The Easiest Target

Always

"Wake up, Hadeel! Wake up!"

And here I thought I got a good two weeks of relative peace since I've been avoiding Azan like criminals avoid authority.

I draw my blanket up close to my face and groan. "I already prayed fajr!" Not that she would know. She never prays on time.

"Wake up and get dressed!" Smack!

I kick the blanket off and jump out of bed furiously, following her as she skips out of my room like she's five-years-old playing a prank. I snatch my hijab off the door, a pair of socks from the cramped room of drawers and bunk beds, and my backpack.

"I am getting a job so I can MOVE OUT!" I scream, intent on waking everyone in the house.

They would never let me work. Ever. But it always makes her mad. I look around. "Where is — Uma, I have school! Where's the alarm?!" I go to the kitchen moodily to see what she's so giddy about and the second I see, I drop the hijab, socks, my backpack, my stomach, and my nerve.

Azan smiles at me from the table in the tiny kitchen he's way too big for. He looks so cramped and uncomfortable sitting at the small table with two small, rickety chairs, a tower of cereal boxes stacked precariously on the fridge behind him.

Fall, I beg the boxes.

"Nice hair," he grins. My mom swings around from the stove, gasps, smacks my bad shoulder and shoves me out, whispering for me to get dressed. I flinch and look down: I'm perfectly presentable. Baggy shirt, baggy sweats — same clothes outside. So I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face, sloppily comb my fingers through my curly hair and twirl it into my head piece because I can't tie it up. I put a black hijab on, a black abaya, a black niqab and go to the kitchen.

Azan laughs, something I realize makes many, many ... many girls fall for him. My mom hits me again and tears the niqab off my head. "OW! What do you want from me?!" I complain.

She pushes me out of the kitchen, takes me to her room and says, "Put something cute on, put some makeup on. This is your husband — you have to look nice in front of —"

"Am I supposed to summon cute clothes and makeup?! I don't own a cute thing!" I snap at her, not caring that he can hear. "Why is he here?" She clamps a hand hard over my face and shushes me. I lick her palm to get her to back off.

"He wants to take you out today. He came to ask permission. You should be happy — your father never took me anywhere," she whispers.

There she goes again, comparing my life to hers. I slip past her and go to him while she searches my drawers. My chest tightens with dread. "What do you want?" I lean over the table and whisper.

He folds his arms over the table and leans so close I feel the heat of his breath on my cheeks. He's tall. And big .... If it weren't for his personality, maybe I'd have fallen for him. He's smiling and calm, something I don't like about Azan because trouble always follows.

Always, always, always.

"I want to take you away for the weekend," he whispers.

"Are you serious? I barely gained the privilege to pee by myself!" I whisper loudly. "I'm still working up the ladder for permission to take more than five minutes showering!" I cover my face with a hand and whisper a prayer, calming myself with a breath. He has a better shot at getting a bullseye in the dark than getting my parents to agree to let me be alone with him before the wedding.