A Sister to Honor (14 page)

“You can expand the photo,” Afran said. He made the opening motion with his fingertips. Shahid tried it, then pushed the photo upward. Still all he saw was the top of the guy's head, with Afia's hand pressing down on rust-colored curls. The head looked familiar, but he couldn't say from where. In the blurry background of the photo was another apple-picking girl, tagged as “Taylor!”

“Who's the guy?”

“Ask your sister, man.”

He scrolled back to Afia's face, the delight in her eyes and mouth. The lizard of anger went ice cold. Last week, the picture of Afia had disappeared from the Smith College website. But now Shahid's fingers were moving over a Facebook timeline. Above it shone a snapshot of a toothy girl, her arms around a disheveled guy in a Dartmouth sweatshirt.
Taylor Saintsbury
, the name read.
In a relationship with Chase B.
Chase—of course, the squash leftie. He tapped back to the photo. “When did this show up?”

Afran took the iPhone back and scrolled. “Last week,” he said, “but the pic's from fall, you can see the leaves turning. You don't know the dude holding her up?”

“No.”

Afran scrutinized the picture. “I'm surprised your sister let this go online,” he said. “She's not real show-offy.”

“She didn't let it go online.”

Afran's eyes widened. He set down the phone and took a slice of pizza. As if he couldn't talk with his mouth empty, he bit off the point before he said, “
You
posted it, man? She might get pissed. I didn't even think you knew Taylor—”

“Of course not me!” Shahid exploded. Afran jerked back in his seat. His dark eyebrows knit together. The iPhone lay on the table. Shahid picked it up to look again at the photo. It had been taken in the fall, before the trip home. This Taylor, this stupid friend of Afia's, let someone put it on her page. He wanted to tell Afran his sister was engaged, but that would only compound the shame.

“Eat some pizza, dude,” Afran was saying. “It's getting cold.”

Robotically Shahid lifted a triangle and tasted the greasy beef, the stringy cheese. His first year in the States, he had tried to keep halal. It wasn't impossible—the dining hall was prepared to cook special meals—but it drew an attention that Shahid had come to resent. Slowly he gave in on one thing, then another: vanilla cake, Chinese food prepared with MSG, desserts with pig-marrow gelatin. “You get girls off social media?” he asked when he'd swallowed enough to calm himself. No reason for Afran to know what threats came out of Nasirabad. Shahid could take care of his own family troubles. “Because this Taylor looks taken.”

Afran shrugged. “You can't have sex on Facebook. But they mess with my head, I'll tell you that.” He looked around the restaurant, as if the waitresses in their crisp blouses and jeans were part of his problem. “I slack off in classes, you know? Coach is making me see someone. They're calling it ADD, but it's not really.”

“What do you mean, see someone? Like a doctor?”

Afran looked embarrassed. “I decided to see this guy Springer. He's a sort of shrink. Smarter than the tools at the counseling center, though.”

“What does he do to you?”

“He doesn't do anything. We talk. It's stupid.”

Talk. Shahid didn't want to talk to anyone, not about his sister. “Springer,” he said. “Isn't that—?”

“Coach's husband.” Afran wrinkled his nose. “But he doesn't, like, talk to her about me. It's not allowed.” Afran drained his Coke. He leaned across the table. “Look. If I could get someone to cut out whatever central lobe is all about the Prophet's commands, and what you can do and what you can't and how big a deal a girl's hymen is . . . I'd do it. Bingo. Like that.” He made a movement atop his head that was similar to what he'd done with his iPhone, opening his fingers then locking them together, as if pinching off part of his brain. “Do I care about purity or marriage? No. I want to get laid.”

Even knowing how Afran liked to say things like
get laid
, Shahid reddened. “But would you want someone to treat your sister the way you treat, you know . . .” He gestured at the iPhone as if it were Afran's Rolodex.

“Hey, you had a hookup last year. What was her name? Vanessa?”

“Valerie.” Shahid lifted the final slice of pizza and let it flop onto his plate. “She wasn't a hookup, she was a girlfriend.”

“And?”

“And then I found her in the closet at some party, making out with a lacrosse player.”

“That's American women, man.”

“Well, I don't understand them.”

Afran signaled for a refill on the Coke. “You asked about my sister,” he said when it came. “I don't have a sister, okay? But I did have a cousin. She was retarded.”

