Love from a to Z

I thought he’d left!
I glanced around and noticed the hot tub tucked in a corner, kind of
hidden by a row of short palm trees. Right.
I waved at the helpful woman and went to see what was up.
• • •
It was all about me not wearing the proper swim attire.
I listened as the fitness attendant lectured me on the pool’s needs.
The pool, apparently, needed me to show my legs and arms. Caps were
okay, so my turban was not a big deal, from what I surmised.
Bobbing man clutched the towel around his waist and kept bobbing his
head as the attendant informed me that what I was wearing wasn’t proper
swimwear. If I wanted, I could buy proper swimwear at their gym shop, but
they had limited choices, and I might have to go for a two-piece.
I nodded, my brain trying to work out what the exact swim-clothing rules
were according to the attendant’s long spiel.
“So someone’s allowed to wear shorts like his?” I asked, pointing at the
tips of the floral shorts showing under bobbing man’s towel. Wet and

---

hitched below his belly, they reached beyond his knees.
“That’s his swimwear, yes. But you see how she’s dressed?” the fitness
attendant said, indicating the woman in the pool. “That’s how our female
swimmers dress at this facility.”
“Say a woman came in shorts like his, loose, flowy, flowery, fun shorts.
Then would you guys be okay with that?” I crossed my arms, my voice
hardening. “Seems unfair if you wouldn’t be okay with that. If you’d say,
Hey, you woman, show your thighs!”
The fitness attendant stared at me. “Who’s the resident that you signed in
with?”
“My aunt,” I said. “But why won’t you answer my question? Is it okay if
I show up in huge shorts like his but just a bit longer?”
Bobbing man let his towel drop as he crossed his arms.
Wait. What was I doing?
This was old Zayneb. The one who got in trouble. Who got her friends in
trouble. Who may get Auntie Nandy in trouble by making a ruckus at her
residence complex.
I wasn’t supposed to do this anymore.
I uncrossed my arms. “Okay, okay. I get it. That’s the way things are
here,” I said with a fake smile before forcing out, “Thanks for letting me
know the rules!”
I walked away and didn’t look back.
The only way was forward—into the version of Zayneb who let things
just be.
• • •
Because I was asleep when she got back to the apartment from the gym,
Auntie Nandy went to work not knowing a thing about what had happened
at the pool.
Which was perfect. Now she didn’t need to worry one bit.
I woke up to the alarm I’d set so that I’d have enough time to get ready to
meet the Emmas.
I sort of knew it would take a long time to prep for hanging out with
them. It wasn’t so much that I was trying to be a different me as it was that I
was trying to make sense to them.
I refuse to call it wanting to fit in with their crowd.

---

Besides, I liked them. They were multinational, diverse, open-minded
(except for Madison), and accepted me without pause. Actually, more than
that, they saw me. Which was different from school, where Kavi and I
usually passed under the radar of the other, mostly white kids.
I wanted to continue to be seen by the Emmas and their friends.
Which means I need two whole hours to get ready.
It started with a long shower, a better shower than the one I’d had after
getting back from the pool cocooned in changing room towels so I wouldn’t
drip everywhere. This was the kind of shower that ensured each strand of
my hair was washed.
Then I emerged from the bathroom connected to my room to towel and
air-dry my hair so that it would fall into its natural curls. People not in the
know have no idea why it’s so important to have properly dried, properly
done hair when your scarf is going on top of it, but we hijabis know it’s
vital.
1. Your hair needs to be dried properly so that it won’t get that soggy,
half-dried smell that will seep out of your hijab, hitting everyone in your
vicinity.
2. Your hair thoroughly dried gives it the proper volume to let your scarf
sit pretty on your head.
3. Your hair needs to be happy, not drippy sad, under your hijab, or it will
give you trouble later when the scarf is off at home. Happy hair means good
hair.
And, I had to admit, I have good hair. I tossed it a few times and then
looked in the mirror as I blew it off my face.
It’s almost model hair. The one vanity of my life.
That only my friends, all girls, get to see. The only guys allowed to see it
being members of my family.
Someday, though, I’ll toss this hair in front of the one I end up with. My
significant other.
I looked in the mirror at the long, dark, loose curls cascading around my
face, long wispy bangs reaching into my eyes, and saw Adam’s face flash in
my mind.
A twinge came, unbidden.
I went back to lie down on the bed, to let my hair dry completely. To
think about him.

---