You Only Live Twice - Hardcover

Allen, Autumn

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593619072 ISBN 13: 9780593619070

Publisher: Kokila, 2026

Synopsis

An unforgettable, heartwarming, hilarious coming-of-age story about faith, family, all kinds of love, and a Black Muslim teen pursuing an ordinary goal in an extraordinary time.

Barely one week into senior year of high school, Boston native Zakiyyah is making her 2012-2013 Get Free Plan.

Step one: quit high school. (PSA: There are other ways to get to college!)

Step two: live like it’s Ramadan year-round.

As she gets deeper into her Plan, she starts to wonder if there’s someone out there who would be a good companion. To everyone’s surprise, Zakiyyah decides she wants to get married. But there are some complications.

Problem one: she’s never met a guy she liked. Zakiyyah’s family (reluctantly) and friends (eagerly) agree to support the search.

Problem two: what’s the secret to choosing a good life partner?

Enter Musa, by way of mutual friends. With marriage in mind, Zakiyyah and Musa get to know each other, progressing from email to instant messaging to phone calls. Things are going well… thrillingly well… until tragedy strikes Boston. In a moment of heightened emotion and stress, Zakiyyah and Musa have their first major disagreement.

Zakiyyah can call the whole thing off. But with or without Musa, what does it mean to live on her own terms?

About this title

About the Author

Autumn Allen is an author, editor, consultant, and educator. Her debut young adult novel, All You Have to Do, was a People Magazine must-read for fall 2023, a Black Caucus of the ALA debut honor award winner, and was long listed for the Massachusetts Book Award. Her second novel, You Only Live Twice, is a JLG Gold Standard Selection. Her forthcoming picture books, Step On Board: Sculpting a Memorial to Harriet Tubman, illustrated by Ekua Holmes, Answered Prayers, illustrated by Charly Palmer, and To Know By Heart, illustrated by Daniel Minter, celebrate Black and Muslim history and culture. Autumn is a senior editor at Barefoot Books and has taught literature, writing, and publishing to students of all ages. Visit her online at AutumnAllenBooks.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Zakiyyah AbdusSalaam
2012–2013

بسم الله الرحمان الرحيم
This is for posterity.
(I’ve always wanted to use that word in a sentence!)
This is the year that I change my life.
At the beginning of this year, I am a typical high school student, going through the motions, doing what’s expected of me (mostly).
By the end of this year, I will rearrange my life.
I know, I know—-being “grown” is relative. My nana says every year from her tenth birthday onward she proudly announced, “Now I’m a woman!” I know how corny it sounds.
But in my case, it’s true. It has to be! (Cries.) I’m not waiting till my high school graduation. Or my eighteenth birthday.
Is this going to be a love story? We’ll see. I’m collecting other people’s stories. How they met their spouse. How they knew their spouse was The One. (There isn’t a One, I’ve decided. That’s just shorthand for someone who will make you smile, who will support you; someone who will be worth the effort it takes to stay together.) If I do find the one for me, I’ll be glad I recorded the story of how we got together. Maybe I’ll show this to our kids one day. (Maybe not.) Maybe I’ll use it as material for spoken-word poems. Hey, poetry about having your heart broken is sometimes even better than poetry about falling and staying in love. (Plus, heartbreak stories are so convincing, they’ve helped me stay away from guys for this long.)
But let’s stay focused. The guy is not the point. The point is to get free.
PART 1
The Get Free Plan


