Battered, With Love

Chapter 7 -- The Angel That's Anything But

New part! I'm on a roll :P

"Cheating is so dishonest. We scron at people that 'cheat' on their spouses. But when you cheat in school, you're cheating yourself. And don't you have a duty to yourself to be the best you can be?"  -- Ash

           When I was younger, I loved reading teenage fiction novels. You know, Meg Cabot, Sarah Dessen type stuff. But the funny things about those books, looking back at it now, is that every moment of the character’s life is eventful—something is always happening.

            But the thing about real life is that half the time it’s boring, and the other half of the time is when stuff actually happens. There are days we just float on by, and days when it feels like a bunch of stuff has just been crammed all in one day.

            It’s ridiculous I tell you. The first two weeks of school pass by uneventfully; the first day of school was soon forgotten. The only thing eventful about my life? The A I got on my chemistry test.

            One Saturday three weeks after the first day of school and my going off on Krish, my dad is reading the newspaper. “The carnival is in two weeks! Look at this. ‘Local Muslims Hold Annual Carnival’ says the headline.” While he’s talking, he looks up and talks so that Harun can read his lips. When Harun still looks a little confused, Dad sets down his paper and signs the information to him. Harun nods in understanding and then grins excitedly.

            We usually go to the carnival every year, but last year Harun broke his leg playing soccer so he missed out. The twins (my nephews) Musa and Isa both love the carnival, so we usually all go with my sister’s family. Whenever my brothers are home from medical school, they come to, if they can.

            “What time is it?” Harun asks. My mom walks over to the table and sets down a plate of scrambled eggs.

            “Nine to three.” She responds.

            “Oh! That’s going to be so much fun.” I say that as I sign it. That’s the funny thing about sign language—I can’t just talk or just sign. I usually do both at the same time.

            “All proceeds go to charity relief to various countries all over the world, says Imam Abdullah Mahmood.” Dad reads off from the newspaper.

            I sign that to Harun because he couldn’t read Dad’s lips very well on account of Dad having his head down as he read. “Are we all going?” Harun asks.

            Mom and Dad exchange glances. “We don’t know yet, Harun. You should go with Juwaryah, Jamal and the boys. How about this? We’ll come by later. You two should sign up to help set up.” Mom responds.

            Set up? “Can we get CAS hours for it?” I ask the same time Harun signs the same question. We grin at each other.

            “Yes. I think it would count as Action hours. How many more do you need to meet your IB requirement?” Mom asks while signing.

            “Five more action hours.” Harun replies.

            “I need ten.” I say and sign.

            “Fatty.” Harun teases. I glare at him.

            “Not all of us can be as athletic as you.”

            “True. And nobody can be as hot as me either.” He mock fans himself. My mother shoots him a look and he grins back at her. This is an entirely different side to Harun that nobody at school ever sees: this sweet, funny, annoying, sarcastic, teasing part of him. It’s amazing how we think we know someone just because we’ve spent four years with them at school, but we really don’t.