I spotted Big J through the window as he walked towards the café. He wasn’t alone. Thomas was walking beside him, hands stuffed deep into jacket pockets, stride loping. My former fellow intern caught my eye through the window, then looked away.
THEY SHARED EARBUDS, LISTENING TOthe podcast I had finished editing late the night before. A quick smile slipped across Big J’s face a few times, and his thick eyelashes fluttered in amusement as he listened to my aunt berate me. He was still working on his beard, which was in the awkward, wispy phase. I wondered if he used conditioner and beard oil.
My eyes moved to Thomas. Big J hadn’t explained why he was there, only throwing out a casual “You don’t mind, right?” before striding to the counter to order for them both. Thomas had made polite Brown-boy conversation, asking about the restaurant and my parents, until Big J returned with two steaming cups of coffee with generous dollops of cream.
I didn’t want to stare while they listened, so I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I returned, Thomas and Big J had removed their earbuds. One smiled at me; the other did not.
“You made this episode yourself?” Thomas asked. Rude.
“You have a unique style. Impressive work,” Big J said.
“This is the sort of stuff I want to work on—remarkable, nuanced stories and diverse experiences. Every time I tried to suggest something like this, I was never supported.” I glanced at Thomas. Was he spying for Marisa? I shifted, uncomfortable, and addressed Big J. “I could use some help trying to get my work aired elsewhere.”
Big J leaned back, hands running through the whiskers on his face.“Marisa went ahead with your former show. The first episode, about radicalization in the Muslim community, ran a few days ago.”
I tensed, glancing at Thomas. Had he come here to gloat? “Congratulations. How was it?” I asked flatly.
“Marisa and Nathan had a lot of... input. The episode wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned,” Thomas said, fiddling with his phone. “After the episode aired, we got a lot of coverage and online comments. Radio Toronto doesn’t usually get that kind of attention. One of the local TV stations even invited us on their evening program, to talk more about Islamization.”
“A topic you know so much about,” I said.
“I thought you were crazy when you quit, Hana,” Thomas said, ignoring my snipe. He couldn’t meet my gaze. “I thought we were starting a conversation, that we would make a difference. Marisa told me the show received so much attention they’ve approved another five episodes.” He finally looked at me, but there was no smirking exultation on his face. Instead, I recognized deep remorse. “They didn’t have to read the emails, tweets, and posts from listeners. The things people said were... I’ve never had to...” He trailed off, then swallowed. “I told them they had to make some changes, and they refused. I quit yesterday. You were right, Hana. It did more harm than good.”
I was surprised. I would have guessed that Thomas would step on whoever he needed to, do anything required to get ahead. Perhaps our many conversations had made an impact on him after all. Still, he needed to understand that his privilege was different from mine, that his experiences didn’t give him a free pass from acknowledging that he had hurt me—and others he might never meet. “We had a real chance to change Marisa’s mind, to bring a new perspective to RadioToronto,” I said slowly. “Instead of backing me up, you chose to stab me in the back and push me out.”
He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry, Hana. I was wrong. I made a mistake.”
Choice. My mother was big on choice. I could choose to carry a grudge; Thomas did deserve my anger. Or I could choose to give him another chance. I nodded once, acknowledging his words.
Minority Alliance (shakily) reactivated. Though I wouldn’t let him off the hook until he had demonstrated more than a superficial wish to change his behaviour.
“Your podcast is great, but you need a sound engineer, and maybe a co-host,” Big J suggested gently. “Maybe you and Thomas were meant to work together after all.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. After making Thomas stew for a bit first.
I ordered another latte while they ran through my podcast again.
Chapter Forty-Two
The decision to work with Thomas onSecret Family Historywas easy in the end. With his help we would have our pilot episode ready by the end of the week, and Big J promised to work his contacts for us.
When I returned to the restaurant that evening, Mom was at the counter while a few customers finished their meals. She looked more tired than normal. She had been working constantly for weeks, her only day off Nalla’s funeral. I told her to leave a little early.
“It will be good to have dinner with your baba,” she agreed, giving me a hug. “We have barely spoken these past few days.” She had been doing that a lot, ever since the attack—making sure she hugged me and Fazee, noticing how much time she was spending away from the family. Almost as if something had tipped within, a shift in her personal accounting.
The bell on the door jingled as Mom gathered her things, and Imam Abdul Bari stepped inside. “Assalamu alaikum, Sister Hana, Sister Ghufran,” the Imam greeted us as he reached the counter, his voice soft. Grief had stolen his usual strong tenor.
I reached behind the counter for the Imam’s order: butter chicken, basmati rice, and a special serving of his favourite dessert, carrot halwa, which Mom had made for him. I waved away his money and handed him the bag.
Rashid emerged from the kitchen, where he had been putting away supplies, and the Imam lingered to chat. The house must have felt so lonely without his Nalla.
“Everyone is looking forward to the festival in a few days. I hope you are not worried about this latest development,” Abdul Bari said.
My cousin and I exchanged swift glances. I asked the Imam to explain, and he pulled out his phone. A simple flyer, plain white with a stark black border, was displayed in his browser: “PROTEST SHARIAH LAW IN TORONTO! HALAL FOOD FEST = CREEPING SHARIAH LAW!JOIN THE CONCERNED CITIZENS COALITION FOR AN ANTI-HALAL PROTEST. FREE CANADIAN BACON, HAM,ANDPIGS IN A BLANKET!”There was a graphic of a man with a long beard dressed in a white robe and brandishing a wicked-looking scimitar. He was pointing a finger, Uncle Sam–style, at the reader. The date and time were listed below. Unsurprisingly, the protest was scheduled for the same date, time, and location as our street festival.
I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. It didn’t work. “It’s not a halal food festival!” I burst out.
“Maybe we should cancel,” Rashid said. I was sure he was remembering the video he had uploaded so gleefully, and the graffiti and vandalism that had resulted.