CHAPTER 1
How It Started
July through August 2012: the sweetest Ramadan ever. Qiyam at the masjid almost every night. Iftars with friends. Reading the Quran and taking classes to learn the meanings. Spending every minute of every day doing what was most important to me. Mostly things that would get me closer to Allah. Occasionally, taking a three--hour nap. (Don’t judge. Fasting in the summertime? Those last few hours are brutal.)
August 2012: Eid al--Fitr. Fun times. Drove down to New Jersey for Muslim Family Day at the BIG Six Flags. What? There were Muslims EVERYwhere! Abayas and thobes as far as the eye could see. It made me wonder what it must feel like to live in a majority Muslim country. Or even a city like Philly, where a Muslim sighting was no big deal.
My best friend Asiyah came down with us, and my out--of--state best friend Sumayyah met us there. In the afterglow of Ramadan, surrounded by Muslims, we screamed our heads off on roller coasters, nearly vomited on zero--gravity drops, drank slushies to cool down, and talked a mile a minute, hoping the day wouldn’t end. But it did. When the sun disappeared, we prayed in its purple wake, rows deep like the Eid prayer all over again. We promised each other we wouldn’t slip. We wouldn’t have to start all over again next Ramadan. We would keep our eman high and then get even better, inshaAllah. We chose three new habits we’d keep in our lives all year long. Daily thikr, daily Quran, and weekly fasting. We could do this. We would check on each other.
But on the long drive home to Boston, it felt like all that beauty, that comfort, that spiritual high, all that was slipping away. Left behind in a magical place that existed only in my mind.
August waved goodbye, with its slowness and its heat, leaving a pit of nostalgia in my chest. September barged in, all business and schedule, elbowing my dreams out of its way. And then it was the first week of school. Senior year. A.k.a. Purgatory.
First sight upon entering the building: a kid who’d been in my En-glish class junior year being cornered in the hallway by the assistant principal.
“I couldn’t find it, and I was gonna be late,” the boy was saying.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Applegate said, not sounding sorry at all. “You know the rules. You have to go home. And if you can’t get back before lunch, just come back tomorrow.”
I tried not to stare. The boy fumed silently, rage emanating from his eyes like lasers. Then he stormed back out the front door, holding up his pants with one hand as he walked.
It was his belt. The missing piece of his school uniform that he was being sent home over. A belt. All black, with no colors.
Ms. Applegate turned her attention to the other students coming in, looking everyone up and down, anticipating further offenses. I wondered how she managed to convince herself that her job made sense. If it was that important to them, why didn’t they keep spare black belts and black shoes in the office instead of sending kids home? Their big corporate sponsors must have money for that. But no. Charter school is all about Individual Responsibility. Rigor. Zero Tolerance. Blah blah blah. Like I said: Purgatory.
I made my way to homeroom. Then history. English. Physics.
Finally, lunch. A bit of relief. Just for a moment. Before the cafe-teria filled up.
I brought my tray of food--like items to an empty table and sat down to zone out. Outside the high windows, brick walls stared back at me, looking as bored as I felt. I could have gladly spent my twenty--five--minute lunch period in blissful solitude, daydreaming of freedom, ignoring the loud boys showing off and the painted girls preening and the suspicious teachers watching for minor infractions. But before I could fully enter daydream land, Kayla arrived.
“Heeyyyy!” She plopped down next to me and gave me a side squeeze.
“Hey,” I said, returning her squeeze with a pat and scooting over in pursuit of personal space.
Kayla’s hair was brushed into smooth, shiny waves and gathered with an elastic at the back, where a puff of defined curls spiraled out. Her edges were laid, not a disobedient hair in sight, but she still wore her three elastics on her wrist in case of a hair emergency.
“How was your summer?” she said. “I didn’t see you at all!”
“It was good,” I said.Actually, I thought, I was just internally weeping because it’s over.
“I hope we have a class together,” she said, organizing her tray into foods she might eat and foods she wouldn’t touch. “Can I see your schedule?”
I dug it out of my bag and she looked it over.
“Aw man,” she said. “Nothing.”
Our table was filling up. A trickle of kids at the far end, a few more in the middle, and then, right next to us, Tiffany and Monique.
“What’s up?” they said, then sat down and continued their conversation. They were gossiping in explicit detail about a guy Monique had hooked up with over the weekend. An athlete, like her, whose body was . . .
I tried to mind my business. I studied my cold Tater Tots, chocolate milk, fish sticks, and cup of preserved peaches. Kayla had cut her fish sticks in half and inspected them before placing them in the Do Not Eat category. She leaned over and whispered to me.
“I need advice. Devin wants me to go to this party with him on Friday.”
Ugh.
“I thought you broke up with him?” I asked.
“I did.”
I stared at the brick wall.
“Should I go?” she asked.
I did not suck my teeth.
“Why would you?” I asked.
“Maybe he wants to start over.”
“Doyou want to start over?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”
Oh, Kayla, I thought.We have been over this so many times. Devin is a jerk. He is a player. He is beneath you. He has been stringing you along for almost two years. Enough is enough.
Swirling the bits of preserved peaches in sweet syrup, I sighed. “I guess you should decide if he’s worth your time at all. Then decide about the party.”
Kayla nodded earnestly. “You’re so smart,” she said.
Smart? I’d call it observant. Or maybe just having standards. But I couldn’t say these things to Kayla. And this was precisely how I ended up in these situations.
I’ve always been quiet, so people think I’m a good listener. When they think I’m a good listener, they talk to me about their problems. When they’ve poured out their feelings to me, they feel bonded to me. Before I know it, someone I think of as an acquaintance is treating me as a best friend.
It was fine being adopted like that when I was little. In my tiny Islamic school, the pickings were slim. Most of the families were friends, and the girl who claimed me as her best friend is still my real best friend. But in high school . . .
“Hey, Kay,” Tiffany said, “you coming to the party Friday?”
“I don’t know yet,” Kayla said. She glanced at me with a hint of panic in her eyes.
Understood. I was not supposed to speak about Devin.
Another problem with being quiet. You keep secrets easily, because gossip is boring. But in the world of high school drama, not spreading someone’s business is seen as some bond of unbreakable trust. Side effect: You accidentally earn people’s trust, and they keep confiding in you, and they keep feeling closer to you.
“What about you, gangsta?” Monique nodded her chin at me. “You gonna graduate without ever coming out to a party?”
“Yep,” I said.
Monique and Tiffany shook their heads. By now, everyone knew the deal. Sophomore year, they tried to get me to come to a party like it was a campaign. “How about if we throw a party with no drinks and no weed?” they said.
“And no boys?” I asked.
Their minds exploded. “How is it a party with no boys?”
If they only knew! “You just need a lot of food . . .” To be precise, you need Auntie Maryam’s rice and beans, Auntie Ummil--Khair’s pineapple upside--down cake, Auntie Ayanna’s mac and cheese, Sister- Salma’s bean pie, plus some auntie bringing a big tray of biryani, someone bringing fattoush . . . you get the point. Real food, from many cultures. Optional add-ons: Bring a speaker and let the teen girls fight for dominance, rotating between American music, Arab music, and desi music, plus some old--school hip--hop and R & B to get the older generation moving, leaving behind their no--music years for an hour or two. You can use a five--by--five--foot area for the dance floor, because when I tell you the girls dance together, I mean they dancetogether.
You’d kinda have to be there. It was too much to explain.
This is why I first got into spoken--word poems when I started high school. A place to put my real thoughts.
The bell rang for class, bringing hundreds of students to their feet. They yelled their last outbursts and threw things behind the teachers’ backs before getting corralled back into order and shepherded out the doors. We shuffled toward the hallway with the crowd, tossing unfinished “food” into the trash and stacking our trays at the counter as we filed out.
“What are you doing this weekend?” Kayla asked me.
“Not sure,” I said. “Probably hanging out with Asiyah.”
“Your best friend, who I’ve never met,” she said.
I chuckled, ignoring the hint of longing in her voice.
Kayla sighed. “I don’t know how I’m gonna resist going to the party. And if I go to the party I dunno how I’ll resist Devin.”
I groaned. Devin was not even that cute. He was charming, that was all. Couldn’t she see through that? Apparently not.
I wondered what it felt like to be so hooked on a guy. I’d read that having sex released chemicals in your brain that could be addictive. Maybe that was why relationships were so hard to break off, even if you knew they weren’t good for you.
“I mean, if you wanna hang out with us,” I said, “we’ll just be at the masjid.”
I didn’t think much of it when I said it. Maybe I expected her to laugh and say thanks but no thanks. To my surprise . . .
“Really?” Her eyes and smile brightened like a toothpaste ad. “I could come with you? You wouldn’t mind? What should I wear?”
I glanced at her school uniform. Her collared shirt was tucked and tied at her tiny waist, showing an inch of skin, her navel ring glinting above her khaki skirt. Definite dress--code violation, but somehow she pulled it off. She took in my hijab and abaya, probably wondering if she owned anything remotely similar. (Mine would have been a dress--code violation too, but I got special permission on religious grounds and had been wearing my black abaya to school since sophomore year. Hence Monique’s nickname for me. She called it a gangsta move.)
I shrugged. “You can just wear something comfortable . . .”
She practically buzzed with excitement. “It’s that big one over by the train station in Roxbury, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there! I pass by it all the time and always wondered what it’s like inside.”
“It’s a public place,” I said.
“Yeah, but, you know, that’d be weird to just walk in, right? Plus, I wouldn’t know what to do. Or wear. Can you bring me a scarf or something?”
“You don’t have to . . .”
“That’s the respectful thing to do, right?”
How did I get into this? Was I really going to bring Kayla to the masjid? The masjid wasmy time. My real life. My freedom. No explaining myself. No keeping my guard up. I wondered how I could back out of this.
“I’m so excited!” Kayla squealed, giving me a hug as we parted ways for class. “You’re the best!”
Her enthusiasm left me speechless. She walked away with an extra bounce in her step.
Dang. Was I gatekeeping my happy place? Yes.
Was that acceptable behavior for a Muslim? Hmph. Maybe not.
Fine, I thought. I’d let Asiyah be the welcome wagon. That was her forte.
—
Stupid rules.
Boring classes.
Social overload.
Repeat.
By Friday, I was exhausted and practically in physical pain dragging myself to school. When I should have been getting dressed for jumuah, I was sitting between a teacher’s pet whose hand shot up to answer every question and a slacker who audibly snored through Mr. Cooper’s lecture about the rivalry between Shakespeare and Marlowe. When I should have been on the bus to the masjid, I was in precalculus watching the minutes tick by while Ms. Ashley, a chipper white woman about four years older than us, requested our homework answers in the timid voice of someone who expected to get jumped. My eyes glazed over. I pictured the flaky sambusas for sale after the Friday prayer. I may have started to drool.
Ms. Ashley cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Uh, Zakiyyah-?”
I blinked back into focus and swallowed. “Huh?”
“Oh, um, I was asking what you got for problem thirteen.” She smiled hopefully and pushed up her tortoiseshell glasses.
I looked down and noticed I hadn’t opened my notebook, which was probably why she called on me. Trying to get me “engaged.” I flipped open to my homework. “Is it . . . hy--per--bo--la?” I asked.
“Yes!” She sounded like I’d won the lottery. “Great job!”
It was 1:45. Jumuah was ending. People at the masjid were greeting each other, lingering, catching up. Sister Angela was heading to the storage closets to prepare for community service, food that would be packed in family--sized boxes for people in need.
If it was Ramadan, I’d be opening the Quran to read Surat al--Kahf while the crowds dispersed, then going down to help Sister Angela. But here I was instead, stuck in class. I folded my arms over my chest and waited for the final bell.
The minute school let out, I practically ran to the bus stop and joined the battle to get on the first bus that came. Maybe I could get to the masjid- in time to soak up some leftover Friday goodness. One of the only pluses about our charter school was having shorter days on Fridays. Still, our “short” days were like regular days at other schools. Monday through Thursday, they kept us till almost five p.m. Needless to say, I was not interested in staying after school for activities.
Avoiding the elbows of the other teens, I found a spot near the rear door. Standing, but not squished against other people.
Riding the bus alone still made me miss the days when Asiyah and I took the bus together to middle school. It was a big city adventure after being shuttled to our tiny Islamic school in my mom’s minivan in our elementary years. But for high school, Asiyah’s parents wanted more for her than the options in Boston. It was their last chance to put her on track for college success and beyond. Unconvinced by the lotteries and charter school options, they moved out of the city, leaving me to navigate high school on my own.
I pulled out my phone and texted Asiyah.

