“Mom says we won’t last the summer,” I blurted, desperate to change the strange vibe between us and return to our usual hostile roles.
Aydin stilled, and I continued. “You were right. She has debts. We aren’t making the money we need to stay open.”
Silver lenses reflected the sunlight, blinding me. I needed to see his face. I reached up and removed his sunglasses, my fingers brushing his hair.
His brown eyes were stricken. “I didn’t want to be right,” he said. “I didn’t want this to happen.”
I knew Aydin wasn’t opening his fancy halal restaurant simply to put my mother out of business, but the result was the same. He was on one side and I on the other. My loyalty was clear, even if my feelings had become less so.
I liked him. He was smart and funny, hard-working and focused. When he looked at me now, I saw acceptance and an easy affection that just felt right. But it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.
“We’re Muslim, Aydin,” I said. “We believe that all this is exactly what was supposed to happen. Even if we weren’t looking for any of it.”
In the Dairy Queen I let him buy me a chocolate sundae. It was cold and sweet and I didn’t say thank you. On the walk back he held out his hand for the sunglasses, but I had tucked them into my bag. Maybe a part of me wanted something that belonged to him.
We walked in silence to the base of the CN Tower. There we met up with Rashid, and the three of us headed to the aquarium.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The jellyfish tank was ethereal—a wide glass tube that extended to the ceiling, illuminated by a haunting blue light against which giant jellyfish floated like ghostly tentacled aliens. The Imam was right. It was glorious.
“Cool,” Rashid said after thirty seconds. He snapped a picture for his Facebook page before walking off in search of the seahorse tank.
Aydin remained beside me. The light from the glowing tank reflected off his face so that he glowed too. “Aquariums make me sad. All these animals caught or bred for captivity, living their life in cages for our amusement. It’s a metaphor for life.”
The jellyfish couple in front of me had their tentacles entwined as they danced around each other with slow, practised movements. I wondered how long they had been stuck in that tank together. I wondered if they hated it and yearned for freedom. Or did they even realize they were trapped?
“Sometimes I wish we weren’t enemies,” Aydin said, his gaze intent on the jellyfish. “I wonder how we’d be if things were different. Do you think we could have been friends?” His eyes focused on mine in the reflection.
“Maybe,” I replied, though I knew the answer wasyes. It would be easy to be friends with Aydin. We would just stop fighting against everything and simply... be. It would be the easiest thing in the world, if only things were different.
WE HAD AN HOUR BEFOREthe gates opened at the stadium. Feeling a sudden hunger, we decided to grab some pizza. I wondered what Aydin was thinking, if he was regretting what he had said.
Rashid walked ahead, oblivious to both of us. He was taking videos again, of the CN Tower, the aquarium exterior, and downtown Toronto street life.
A beefy white man in a dark T-shirt planted himself in front of Rashid. My cousin looked up, and smiled. “Hello, brother,” he said.
“Hey, terrorist,” the man said, voice booming.
The man was flanked by two other large men. One had his head shaved, and the other wore a shirt with a raised white fist against a black background.
My heart began to pound. “What did you call him?” I said, and my voice shook.
The man looked at me, dismissive. “I wasn’t talking to you, bitch. I was talking to your little Brown friend here. Why are you taking videos of the tower? Where are you from? You got a passport, buddy?” The man took a step closer to Rashid.
Aydin stepped up, subtly moving me back. “Take it easy,” he said, hands out in a calm-down motion. “We’re just walking around, enjoying our city.”
“Enjoyingmycity. It’s not your city, asshole!” The man’s face turned an ugly shade of red and spittle flew from his mouth. “Stay in your own fucking country!”
A small crowd had gathered around us, but they were silent, watching the drama unfold. A few had phones out, filming.
“Thisis my country,” Aydin said quietly. “This is her country,” he said, nodding at me. “And this man is our guest. Maybe you should stand down.”
Blood pounded in my veins. What had we done to attract this type of attention? I reached up and fingered my hijab, a bright blue and cream patterned chiffon that matched my blue jeans.
The man with the shaved head pointed at Rashid, who was still filming. “Turn that thing offright now! You planning an attack on Toronto, that why you’re taking all this video?” The man stepped closer to Rashid and reached for his cellphone.
“No English,” Rashid said in his cultured Indo-British accent. “Many apologies, but I cannot understand a single word you are saying.” He backed up a few steps.