“Afran—”

“No, I mean really retarded, like in something was wrong with her brain, okay? But she was this beautiful girl. And she got pregnant.”

“How old?”

“Fourteen.” Afran's eyes were fixed on a spot over Shahid's shoulder. “She wouldn't say who the guy was. I'm not sure she knew. But I'm telling you, man. I'd rather somebody treated her the way I treat American girls, than do what they did.”

“Which was?” Shahid's mouth went dry.

“She died in a kitchen fire. The door was locked.”

“That's awful, man,” Shahid said. “But an accident like that—”

“It wasn't an accident. You know it. I know it. The cops knew it.” He took a long swig. Then he fixed his eyes on Shahid. “So what would you rather?” he said. “A girl suffers because some guy toyed with her feelings? Or because her dad locked a door and lit a match?”

“Will that be all?” the waitress asked. Her wide-set eyes darted from one of them to the other. She was pretty in the way of local girls—a layer of baby fat on fine bones, slender nose, breasts that seemed ready to give milk.
Julie
, her name tag read.

As if he had just been bantering with his friend, Afran turned to her. “That depends,” he said.

“On what?” Julie asked.

“On what you're doing after work.”

Julie's blush mottled her pale skin. “I work late,” she said.

“So do I,” said Afran.

“Just the check,” Shahid said to her.

When Julie had stepped away, Afran pulled out his wallet. “Here's my cousin,” he said. He pulled out a scattering of tiny photos and pushed one across the booth. The girl was squinting into the sun. Plump cheeks made her look very young, but her mouth was a straight line, giving away nothing. Afia had never looked like this. In the photos from holiday gatherings, in the photos on the Internet, she was always beaming. But Baba had wanted a picture, last month. Had they taken one? Had they given it to Zardad's family? He remembered Afia's sorrowful eyes, looking up at him while she waited to serve the tea to Zardad's people. He found his hand shaking. He pushed the tiny square back across the table. He had been looking at a dead girl.

“Very sad,” he managed to say.

“Sad, nothing,” said Afran vehemently. “It is sick and a crime, and nothing I can do about it. So don't lecture me, man.”

“I'm not—” Shahid started to say. But an exclamation from behind his right shoulder cut him off.

“Oh my God,” the voice cried, “it's the boys!”

Shahid turned. Standing by the booth were Margot and Evie, both starters on the women's team. “Hi,” he said. Margot had her arm across Evie's shoulders.
Lesbian
, he thought, and his scrotum tightened uncomfortably. Afran tucked his photos away. The girls slid into the booth, Margot on Afran's side and Evie on Shahid's. Smelling their perfume, glimpsing Evie's cleavage, Shahid felt confusion like smoke, draining his energy. After they'd chatted for ten minutes—they'd crushed St. Lawrence too, wasn't Coach Hayes the best; were the guys ready for the Trinity match—he lifted his jacket from the back of the booth. “I gotta study,” he said. “I'm behind on two papers.”

“C'mon, man,” Afran said. “Party's just starting.”

“Shahid's a scholar-athlete,” said Margot. “Not like you.”

“Party after the Trinity match, though,” said Evie.

“Sure,” said Shahid, though he couldn't even think that far.

“Your sister going to the match?” Margot asked.

“Not anymore,” said Evie. She elbowed her friend.

Shahid stood and shrugged on the jacket. Everything they said was irritating. “I don't know if she is or not. She'd have to take the bus from Northampton.”

“Gus'd give her a ride,” said Evie, “if she'd let him.” Then she flinched. Margot had kicked her. Slowly, a dread in his stomach, Shahid turned back. Resting his knuckles on the table, he leaned forward.

“Gus Schneider?” he said slowly.

“Uh, yeah.” Evie glanced quickly at Margot, then back.

“Why,” he went on, “would Gus give my sister a ride?”

“We gotta go,” said Afran. “Sorry, ladies.” He rose. He started to pull Shahid away. With one shove, Shahid put him back in his seat.

“What are you saying about my sister?” he asked Evie.

“Look, I'm sorry.” Evie was averting her eyes. Her chestnut hair caught the light. “Sensitive brother,” she added in an undertone. She bent her head toward Margot's. Nervously the girls giggled.

“I asked you a question,” said Shahid.

The waitress came over. “Is there a problem?” she asked, directing herself to Afran.

“Thanks, Julie,” said Afran. “We're fine. Come on, Shahid.” He rose again.