I miss Ramadan! =(

She was probably at field hockey practice or one of her ten other extracurriculars. Better that way. Asiyah and her unlimited data plan could get carried away with texting. I put my phone in my bag.
The seats lining the sides of the bus were filled with adults. Sleepy--looking medical professionals wearing scrubs. A man in a suit. A few men and women wearing skirts or slacks with button--up shirts. One guy in thick overalls carried a lunch box like people in those old photos of construction sites, dangling their legs from metal bars up in the air, clouds and skyline behind them.
Between the seated adults, teenagers ruled the aisle. Some held on to handles. Some held their arms out, dramatically showing off their ability to stabilize themselves when the bus jerked to a stop. Half the teens were from my school—-I could tell by the uniform. They called out to one another using all the colorful language their parents wouldn’t allow at home and the teachers wouldn’t allow at school.
The adults shifted in their seats. Some rolled their eyes, and some glared at the offenders. A middle--aged woman muttered to herself, looking out the window like she needed to escape. The man in the suit drew his eyebrows in concern, like he wanted to say something, to influence these young people. The bus driver kept his eye on the rearview mirror, as if he expected a fight to break out. I guess they’re never sure who they’re dealing with—-regular teens, or truly out--of--control teens.
Honestly, the other teens annoyed me too, but I understood why they acted that way. If the offices, hospitals, wherever adults spent their days, controlled their every move all day long, I think adults would do the same thing. When they finally got their freedom for the day, they’d spend a few hours screaming into the void before doing it all over again tomorrow.
I looked past the bodies to see how much traffic was ahead. That’s when I noticed a young man seated at the front of the bus. He wasn’t young enough to be a high schooler, but he didn’t seem annoyed by the chaos around him. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice. He wore a pristine cream--colored thobe and a matching kufi. He held a mini-ature Quran open in his right hand, but by the way he glanced at it and back out the window, moving his lips, it looked like he was reciting from memory. He was probably a hafiz. He seemed so . . . serene.
The bus jerked and we all leaned forward. I caught a glimpse of a cream-colored hijab. Next to the young man sat a sister wearing the slightest smile, like she was remembering something sweet. The beads at the cuffs of her navy blue dress shimmered delicately in the sunlight. Her hand rested in his, like they were each in their own world but had to make sure their person was still there. I was mesmerized. And as I stood there watching them, I kid you not, they started to glow.
I held my breath and looked around. The rowdy teens kept shouting, and the grumpy adults kept frowning. A light so bright emanated from their corner of the bus that I started to wonder if they were angels. Were they even really there?
“Stop requested,” the automated bus voice announced, and the bus lurched again. The brother closed his Quran gently and placed it in the breast pocket of his thobe. The couple waited for others to descend the stairs, then they stood, thanked the driver with a smile, and stepped off the bus. They took the light with them.
As we pulled away from the curb, I watched to see if they would disappear into a cloud or become a beam of light. Nothing supernatural happened. They just strolled away effortlessly, like their time belonged to them and their sense of purpose made them untouchable. Like they were in this world but not of it. Unbothered by this world, and therefore free from it. Attached to Allah alone.
They were Happy Strangers. Alone, but together. How poetic!
In my mind, this life was supposed to be lonely. But look at them, on the same path, seeking the same goal. Maybe even helping each other. Like me and Asiyah, but more committed?
What was their life together like? Was it easier to be Muslim because of the bond that they had? Did being together somehow make their bonds with Allah stronger?
My mind was 100 percent in their imaginary business when the bus nearly flew by my stop. I smacked the stop button and pushed my way to the door.
“Thanks,” I said to the driver.
“Mm--hm,” she grumbled. Translation:You’re lucky I stopped for your last--minute behind.
On the sidewalk, I checked my watch. I had thirty minutes left to pray. I dodged an elder with a cane and a dad pushing a stroller, rushed across the street during the last five seconds of the walk signal, and hustled toward the front entrance of the masjid. Through the black gates, up the concrete steps, into the massive brick building. Turned away from the elevator, which moves an inch per minute, ran up the stairs, and took off my shoes. I made wudu so quickly I almost forgot to wash my feet. I composed myself and fast--walked to the musalla.
In the prayer room, I tried to slow my breath and calm my mind. But my heart was sinking. During Ramadan, salah had become a rest, something I looked forward to, a little bit of peace, a sneak peek at Paradise. It felt that way when I prayed right on time. Rushing to squeeze in my salah made it just another task in a hectic day.
Allahu Akbar.
I raised my hands and bowed my head. Every time my forehead touched the floor, I asked Allah for help. I didn’t use words. I just submitted, put my heart in front of the One who knew my situation, and yearned for something better.
I wanted to spend Fridays putting on my best abaya, going to the masjid early for a good spot, carrying a Quran in my purse, not rushing to catch my prayers, weighed down by a backpack full of textbooks.
I wanted to decide what was important to learn and skip what was irrelevant to my life.
I wanted to choose my environment, who I spent my time with, not just on the weekends, when I was burnt out from long days at school, but every day.
I wanted to be content and serene in my own world, unaffected by the chaos surrounding me. There had to be a way to free myself. Not “someday.” Not after graduation. As soon as humanly possible.
I needed to start planning my escape.

