I shove the rest of my stuff into the locker.

  “You guys are adorable.” I turn to see Priya standing behind me, her dark hair in a thick braid hanging casually over her right shoulder. I envy the way she can make our school uniform look good. On me, the blue-and-black-plaid skirt looks frumpy, but with her long legs, it somehow looks stylish. She’s grinning at me now, while simultaneously chewing on a piece of red licorice.

  “Ha-ha, you’re hilarious,” I say, grimacing at her. I snag a piece from the bag she’s holding. “You know perfectly well it’s not like that with me and Nick.”

  “Are you sure Nick knows that?” she counters, quickening her pace to keep up with me as we walk to class.

  “What do you mean? Of course he does.”

  Priya shrugs nonchalantly. “If you say so …”

  We enter the classroom just in time to slide into our seats before Mr. Adams begins the lesson. I’m sure I have no idea what Priya is talking about. Nick and I know each other almost too well. We are firmly planted in the friend zone. Which is exactly where I want us to be.

  Mr. Adams spends the first half of class discussing the long history of immigration in the US, the majority of it focused only on European immigration in the nineteenth century, leaving out any mention of the more recent waves of immigrants and the injustices they continue to endure. As if the lives and contributions of all those who made this country richer by bringing their traditions and languages and values can be condensed int
o a single thirty-minute lecture.

  It’s my turn today to present my US history paper in front of the class. It’s worth 30 percent of our final grade, and my stomach is in knots.

  I’ve chosen to write about the inequities and indignities of the US immigration system. Aside from my own personal connection to the topic, it’s frustrating to hear all the negative conversations around immigration lately, especially by the white students, most of whom will never know how it feels to leave everything—and everyone—they know behind just for the hope of building a new, better life for themselves and their family. For people of color, this fear is compounded because we know we’re not really welcome in a lot of countries. Yet we continue to come from across the world in order to build a better life.

  “Zara, are you ready?” Mr. Adams says after he’s done telling us about an upcoming test.

  I wipe my palms against my skirt as I stand and walk to the front of the class. I’m usually pretty comfortable speaking in public, but today I avoid looking at my classmates as I speak. I try to focus on my words and their importance to me. It’s not easy, talking about xenophobic, discriminatory government policies throughout history and how the quotas on immigration always seemed to disproportionately target people of color.

  When I finish my presentation, all I want to do is just sit back down, but I know I have to take questions. Maybe no one will care enough to ask me anything. But I’m not so lucky.

  Kyra McKintyre raises her hand.

  “Umm, I just wanted to say that it’s really sad what y’all go through, but I mean, like, why do we have to take care of everyone else in the whole world?”

  Blood rushes to my face, and for a moment, I don’t think I can speak. Then a calm settles over me.

  “No one’s asking you to take care of anyone. Immigrants do not come here as beggars. They have a lot to offer. They’re educated and skilled, so they work just like everyone else. Sometimes they even do the work that y’all don’t want to do.”

  I’m surprised to see Kyra blush, which means she actually isn’t as ignorant as she sounds.

  “What about all the illegals that are flooding our country?” Tyler says. He’s sporting his usual arrogant smirk, clearly trying to goad me, but I’m not falling for that. Instead, I pin him with a cold stare.