The Easiest Target

Rotten Peas

My mother calls Athan's mother to ask what we did and where we went because I won't tell her. Part of me wants her to get the shock of her life. The other part really wants peace.

Athan's mother admits the truth. She apologizes. Our parents freak out when they find out we were completely alone for two days. Athan and his parents come over that afternoon, bringing expensive chocolates and fruits as presents. Or appeasements.

We stand across the room from each other because neither of us wants to sit next to our fathers and our mothers are together in the kitchen. Men and women in Yemeni culture don't mix. At all. But since I'm Athan's wife, his father is my mahram, I can go in front of him freely. Not that I want to. It baffles me how something as beautiful as Athan descended from this blob of a pervert. I can't stop myself from sneering when I look at him so I keep my eyes turned away.

Athan's eyes are pinned to me the whole time, a stare so intense it makes me burn with embarrassment. He's making the situation a million times more awkward than it has to be. I slip into the kitchen to avoid his stare and calm my racing heart.

Our mothers frown at me. I stare emptily at Athan's mother. She's sitting at the table, her face buried in her hands, her body trembling with sobs.

"How could you have no shame?" my mother whispers.

"It's not her," Athan's mother says in a voice barely above a whisper, still hiding behind her hands. "I know it's my son. Forgive me."

I'm not taking the fall for this. And neither is Athan.

"This is my parents' fault, not yours or Athan's," I say in a voice that's louder than I intended. "They should have called to check where you were if they were going to make a big deal out of this." I know everyone in the apartment heard it when our fathers stop talking. "Like they should have asked me if marriage was what I wanted. There's really no one to blame but them. I told them I didn't want to go but they didn't care. We're already married so it doesn't matter Islamically, right? Yemeni isn't my religion."

My mom rushes over and smacks me across the face so hard my eyes tear up from the sting. My left cheek again. I raise my hand to shove her away but I curl my fingers and glower at her, knowing everyone can hear what I say next.

At that moment, I realize no matter what I say, no matter what I do or how much I hurt, I'm going to be the bad guy. They have a plan for me and if I deviate from it, they will get mad.

My face twists in disgust at her, my eyes brimming with tears. I didn't lie. They should have made sure of all of this. But they want me to marry Athan. He's handsome and rich — most importantly, he's a stray adult male that needs to be tied down and an innocent, helpless, underaged girl is the anchor they will always choose to drown for the sake of a stray male. It just happens to be me this time — a girl with an opinion that doesn't align with their culture.

We're two rotten peas in the community that they would rather stick in a punctured boat to sink than attempt to understand us.

I wince, gulping down the vomit threatening to rush up.

My mom yanks me over to the sink by the hijab and snarls at me to do the dishes. An arm yanks me away, turning me around sharply. He holds me around the shoulders, keeping my back to our mothers. I feel sick, my smarting cheek so irrelevant at the moment compared to the pain in my stomach. Tears swell in my eyes.

"She's not your daughter anymore," Athan snarls. "Don't touch my wife."

"Ya hayawan!" his father shouts from the living room. I hear his mother's chair skid back.