Happy Stranger
The moment I walk out the door I am a stranger
I am a stranger for my Creator
Yaa Ghafoor yaa Raheem
They offer me the dunya while I want Your deen
And
It is all worth it for You yaa Rabb al-­alameen
It is a daily struggle to get closer to You yaa Arham ar-­rahimeen
They will joke they will laugh and they say
“You don’t need to wear that, you’re free”
But what a miserable freedom that must be
What they don’t understand yaa Muqeet
Is that
My freedom comes from being a slave of You
Everything that I do is in the name of You
If only they understood
Yaa Hakeem yaa Wadood
I am a happy stranger and slave
And I pray that I am one of those under Your shade
On that scorching day when there will otherwise be no shade

Love this poem . . . and it’s so much better hearing you read it.
Aww . . . and yeah, that’s the idea of spoken word lol
PS—­while you were planning your escape, the future love interest was starting classes, working an overnight shift, and picking up his little sister from school. No time to daydream about chillin at the masjid. Just saying!
Dude, who asked you? This is my story lol, make your own. PS—­Bold of you to assume there’s only gonna be 1 love interest . . .
Burn!


CHAPTER 2
An Hour on Friday
There’s an hour on Friday between the jumuah crowds and the evening crowds when the masjid is quiet and peaceful. I love jumuah and volunteering and halaqahs and youth group, but the quiet hour is my favorite.
There’s also an “hour” on Friday when prayers are answered. And I had some important prayers that day.
I didn’t know what was on the other side of high school. While Asiyah had been refining her college list since middle school, I still hadn’t made a list of colleges I would apply to. Nor did I have solid ideas for a job or career. But I figured since I was ready to be done with high school, I must be ready for whatever came next. I prayed for guidance, and I begged for freedom until I had no more words.
When I finished, I sat against the wall. The whispers of the elders remembering Allah’s names blended with the tones of Quran recitation. The high windows flooded the space with light, illuminating the pale green carpet. Outside, a bird beat its wings and then pulled them in against its little body. I smiled, thinking of the ayah in Surat al-Mulk I had learned a month ago. Oh, right. Quran. I hadn’t opened it all week, since school had started. Another of my Ramadan commitments down the drain. I had time to read before the masjid got busy again. First, I pulled out my phone to text my mom.

I’m at the masjid. I’ll get a ride home later iA

I opened my new texts from Asiyah.

Asiyah
Assalaam alaykum chica
Assalaam alaykum
Yo
Assalaam alaykum warahmatullah
lol
Asiyah
there you are
give me my rights
وعليكم السلام ورحمة الله وبركاته
Asiyah
ok show-­off! Where u at?
masjid
Asiyah
perfect. I’ll be there at 6 iA
bring money

