Chapter Twelve
The BOA meeting was held in the basement of Yusuf’s grocery store, a low-ceilinged, forbidding space that smelled vaguely of bleach and overripe produce. Brother Musa, Yusuf’s father, had tried to make it more welcoming by placing a platter of fruit on a folding table next to the cramped staircase. The room was set up with two dozen folding chairs and another folding table at the very front for Brother Musa and Mr. Lewis, the owner of the Tim Hortons coffee shop—the association’s president and vice-president respectively.
I knew Yusuf didn’t always get along with his father. A dour man in his early sixties with an impressive grey moustache and sharp blue eyes, Brother Musa had high expectations for everyone in his life, especially his elder son. When we were younger, he would push Yusuf to study harder, to play more sports. He never quite approved of his son hanging out with me and Lily, and his disapproval only deepened when he realized that Yusuf was in love with Lily. Things had always been strained between the two, though Yusuf was loyal to his family and worked at the store without complaint. He also happily involvedhimself in the goings-on of the BOA and any other neighbourhood issues that came up.
This was the first meeting I had attended, but I recognized many of the local business owners. I greeted the familiar faces and introduced Rashid to Brother Musa before we claimed a seat beside Yusuf in the front row. Rashid had decided to forego the Mughal finery for a plain shirt and jeans. My teenage cousin was turning out to be entirely different from what I had imagined.
“Where are the owners of the new restaurant?” I whispered to Yusuf.
He frowned. “They’re not here yet. Dad hates it when people are late.”
Brother Musa called everyone to attention. He had a slight Syrian accent, dulled by thirty years of living in North America. “We have a few items on the agenda. First up: our annual summer street festival. We need a volunteer to take charge, as Fazeela will not be able to manage this year. Any takers?”
Opening up my notebook, I began to take the notes Mom had requested.
Rashid fidgeted next to me as the meeting droned on, with details for the street festival followed by a discussion of the new parking regulations and neighbourhood security. Once I had recorded the agenda items, I turned to a new page and wroteNew halal restaurant?
Rashid leaned over. “You said this would be fun. If I wanted to sit in a room full of old people talking business, I would have attended my parents’ accounting parties.”
I wondered what an accounting party looked like. “Don’t worry. They’re getting to the best part,” I whispered.
Rashid tilted his head. “What’s the best part?”
“The drama.”
Fazeela had told me that every meeting of the Golden CrescentBusiness Owners Association ended with someone losing their temper and getting into a yelling match with someone else. One time a fistfight had broken out over the garbage collection schedule. Fazeela described the BOA asSurvivor, except with more Brown people. I think that was why Mom usually sent my sister; she was allergic to drama. Fazeela, on the other hand, could have worked for the White House. Intrigue was her oxygen.
I heard the basement door open and heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs. Aydin was about to make his big entrance, thirty minutes late.
“Now for the final item on our agenda,” Brother Musa said, irritated. “Despite their late arrival, let us welcome Junaid Shah and his son Aydin Shah, owners of the new Golden Crescent restaurant, Wholistic Burgers and Grill.”
Polite applause as the dozen BOA members turned towards the back of the room, where Aydin stood with his father. A few uneasy glances were also thrown my way, and my face burned.
I realized some part of me had hoped I was wrong, that Aydin hadn’t been spying, that he and his father weren’t actually opening a rival halal restaurant in Golden Crescent, in direct competition with Three Sisters. His father had treated me like dirt when they visited our restaurant, and then I had handed our competition a free plate of biryani. I closed my eyes, reliving the humiliation of Aydin’s comments about our faded decor and imminent closure.
Aydin and Junaid Uncle made their way silently through the crowd and took seats in the row behind us. Aydin leaned forward and muttered a quiet salaam in my ear. So polite when people were present to witness his actions. I wasn’t as prepared to be civil.
I turned around to glare at him. “You’ve got some nerve,” I hissed.
Aydin blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“Showing up with your dad the other day. Commenting on our food, the lighting, the floors,” I said in a heated whisper. “The only thing you can count on is change,” I mimicked, and Aydin flushed. Good. I hoped he was embarrassed.
In my anger, I hadn’t realized I’d raised my voice. The BOA members craned forward, trying to catch every word.
“You were spying on us,” I continued flatly.Let them hear. Everyone should know how our newest members operate.
Rashid looked from my angry face to Aydin’s startled one. He stood up, glaring at father and son. “Yes, how dare you spy on my cousin!” he announced loudly. He ruined the impact by leaning down to whisper loudly, “This is the drama, right?”
Junaid Uncle spoke up, his face contorted with anger. “Spyingon you? Why would we waste our time spying on your dirty, insignificant little business?” he said loudly.
The shocked silence that greeted his rudeness jolted me out of my temper. We were causing a scene; my mother would not be pleased.
Aydin’s face was pale. “Dad, calm down. You said you would let me handle this.”
Junaid Uncle turned to his son, and from my close vantage point I could see Aydin flinch. “As usual, you are not handling anything,” his father said. He cast an imperious eye around the room. “I don’t know why you insisted on coming here. I refuse to be bullied by the local yokels.”
From the front of the room, Musa asked his son loudly, “What is thisyokel? Is that man calling us eggs?”
