Two Love

Chapter 17

Coming home from Marty's house as snow fell in flurries around her, Parisa barely felt the cold. Her crush on Marty supplied a warmth in her soul, like a log fire in the hearth of a cosy cabin, and being around him for a full four hours had only fanned the flame. He was cheeky, rebellious, light-hearted – all things she felt she could never be as long as she was Muslim (or at least, not to his extent).

"Did you go out without your hijab?" asked her mum Alina. Her tone was curious rather than accusatory, yet Parisa felt a pang of guilt in her chest.

"Yes," she replied. "I wanted to wear this pink hat, and I couldn't fit it over my hijab so I went without it."

"We've been over this, Parisa. The hijab is not just a fashion choice, it's a symbol of modesty and obedience to Allah."

"But I can be modest and obedient to Allah without wearing a hijab, right?" She gestured to her outfit – pink coat, light blue jeans, pink gloves. "Look at me. There's not an inch of skin on show. And I try my best to have a spiritual hijab-"

"You weren't hanging out with boys, were you? Please tell me you were with your female friends."

Parisa's face fell. She knew her mum would react like this. It was like she saw all boys as a monolith that existed to objectify girls whenever they could. But Parisa knew the truth. She knew that it was only a small percentage of boys who did this. Most boys were kind and respectful. One particular boy was such a great listener that it sometimes felt like they were the only people in the room.

"Oh, Allah have mercy! You could've been objectified or harassed on the streets – anything could have happened to you! My sweet, sweet girl-"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" shouted Parisa. Alina flinched, her hand retracted from her daughter's shoulder. "I'm more than sweet – I'm intelligent and independent and I can make my own decisions! If my friends can see that, why can't you?"

As Parisa turned to put her coat in the hallway, Alina said weakly, "You missed Salat al-Zuhr. I suggest you do it now before it's time for Salat al-'asr."

Parisa sighed. Maybe she could forsake her hijab, seeing that many modern Muslim women did not wear one, but she could not disobey Allah's instructions to pray five times a day. So she went up to her room, performed wudhu and faced Mecca to pray.

*

The echoes of elated cheers and stifled grumbles; the whoosh of a racquet hitting a shuttlecock and the squeak of trainers on the polished floor: these were Parisa Patel's all-time favourite sounds. A close second was the light-hearted lilt of her crush's voice.

"Hey, Parisa, are you ready for me to kick your ass?" Marty was fiddling with the piece of elastic that kept his glasses secure during a game. It made a satisfying twang. It also made Marty look like an old man who mowed his lawn ten times a day.

"Nope. I'd assumed I'd be the one doing the ass-kicking."

Marty did a false-offended facial expression that nearly made Parisa burst out laughing. He had a way of contorting his face into the silliest of shapes. "Well, I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens! Let's get started!"

Parisa tried to keep her focus on the shuttlecock as Marty served, but all she could see was her crush's wild blond hair and his handsome hazel eyes.

She missed the first shot entirely.

After that, though, her natural athletic instincts kicked in, allowing her to win the first match. It wasn't without a fight, however – Marty had perfected several of his moves, and it was a tough task trying to return his drop shots.