At 6:09, my phone blared the most obnoxious ringtone possible, courtesy of Asiyah, who programmed my phone to ensure I would never miss her calls. The older sisters looked up and watched as I fumbled to turn off the ringer and hurried out to the hallway.
“What?” I whispered when I picked up.
“Salaam to you too. Come outside, please.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I need you.”
I forced a dramatic sigh. “Out front or out back?”
“Back. In the lot. Hurry.”
I shoved my feet into my sneakers and jogged down the stairs. Asiyah- was sitting in her car, and she waved me over urgently.
“Get in!”
The driver stuck behind her honked his horn. Asiyah waved at him like they were friends.
I sank into the passenger seat. “Great etiquette,” I said. “Where are we going?”
“To find parking.” She pulled out of the lot, turned a corner, and inched up the street.
“You couldn’t do this without me? What am I, your good--luck charm?” I scanned for open spots.
She chuckled and adopted her sheikh accent. “Haram, sister. Good--luck charms are not of our religion. Oo!” Spotting a car pulling out, she put her blinker on and waited. “I was feeling lonely, okay? It’s a long drive! But see? Miracles happen when you are here. Maybe youare my good-qadr charm.”
She switched off her Raihan album and shushed me to focus. We got out and admired her perfect parallel parking job. She caught her reflection in the car window and adjusted her carefully draped hijab.
“Tonight’s the night!” she said, looping her arm in mine. She scanned the sidewalk for eligible bachelors as we approached the masjid.
“It’s always the night,” I said.
“I feel like you’re not on my side.”
“I’m totally on your side. I’m skeptical of your methods.”
“Hmph. Bring me a better plan, then,” she said.
I snorted.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “The pickings are slim out here in these masjid streets. Blink and you could miss your true love.”
A bus hissed to a stop at the corner and let off a handful of passengers.
“I saw this cute couple on the bus today,” I said.
“Oh, hayl no!” Asiyah said. “I am not aspiring to be a second wife.”
“I’m not saying you should look intohim!”
“Phew. I was gonna say, you know me better than that. Okay, so why should I care about this couple?” she asked.
“Goals!”
“Say more.”
“I dunno, they were just so peaceful, in their own world . . .”
“That’ll be me and my boo.” She sighed dreamily.
For Asiyah, husband goals had been a thing since about fourth grade, just like college and law school. I, on the other hand, had always claimed I would never get married. Pets were generally better company than people. And judging from my friends’ attempts, a good guy was rarer than gold. Probably not worth the effort—-and disappointment, and potential heartbreak—-to search or hope. When pressed, I had grumpily stated I’d grow old surrounded by cats and then get married when I was eighty so I wouldn’t die alone. That solidified my reputation as a misanthrope.
Something had changed over the summer, though. After getting real with Allah during Ramadan, and then seeing so many Muslims out on Eid, I was thinking differently about what my life could look like . . . and who could be a part of it.
At the entrance to the masjid, an older Moroccan man held the door open for us. The foyer was filling up with people, and the café was already packed. Asiyah made the rounds, squealing and giving hugs and salaams to people she hadn’t seen since Ramadan. I waved at the girls our age and headed into the café to get in line for food.
“Three sambusas . . . and a mango lassi, please.”
Asiyah appeared just in time to order her sweet tea, baklava, and Somali rice with no meat.
“No meat?” the brother asked, looking at her like she didn’t understand how food worked.
“Just rice. Thank you!” She flashed her using--all--my--patience grin.
He shook his head and turned to prepare our orders.
Asiyah cocked her head at me. “I’m sorry, did I miss a day in Islamic Studies? ’Cause I didn’t realize eating meat is like the sixth pillar of Islam.”
We found a table where some tweens were getting up. Asiyah wiped the surface with a napkin before we set down our food. She positioned herself with her back to the wall for a good view of the whole space. While she opened her rice, she took stock of every man in the café.
“Ten o’clock,” she said.
“What?”
“White shirt.”
I scanned the room and found her target. A tall young man in a crisp white shirt with a short, aggressively groomed beard and mustache. Bright smile, dark eyes, and thick black eyebrows and lashes. He looked like he could be Yemeni or something. He was beautiful. Asiyah did have good taste.
“He’s a little old, though,” I said, crinkling my nose.
“No such thing,” Asiyah said.
“Well, in that case, my uncle’s available.”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.”
“He is notthat old.” She watched him shake hands with a few people and then pull up a chair to their table. “We have to broaden our horizons, Z. We’re adults too.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Basically!” She sipped her tea. “I mean, if we’re engaged for a year before we actually get married, then we’ll really be adults.” She picked up her baklava, but she was enjoying the sights more than the food.
“Can you lower your gaze, please?” I whispered, even though I knew the answer.
“Zakiyyah AbdusSalaam. This is research. It’s not just about looks. I have to closely observe how he behaves.” She went right on observing. Taking copious mental notes, complete with sound effects.
I shook my head and bit into my second sambusa. The flaky crust opened into savory ground meat and onions. I chewed slowly, savoring my first meal of the day.
“Oh no!” Asiyah gripped my forearm.
A teenage girl was leaning over Asiyah’s prey. The girl handed him a cup of tea. He said something to her, and they laughed, then she walked away.
“She’s probably his sister,” I said. “She looks like him. And she’s young. Likeus,” I added for emphasis.
“Right! Okay. Good.” She finished off her baklava and licked the tips of her fingers. “So anyway. What’s up with you, miss? How was the first week of school?”
“Sucked. I can’t do it.”
“What happened?”
“I’m just sick of the whole scene. It feels like jail.”
She laughed.
“Seriously. And there’s so many people. It’s so loud. The days are so long. We’re trapped there with no contact with the outside world. At your school, at least you get to leave the building for lunch if you want to. I can’t believe you don’t even have to sign out. We’d have to be literally dying to leave before dismissal. Oh, unless we get sent home for a missing belt.”
“A belt? What the fudge?”
“I’m not even joking. First day of school, someone got sent home out the gate ’cause he wasn’t wearing a black belt.”
“Oh my God.”
“They’re doing too much. And then there’s my friends. All they talk about is boys, parties, hooking up, getting high . . .”
“What about, like, college applications and stuff?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think they’re as driven as you suburban kids.”
“Stop!”
The speakers crackled, and the muethin cleared his throat. The café went quiet as we repeated the words of the athan under our breath. When it ended, I asked Allah again for an escape from high school. Let no opportunity go unused.
“Help me finish this rice,” Asiyah said, handing me an extra spoon.
While we ate, I tested my new conviction out loud.
“So I’ve decided I can’t spend another nine months in high school.”
“Girl,” Asiyah said, “who you tellin’.”
“I actually can’t. I have to break out.”
She pushed her eyebrows together. “You mean, like, for real for real?”
“Yes. It’s a waste of my time.” I shoveled rice into my mouth. “Remember in Ramadan when I was at the masjid every day and studying Quran and . . . I had time. To do the things I wanna do. Stuff that’s important. And pray on time. It felt so . . . free.”
“It was also summer,” she said.
“I know.” I frowned.
“So let’s say you left high school. In your senior year. After one week.” She clasped her hands like she was my guidance counselor. Always the planner. Realistic about everything—-except for love and romance. “What would you do instead?”
This was where my plan got fuzzy. I scraped the last grains of rice into an oily pile. Howwould I use my freedom once I won it?
“Hang out at the masjid all day?” she asked. “Live in permanent Ramadan? Is that even the point of life? It’s not like Prophet Muhammadﷺ‭ ‬lived in Cave Hira year--round. He spent a month in spiritual training, and he spent the rest of the year . . . doing stuff. Regular life.”
“I know,” I said. “But there’s stuff that matters, and there’s stuff that doesn’t. I want to get to the stuff that matters.”
“Right this second, huh?” Asiyah collected our trash. “And what’s that exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Real life.”
She cocked her head in asay more kind of way.
“Well, for one thing, praying on time,” I said. “Always a struggle when stuck in a massive school building with hundreds of people. And just . . . putting Allah at the center. Fit life around deen, not the other way around.”
Asiyah nodded. “Theoretically, that’s cool. Deen over dunya for sure. I just think you’re gonna need a few more details or, I dunno, concrete plans.”
I pouted.
“If anyone can figure it out, it’s you, girl. And for what it’s worth, I’ll back you up.”
“Thanks.” I wondered how much backup I would need.
Asiyah watched the white shirt brother throw his teacup in the trash before heading out to the prayer hall.
“Oh, look!” she said fondly. “He hesitated in front of the recycling! He cares about the planet!”
“Yay,” I said dryly.
She sucked her teeth. “You’re like,I’m dropping out of school. I’m like, I got your back. I’m like, Maybe he’s the one. You’re like, Who cares?”
I laughed. “Okay, I’m sorry. That’s great. I’m so happy for you that the guy you saw for the first time twenty minutes ago cares about the planet. It’s a sign of great things to come.”
She squinted at me. “You know you’re gonna need my skills one day. Then you won’t be laughing.”
It was true. Her investigative skills would come in handy if I decided to partner up. Her indiscriminate interest--on--sight? Not so much.
—
After the prayer, we went to the rec room for the youth halaqah. Sister Eman hugged us both. An Egyptian sister whose kids were our age, she wore a knee--length tunic with loose pants and a patterned hijab.
“Salaam! So happy to see you, habibti.”
We sat on the carpet and waited for the others to trickle in. Once a critical mass of about eight girls had arrived, Sister Eman called us to attention. The day’s topic: niyyah. Intention.
Sister Eman shared a few important ahadith and talked about how everything we do can be worship if we have the intention to please Allah. Perfect topic. I could totally use this to build my case for leaving school.
When she paused to flip through her notes, I heard my phone buzzing. It couldn’t be Asiyah, so it had to be my mom. I pulled it out and saw missed calls and a bunch of text messages . . . from Kayla. Shoot!
“Sorry,” I whispered, getting up. Sister Eman nodded. I went to a corner of the room to check my messages.