Shahid leaned closer, on his elbows now. He stared at the girls until they met his eyes. “Gus would give my sister a ride,” he said as quietly as he could manage, each word feeling to him like the lash of a whip, “from Smith.”

“Look, dude, she broke up with him, okay?” Evie said. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and her voice took on the whine he'd heard from American girls when they were on the phone with their parents. “It was like some secret romance, but he's pretty upset so he spilled. I mean, he was really good to her, and—”

“You don't have to explain, Evie,” Margot said. She grasped her friend's hand and pulled her from the booth. “We just stopped by to say hi.” She held up a hand, like a stop sign. “No harm, no foul, okay?” she said.

That red hair. Of course. Gus. Gus Schneider. A Jew. “A fucking Jew,” Shahid muttered when the girls had tripped away, shaking their heads. “A lying, betraying, goddamn son of a whore, shit-licking, filthy—”

“It's okay, okay, we're leaving,” he heard Afran say, and Shahid realized he'd started to shout, and in Pashto. The manager was striding their way. Diners stared in alarm.

“Let go of me!” he yelled when Afran had him out of the restaurant.

“Hey, I'm your friend, dude, I'm just trying—”

“Did you know this?”

“No. In Allah's eyes, man, I had no idea.”

“How long? How
long
!”

“I don't know. I told you, I didn't know they were an item. Gus, you know, he's mostly into his pets. I'd seen him with your sister, but I didn't—”

“You
saw
them?”

“Not saw them as in, like, saw them. I mean, they were talking. I didn't think anything.”

“I have to kill him. Do you understand that? I have to destroy the guy! He was my roommate, for fuck's sake. My sister is
engaged
.”

“I didn't know that, man. I'm as shocked as you are. But listen. Just listen to me. Are you listening?”

Afran was holding both of Shahid's forearms, now. Shahid's jacket was unzipped. The cold air whistled through to his chest. His hair still felt wet, next to his scalp. Fury raged through and exhausted him. He nodded.

“Don't do anything. Not tonight. Give this a little time. They broke up already. Maybe it was never anything.”

“It was something,” Shahid managed to say. His tongue felt thick. “There are pictures. That one you showed me. I didn't know it was him. I didn't want to think—”

“Let me talk to him.”

“No!” Shahid yanked his arms away. “Don't you tell him a goddamn thing, Afran. You hear me? I'll take care of this my own way. He doesn't need a warning.”

“But those girls might—”

“Let them. But not you.
You
don't betray me.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and started toward his car. Afran followed.

“Okay,” Afran said. “My lips are sealed. But you don't do anything tonight. Is that a deal? We'll talk in the morning.”

As Shahid turned to his friend, his eyes burned. “It's a deal,” he managed to say. Then he was in his car and turning it in a wide U through the parking lot and out onto the state highway. He sped the three miles to the campus, the radio blaring ghetto rap to drown out his thoughts, before he realized that he'd left Afran standing in the parking lot. He tore back, but the lot was empty, his friend gone. He checked his mobile: nothing. For a long moment he put his head back, the radio silent, and shut his eyes. Then he shifted into first and made his way again to campus, haltingly this time, driving like an old man.
All settled.
Nothing was settled. All was chaos.

When he'd parked the car he pulled out his mobile. He punched in Afia's number. Then he stared at the tiny screen, seeing again the picture that had bloomed forth on Afran's iPhone, Gus Schneider hoisting Afia onto his shoulders in the orchard, her legs parting to grip his neck. She'd broken up with him, the girls had said, but what did that matter, when she had lied to Shahid's face, lied all fall, sneaked around like her filthy friend Lema, betrayed everything she loved for her appetite? No, he wouldn't call her. He wouldn't be lied to again.

In his dorm room his laptop awaited. The screen swirled with color, a school of fish ready for feeding. He flicked it off. He tried, and failed, to pray. He opened his mobile again. There was Schneider's number, keyed into his contacts list. But call the guy? For what? To hear him, too, saying they'd broken up, saying there was never anything, when the picture showed what he'd done? To make him confess how he'd seduced Afia, how he'd parted those legs with his stubby hands? To threaten him, the betrayer, the cocksucker, as his buttocks rose and fell over the body he was violating, the body with its cushiony breasts, its wide V of pelvic bone plunging to the dark triangle . . .