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Turns out, I’m fond of kissing.
“But next time, I’ll make sure there are no Indian relatives around.”
She is a child!
But when I relive it in my mind, the lips I’m kissing are Phil’s.
GURRRL
But that’s also the trouble: the Future. I committed to seeing Kareem again. And I do want to see him. But I also wonder if I’ll be picturing Phil while Kareem kisses me. It’s pretty crappy, especially for Kareem.
Who is saying anything about marriage? We want you to finish your studies. But I was married when I was only a few years older than you.”
Some even marry white American boys.” She means boys like Phil.
Im screaming
“So gothic romance isn’t exactly my thing, but if I ever direct one, this is so going to be the spot. I’m thinking, Dracula meets Wuthering Heights, but, like, contemporary where Heathcliff is a vampire, because that would explain why he is such a jerk.”
“I have no idea what any of that means, except for vampires.”
“Can you do the dead man’s float?” “That’s the name? That’s terrible marketing.” “It’s called that because that’s how corpses float. You have to float before you can swim.”
“You have built-in flotation devices.” Phil eyes my cleavage. My mouth drops open. I immediately cover my chest with my arms. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you said that.”
Me neither but it is so teenage boy
I’m suddenly very aware that my skin is a living organ because it registers the slight temperature change as his hand edges from cool to warm. I can feel the wrinkles of his pruney fingertips embedding their whorls into my body. The world slows down. My breathing, the journey of the drips of water that trail from his skin onto mine, the rise and fall of his chest, the blink of his eyelids.
In the movies, you can achieve slow motion in two ways, first, by overcranking, basically capturing each frame at a much faster rate with your camera than it will be played back on a projector. Then there’s time stretching, where you insert new frames in postproduction between the ones already filmed but linger longer on each one. That’s what this feels like, but where each of the new frames I add is just a blank screen of longing.
I allow myself to be the character in the romantic movie. The adorkable girl who gets the guy. Because this definitely doesn’t feel like real life, not mine, anyway.
The camera loves him. He’s an easy subject to follow.
I love it, but now everyone expects me to play, but I’m ready to move on—try something different.”
I feel that
“Nothing like that. It’s the documentary of my life, with an audience of one—me. One day when I’m old and gray, my Mac hard drive will be my memory. Along with my dozens of backups.”
“Worried your computer’s gonna crash?” “Afraid I’ll forget how I see the world.” “What do you mean?” “Filming is the way I see things. Really see them. I can capture what is important to me at a particular moment. That way, I keep it forever.”
“Movies are the only real magic that I can make,”
His face inches closer. I will our lips to meet. I want to wrap my arms around him and press my mouth to his, but my body hesitates.
Gurl, youu almost got it!!!
“We’re alone. They want us to be alone.”
Boi. There is more to Maya than kissing!
It’s beautiful and perfect, but I can’t fool myself. I don’t want it. My heart belongs to Phil, even if his heart belongs to Lisa.
The heart wants what it cant have
“Love?” “Hate to break it to you, but that’s kinda what it sounds like.” “I was afraid that’s what it was.”
It’s love. If it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t hurt.”
Phil likes you. He could’ve spent spring break having sex with his girlfriend, but instead he spent a week with you, where the main action was five minutes of G-rated handholding. Obviously, he’s got to break up with her, but he’s scared. You might have heard this before, but guys aren’t always the best communicators.”
“Wow. I’m . . . speechless.” He winks at me. “Great communicators like me have that effect on most women.”
Maybe this is a phase.”
Its not
Laughing would definitely not be appropriate right now, but I’m not sure how the apparently cardinal sin of eating pork equates with the kind of trouble you can get into with boys (say, premarital sex), but in my mom’s logic, it does.
Because a marriage certificate doesn’t bestow maturity.
Is it possible to be happy and angry at the same time about the same thing?
I feel you
A terrorist attack. Another tragedy. Is there no end? Is this how life will always be? I want to know more, but there is one piece of information I absolutely hope I don’t hear. I whisper a prayer to the universe. “Please, please let everyone be okay. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.”
I’m not a very good Muslim, but I hope my prayers are heard. Prayers for the dead and wounded. Prayers for ourselves. Prayers for peace, hoping that no more lives are lost to hate.
I’m scared of the next Muslim ban. I’m scared of my dad getting pulled into Secondary Security Screening at the airport for “random” questioning. I’m scared some of the hijabi girls I know will get their scarves pulled off while they’re walking down a sidewalk—or worse. I’m scared of being the object of fear and loathing and suspicion again. Always.
She’s my parent; worry and love are part of the package.
“It’s a Muslim terrorist,” Brian yells. “They hate America.” I turn to look at Brian. He stares right back. His glare is icy and unnerving, and he mutters something under his breath.
Oh my heart
It’s selfish and horrible, but in this terrible moment, all I want is to be a plain old American teenager. Who can simply mourn without fear. Who doesn’t share last names with a suicide bomber. Who goes to dances and can talk to her parents about anything and can walk around without always being anxious. And who isn’t a presumed terrorist first and an American second.
“Sorry I’m not Miss Mary Sunshine, but a so-called Muslim sociopath attacked us. Again. If these jerks hate America so much, why don’t they stay in their own countries? He killed little kids.” My voice breaks. “I don’t understand that kind of hate.”
“These terrorists are the antithesis of Islam. They’re not Muslim. Violence has no place in religion, and the terrorists are responsible for their own crimes, not the religion and not us.”
“Terrorism has no religion.
When he’s within earshot, he yells, “Is that terrorist your uncle?” He sounds gleeful and disgusted at the same time. There’s a viscous, dreamlike quality to all of this.
I want to punch him
“Why don’t you people leave America if you hate it so much?” I wince, remembering the conversation I had with my parents. My own words spat back at me. “I was born here, you racist! And that guy was Egyptian. My family’s Indian.” My temples throb. Why am I even explaining? I shouldn’t need to explain, and it shouldn’t matter where my family is from. But I do. And it does.
“It’s too dangerous for you to be far away. You can’t go to New York. You need to stay close to us. It’s decided.”
Holy shit no!!!
And for what I’ve learned: that hope is just a million shards of broken glass.
“Please, I’m the president of Overthinkers Anonymous. I’m their patron saint.”
“We’re experts at establishing each other’s presence.”
😍😍😍😍😍
I look left and right. Josh and Brandon stand a few feet behind Brian, flanking him, effectively cutting off my only exit.
Shit
“And I didn’t ask you to come to our country.” “But I was born here . . .” I let my voice fade. There is no point in responding or trying to be reasonable. It’s safer if I keep my mouth shut.
Oh my god no!