Kayla
Hey Zakiyyah, is it still a good night for me to meet you at the Islamic Center? What time should I get there?

Twenty minutes later:

Kayla
Are you there already? Should I come now?

Fifteen minutes later:

Kayla
Z? What’s going on? I thought you said Friday . . . maybe you meant Saturday
Please answer. Devin’s texting me and I don’t know what to say

Three missed calls in a row, ten, eight, and four minutes ago. Ayayay. I stepped into the hallway and pressed the button to call her back.
“Zakiyyah? What happened?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been here at the masjid since right after school. I silenced my phone for the prayer. I totally forgot about meeting.”
“Oh.”
Her voice sounded small and deflated.
“Sorry,” I said again. I checked the time. “Did you still want to come?”
“I mean, it’s okay,” she said. “We can do it another time.”
I didn’t want a promise looming over my head . . . and, okay, the disappointment in her voice came with a hearty dose of guilt. So I told her, “We’re gonna be here for at least another hour or two. How long would it take you to get here?”
“Like ten minutes?”
“Oh, you’re close. Okay, just come now. I’ll wait for you inside the entrance.”
Kayla showed up in a long black skirt and button--up blouse, with a thin, sheer scarf around her shoulders, which she gently placed on top of her head after she got out of the car and waved to whoever dropped her off.
“Wow. You look . . . nice!” I said. The first words that came to mind—-different andunrecognizable—-didn’t have the same ring to them. Nice also worked.
“Thank you!” she said. “This is okay?”
“It’s fine!”
She followed me into the building, moving slowly, studying the floor beneath her feet. Bold geometric patterns in black, white, and gray tile. How many times had I run over these tiles without seeing them?
In the thick of the lobby, the connected arches were still adorned with string lights from Ramadan (clearly I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to let it go). Kayla gazed at the throngs of people of every age, ethnicity, color, and style. The noise, the chatting and laughter, the hugs and handshakes, the organized chaos of bodies moving between the parking lot, the lobby, the café, the washrooms, and the prayer rooms. Some wore flowing abayas and long hijabs in every color and pattern under the sun. Some wore jeans or A--line skirts. Some men wore long thobes, jalabiyyas, robes, scarves, or kufis; others wore the slacks and button--up shirts they’d left work in; still others wore jeans, cargos, or joggers.
She wasn’t kidding about her interest in this place. I brought her through the arches to see the rest of the first floor. The indoor courtyard framed by second--floor balconies led to high windows and skylights overhead. During the day, the space filled with natural light. Now, as Kayla spun in a slow circle taking it all in, I noticed the grand chandelier two stories above us: layers of black metal holding dozens of glass lanterns- rimmed with gold and decorated with Arabic calligraphy.
“Wow,” she said.
She finished her visual feast with a peek inside the main musalla, where men milled around on the carpet between white columns that held copies of the Quran. The awe in her eyes made me want to show her how to pray so she could greet the masjid in this moment. I made a mental note to pray tahiyyat al--masjid next time I came.
I gave her another moment to soak it in. Then I told her, “The halaqah is upstairs. Ready?”
“Okay!” she said. “What’s a halaqah?”
I tried to explain as we climbed the stairs. “It’s a circle of people studying something, or learning something together. Mostly about religion- or spirituality. Or character. How to be a better person.”
“Cool!” she said. “Is that how you get to be so wise?”
I shrugged. I didn’t think of myself as wise. But whatever it was she saw in me probably did come from my deen.
The circle opened to make space for us, and Sister Eman greeted Kayla with a smile. “Salaam alaykum, sister. Welcome!”
“Hi,” Kayla responded quietly.
“I am Eman.”
“I’m Kayla.”
“We were reviewing the importance of niyyah. Intentions. Who else has some reflections?” She looked around the circle. “How can we apply this to our lives?”
A girl named Hafsa said, “Patience?”
Sister Eman nodded encouragingly. Hafsa thought out loud. “Usually, when people make ignorant comments, I just ignore them . . . Well, sometimes I flip them off . . . But I guess instead of getting all pissed off, I could try to, like, be patient for the sake of Allah? Instead of seeing that as wimpy?” She curled her lip like she’d failed to convince herself.
But Sister Eman was loving it. “Yes! You’re right! That’s a perfect example,” she said. “It’s very hard. But Allah says in the Quran,When the ignorant one addresses you, say ‘Salaam’—-say peace! So you can think of that ayah. Tell yourself,I’m gonna try to please Allah right now, that’s what matters. Not what this ignorant person is saying to me. Not my ego, not proving my point. Of course you don’t let people abuse you. But you control your temper. Yes. What else?” Some girls were thinking. Others were biting their fingernails, putting on lip gloss, or telling each other jokes with their eyes.
“Parents,” Asiyah said.
The way she grumbled it made everyone laugh.
“Parents,” Sister Eman repeated, smiling. “What about parents?”
“You know, be good to them, blah blah blah.”
“Okay,” Eman said, raising her voice over the sounds of snickering. “Allah says,Do not say uff to them. What does this mean?”
No volunteers.
She explained. “Uff means like . . . it’s like how you would sayuuugh when you are frustrated. Maybe when you think your parents are so annoying. So Allah says, don’t even make that noise with your mouth likeI’m so aggravated with my parents. Why does Allah say that?”
When Muslim teachers ask a question, you never really know if you’re supposed to answer or if they’re just asking to keep you on your toes. She continued.
“Allah knows human nature,” she explained. “He created us. Allah knows that your parents are going to annoy you. And so He tells us how to act when we feel that way. Do not sayuff or ugh. And we also know the hadith about being good to your mother. So how does this tie into intention?”
Asiyah shook her head like,That’s all I got.
A girl named Sakeenah raised her hand. “I have a strategy. I figured this out when I was like twelve. When your parents are lecturing you, don’t treat it like a conversation. Just let them talk and go on and on till they’re satisfied and basically exhausted. But in your head, instead of fuming you have to just think,Okay, I’m sitting here being quiet and respectful not ’cause my parents want me to, but ’cause Allah wants me to.”
“Yes!” Sister Eman said.
“Honestly, it’s a lot more chill if you think about it,” Sakeenah added. “When you talk back, they don’t listen to you anyway ’cause they’re already mad, and then you get mad ’cause they’re not hearing you. If you just act like you’re listening and reflecting, then wait like an hour, then go back to them and say,Hey, I was thinking about what you said, and here’s what I think . . . they’re like,Oh mashaAllah, she’s so mature! Then they pretty much let you do what you want!”
Other girls grinned, while Sister Eman looked puzzled, unsure if this was still a good thing. “Uh . . . okay,” she said. “Maybe not the manipulating part? But yes, we want to be respectful and peaceful.”
After Sister Eman closed out the halaqah with a dua, we drifted out of the circle and more teens came in.
“Heeeyyy!” Asiyah said to Kayla. “I’m Asiyah.”
“Oh!” Kayla reached up and hugged her. Asiyah looked surprised but hugged her right back.
“Sorry,” Kayla said, “was that weird? I feel like I know you. Zakiyyah talks about you like you’re her only real friend in the world.”
“Aw,” Asiyah said, poking me. “Youdo love me. Anyway, welcome! Z told me you might come, but I thought she made it up ’cause I didn’t think she actually had any friends at school.”
“Nice,” I said.
“What did you think of the halaqah?” Asiyah asked Kayla.
“It was interesting! It’s cool that there’s people our age who actually think about God. Or—-Allah?”
“Yep, same thing.” Asiyah nodded.
“You don’t see that a lot,” Kayla said. She looked at me. “Now I’m wonder-ing if that’s why you’re so . . . aloof.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s like you’re there but not really there. Like you’re always thinking about something else.”
