“Like it?” “You look like you're enlisting in the army.” “You want to feel?”
He lowered his head. The tiny bristles scratched Laila's palm pleasantly.
Tariq wasn't like some of the other boys, whose hair concealed cone-shaped skulls and unsightly lumps.
Tariq's head was perfectly curved and lump-free. When he looked up, Laila saw that his cheeks and brow had sunburned.
What took you so long?” she said. “My uncle was sick. Come on. Come inside.
He led her down the hallway to the family room. Laila loved everything about this house.
The shabby old rug in the family room, the patchwork quilt on the couch, the ordinary clutter of Tariq's life:
his mother's bolts of fabric, her sewing needles embedded in spools, the old magazines,
the accordion case in the corner waiting to be cracked open.
“Who is it?” It was his mother calling from the kitchen. “Laila,” he answered. He pulled her a chair.
The family room was brightly lit and had double windows that opened into the yard.
On the sill were empty jars in which Tariq's mother pickled eggplant and made carrot marmalade.
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