Interesting. Did she see me the way I saw the couple on the bus?
“I’m usually just thinking that I don’t want to be there,” I said.
Some guys had come into the room and Kayla watched them. Asiyah caught my eye and giggled. “See anyone you like?” Asiyah asked Kayla. “Maybe I can hook you up. In a halal way, of course.”
Kayla blinked. “Oh my gosh, was I staring? Is that rude?” She shaded her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Asiyah laughed and put her arm around Kayla’s shoulders. “It’s totally fine,” she said.
Kayla exhaled, relieved. “I was just noticing, you know, ’cause there were no boys here during the talk . . .”
“Yeah, they have their own halaqah. Probably talking about us.” Asiyah- flicked the end of her hijab over her shoulder like it was painful being so glamorous.
Soon Asiyah excused herself, pretending to roll up her sleeves. “I have some butt to kick.”
She strode over to the foosball table, which Amir was holding for their obligatory match. Asiyah and Amir had been rivals since the third grade, when he won a Quran competition she was expecting to win. She was determined to prove her superiority over him, and she could argue over anything—-down to who poured a better cup of water. It was definitely an Anne--and--Gilbert situation, but no one wanted to be the jerk who called them on it, except the occasional tactless auntie. And me.
I stood with Kayla in awkward silence, not sure what to do without my socially competent hostess. It was probably time to introduce Kayla to everyone and make small talk. But that sounded like the exact definition of agony. Instead, I asked, “Um . . . do you wanna go see the rest of the masjid?”
“Yeah! That’d be dope!” she said.
The lights were off in the prayer hall, but Kayla walked in anyway, looking around in holy silence. “You pray in here?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “There’ll be one more prayer tonight. You can watch if you want to.”
She nodded. “It’s so peaceful in here.” She seemed reluctant to leave. Maybe I had underestimated her. Maybe she would understand why I wasn’t feeling high school.
When we got to the café, I asked if she wanted some tea.
“I don’t really drink tea,” she said predictably.
“This is Somali tea. You have to try it.”
I bought her a cup of sweet, spicy tea and we went back upstairs, where the foosball table was now surrounded by “teams,” with onlookers shouting their support.
“OmiGod!” Kayla said after her first sip. “This is SO GOOD!”
“Told ya!”
We were in Asiyah’s car driving Kayla home when Kayla’s phone rang. She gave it the evil eye, shoved it back in her bag, and sat on her hands.
“It that Devin?” I asked.
She nodded, unease all over her face.
“Uh--uh,” Asiyah said. “I know nobody’s tryina make a booty call right now.”
Kayla looked at me with wide, accusing eyes.
“I told her nothing,” I said, hands up.
“Oh, please,” Asiyah said. “I don’t need any backstory to know that if a boy is calling you right now and you’re not answering, he’s up to no good. You want me to tell him where to go?” She held out a hand for Kayla’s phone.
Kayla laughed so hard she had to dab her eyes with the end of her scarf.
When we reached Kayla’s house, she thanked us about a million times. “This was really fun and, like, wholesome . . .” she said.
Asiyah and I smiled, suppressing laughter.
“I know that sounds corny,” Kayla said. “But it’s been a long time since I had fun without, you know, typical partying . . .”
Asiyah nodded. “You’re welcome to hang out with us anytime. We’re always having fun. Well, I’m the fun one. Zakiyyah’s just eye candy.”
They exchanged numbers and connected on some weird new app called Snapchat.
“Thank you so much!” Kayla repeated. “I’ll see you Monday, Zakiyyah-!”
We watched her get through her front door.
“I’m proud of you!” Asiyah said.
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously. How’d she get you to say yes to hanging out on a weekend?”
“She was basically like,Either I’m coming to meet you, or I’m going to a party with my jerk ex--boyfriend who wants to hook up with me with no commitment, knowing I’ll feel stupid and awful afterward, but I can’t help myself anyway.”
“Dang. She’s so nice. Why are guys such jerks?”
“Because they can be.”
Looping back toward my house, we passed the masjid again. Asiyah observed the people still lingering outside the entrance. “I wonder what happened to my guy,” she mused.
“Who, Amir?”
“What?! No! The guy from the café.”
“Oh—-white shirt guy?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time looking for The One,” I said. “Amir would marry you tomorrow if you said so.”
“Well, I don’t say so,” she countered. “It’s not even like that.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can’t wait to see your face when he gets engaged to someone else.”
She cut her eyes at me. “Why don’tyou marry Amir since it’s so important to you?”
“Because he’s in love with my best friend. Also, I’m not the one desperately looking for a husband.”
“Right. Miss Cat Lady.”
The nighttime air held a preview of fall’s chill, but the memory of the day’s warmth lingered enough for people to treat it like a summer night. Latin music and hip--hop blasted out of car speakers, bass making the whole street vibrate. People strolled down the sidewalk, sat on stoops and chairs, and called out greetings and jokes. Asiyah sighed, inching the car forward as a guy with cornrows in his hair and his pants around the middle of his thighs took his time ambling across the street.
“I miss the hood,” Asiyah said.
“No, you don’t.”
“Where else in the world would you see this?” She gestured at the pedestrian who seemed to be moving in slow motion as he reached the sidewalk. “And this?” She nodded at the clothing stores with mannequins on display dressed for clubbing. “Everyone’s so prim and proper in the suburbs. It’s eerie. Like the foreign planet inA Wrinkle in Time.”
When she pulled onto my sleepy street, she turned down her speakers, still singing along to “Aïcha,” Khaled’s original version in French, which she played on the same mix as Outlandish’s cover. She kept the car running as I opened my door.
“Sure you don’t want to sleep over?” I asked.
She groaned and tapped her perfect fingernails on the steering wheel. “I should have gotten a Coke. But I’ll be all right. I’ll sing myself awake.”
“Text me when you get home.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
I fed Laila, my turtle, then headed straight for the shower. I slipped into bed with a fast--drying towel wrapped around my hair to keep my locs from soaking my pillow. Mustache, my youngest kitten, curled up beside me. Stroking her fluffy gray--and--white fur, I could have fallen asleep in seconds, but I had to stay up. The idea of Asiyah driving out to the suburbs by herself was still unsettling, even after a year of her having her license and access to a car. The suburbs seemed so far away.
I opened my laptop to keep myself awake. The last videos I had watched were still open in multiple tabs: spoken--word artists Boonaa Mohammed from Philly, and a British guy named Muslim Belal. He was an actor who became Muslim and talked about his old life and his new life in his poetry, from the streets to Islam. He was a good reminder that anyone can undergo a complete change at any time. I rewatched a few favorites. Then I decided to use my last remaining brain cells to start strategizing for my High School Exit Plan. Maybe I could convince Mom tomorrow!
I typed into the search bar: “How to quit high school.”
In the top results, some guy named Blake Boles described exactly how I felt about school: a waste of my time. He wrote a book calledCollege- without High School: A Teenager’s Guide to Skipping High School and Going to College. Homeschooling was an option—-but that word would send my mom running. She had tried that with my brother Dawud, and it had nearly cost her her sanity. Getting a GED and starting work was another option. That was what Dawud ended up doing, about five minutes after Mom and Dad gave up on forcing him into anything. Virtual high school and community college were listed as options too. Hm. There was a community college right near the masjid. Convenient. I typed in “Roxbury Community College” and bookmarked the page.
Finally, my phone dinged.

Asiyah
home
k
Asiyah
mwah. Time to dream of white shirt guy. You never know.

I snorted, startling Mustache.
“Sorry,” I whispered, tucking her back into the fold of my hip.
Asiyah and her dreams of love. For so long, I had been mystified. Maybe even appalled. But now . . . I was slowly, reluctantly coming around. There were all those cute Muslim couples at Six Flags. And that couple on the bus! That glow. That peace! How had they found each other? I was slightly obsessed.
Before closing my computer, I typed “young Muslim marriage” into the search bar and scrolled through the results. Stories about couples who’d had arranged marriages and then fallen in love. Cute. Lectures on Islamic channels about the rights and responsibilities of marriage. Boring-. A Muslim woman who’d divorced her husband and had a dramatic custody battle. Blah. America’s favorite.
And then I found an advice article with a link to a list of one hundred questions to ask before getting married, specifically for Muslims living in “the West.”

What are your goals in life, short--term and long--term?
What is your relationship with your family?
Who are your friends?
Why are they your friends?
What do you do in your spare time?
How do you think Muslims should spend non--Muslim holidays?
Do you read?
How do you make important decisions in your life?

And ninety--two more like them.
Was this the secret compatibility test? It was one thing to look cute together in public. Having peace in your life together was a whole other thing. I saved the page to show Asiyah next time she came over. She was totally into planning, goals, checklists, et cetera. Maybe this could keep her busy on the marriage front for a while.
And what about me? Maybe leaving high school and starting my Adult Life would be a good time to think about finding a partner. I was already making big decisions, big moves. Why not see if there’s someone out there who might fit into my new life? Maybe even make it better.
I gave the towel on my hair a strong squeeze, then pulled it off my locs and replaced it with a satin hair tie. I pulled out my nose ring and tossed it on my dresser, hoping I’d be able to find it in the morning. My eyes were burning, but before closing my computer, I clicked back to YouTube and did another search for “young Muslim marriage” to see what came up. A channel called Maryam and Ali by a couple in college had a few dozen videos. “A sample of the highs and lows of being young Muslim newlyweds in the US.”
I turned off my light and watched one of their videos. They went to a grocery store and argued about what foods to buy to stock their mini fridge. Ali wanted to buy all kinds of junk food. Maryam insisted on some fruit and yogurt. They teased each other as they argued, clearly enjoying themselves. By the end of the video, I wasn’t sure if I was hate--watching, or if I thought they were really cute.
I shut my computer and put it on the floor next to my bed. Rasool, my older calico, hopped up and took the warm spot the computer left. Rasool had mean eyes and a serious attitude, but a soft spot for me since I had been her midwife when she had her litter years ago.
Instead of winding down to sleep, my mind chased thoughts of cute Muslim couples helping each other in their deen. Maybe there were fun times to be had before the stress of household management took over. Maybe not all guys were like the immature high school boys who had no respect for the girls they pursued and barely remembered them a year later. And maybe the right person could help you live the life you want . . . maybe?
No time to dwell on that, I told myself as I rolled over in bed. First order of business: Get out of high school. Phase one of Operation Get Free.
So this whole time you’ve been trying to re-­create the life of some strangers you saw on the bus? I’m just a pawn in this?
Ha. Yeah. Next we’re gonna cosplay them. That’s the goal. What, did you think you were special or something?

Edition details

• Publisher: Kokila
• Publication date: 2026
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0593619072
• ISBN 13: 9780593619070
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 368