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Amina absolutely, positively, totally, one hundred percent could do this. She could hear Saira emphasizing that in her head, so it must be true. Saira and the rest of the band would be here right now, had the prize from Momtaz’s local radio station covered more than two, or had airline ticket prices to cross the Atlantic been more reasonable. They were here in spirit, regardless.
That meant that if Amina backed down now, she would hear about it—not just from Saira herself, but also from Amina’s own anxiety brain, recreating Saira in her dreams and her waking thoughts.
Amina had to do this.
Momtaz, of course, seemed chiller than ever. Her niqab hadn't even been tugged out of place by the helmet. She turned her face toward the sun, a smile wrinkling her eyes.
“You set, ’Meen?”
Amina nodded. “’Course. Just—maybe you go first?”
Momtaz didn’t laugh. This was why Amina had been only a tiny bit scared to fly across an ocean and spend a week alone with her: More than all her other lovely qualities, Momtaz was nothing if not kind and discreet.
Their instructor had strapped them both in, then double-checked the harness, explaining the procedure. Imagine swan-diving into a pool. Try to relax. Flex your knees when you land. Keep hold of the yellow safety tab, in case all else fails. (Amina swallowed a little harder than necessary.) Jump only after receiving verbal confirmation from the instructor.
This company seemed to have prepared for everything, and had fulfilled all the safety requirements Amina had researched beforehand. In all honesty, the whole thing seemed—she mentally warded away the evil eye—pretty legit. But now the instructor appeared to be absorbed in their phone, which filled her with new misgivings.
“Ryan,” Momtaz said loudly. “Ready.”
Their instructor pocketed their phone and gave her the thumbs-up. “Go!”
Momtaz jumped off the platform (she hadn't even counted back from three!) and fell away. Amina watched her as she got smaller and farther away, then swung her way to the landing area. Once she got down, she detached from the bungee, which bounced back up toward the instructor.
Amina could not do this.
Saira could do this. It was just meeting a friend at the airport, for fuck’s sake. Hadn’t she always done this for her Jordanian cousins, whom she’d seen so little that they were basically strangers? Wasn’t she the de facto leader of the band, and didn’t that make it her responsibility to look out for the most innocent guitarist with the most adorable frayed nerves?
Yes. It was a simple, friendly gesture. There was no way Momtaz would shoot that knowing glance at her as soon as she appeared. It definitely wouldn’t get back to Ayesha, who certainly would not use this as an opportunity to clap back at Saira in return for her comments about Zarina.
Fuck.
If she left now, though, that would be like admitting that coming here had been wrong. That it was more than a friendly gesture. And it simply fucking wasn’t.
She began her third complete lap of the area outside security. Their flight was still showing “Arrived,” but without a gate number. Whatever that meant.
Saira decided that she needed a drink to calm her nerves, but then three bars in a row had no prices anywhere near the realm of reason. Maybe a pastry. Those prices weren’t looking too good, either. Finally, she decided on a Cadbury egg, on sale next to People magazine and spare tweezers at the airport chemist equivalent.
This was good. Chocolate was good. Shit, there was a gate number now.
Amina and Momtaz would disembark at Gate 9, Terminal 3. Right by security, if the signs didn’t lie. Saira swallowed the rest of her chocolate, spit into her hand, and smoothed back her most unruly hairs. This was normal. A normal friend thing. A normal punk band thing. Nobody’s eyes would bug out of their head and nobody would think she was weird. They’d be happy to see her. They liked her.
Saira could not do this.
“We would have told you,” called Ayesha from the front seat, “but then we realized they’d both have luggage…”
“I’m only here to get dropped off at a comics fair in Acton,” Bisma put in.
From the back seat, Saira carefully avoided watching the rear view mirror, because there definitely would be a Look. She’d bought her own train pass to Heathrow, like an idiot, and now they all knew. She wished Sahar were there, so she could exchange glances with the younger girl; why and how could her otherwise radical mother shine such a blazing spotlight on everything awkward, thus making it eight times more so?
Bisma and Ayesha had indeed been correct about the luggage. Ayesha’s new compact didn’t have much of a boot, so Momtaz’s additional checked bag (“the fashion trends of America’s West Coast must be witnessed to be believed”) squashed against Saira’s ass, which in turn squashed against Amina’s.
“No, I’m glad,” said Amina. Saira could feel the movement of the other woman’s ribs as she breathed, against her own. “Now it’s like a…whole band thing. Hee.”
From anyone else, self-conscious giggles would be beyond annoying. Against all odds, Amina made them irresistible. It was fascinating.
“Tell them your triumph,” Momtaz announced, leaning over Saira so that the suitcase shifted and bumped her thigh. Saira threw her a glare, but Momtaz didn’t acknowledge it. “Amina’s a new woman!”
“I bungee-jumped,” Amina burst out. “And I only threw up a little. And then it rained, so like…easy cleanup.”
“That’s rad, sister,” Bisma enthused from her front seat. “High-five.”
Saira wanted to wrap an arm around Amina, but she kept it light. “Proud of you.” A small smile was enough. Their whole bodies were touching, in any case.
Amina glowed up at her. How did she do that?!
Momtaz glowed next to her, more smugly. Saira ignored the band manager as hard as she could.
“I almost thought you wouldn’t do it,” Momtaz pointed out. “But then you said…what did you tell me, afterward? You said you couldn’t not, because…”
“Well, I knew you’d all be rooting for me,” Amina continued. “Um. Especially Saira. And I just—I couldn’t let you down.”
“Right, that was it,” Momtaz said. The smugness.
“You always had it in you,” Saira told Amina. She’d meant it so casually, like an offhand remark. When it landed, though, Amina did that glowing thing again. And the whole band was watching, listening, judging.
“You know what,” Saira tossed out. “You can let me off here. I’m, uh, been meaning to…chemist.”
“Are you sure?” Ayesha. (Shut the fuck up!)
“I’m sure.”
“But…whole band thing!” Amina protested. Doe eyes, another thing that never usually worked on Saira.
“If we stop now, I’ll be late,” Bisma added.
Saira admitted defeat. The rest of the ride was almost normal: the five of them singing, shooting the shit. If there was some barely perceptible change, some step seemingly closer, maybe it was only in Momtaz’s puppetmaster head.
“So you wanted to? Even then?”
“Yeah, dude. You think I fought so hard for you to be in Lady Parts just because you’re a badass guitarist who’s also a Muslim woman?”
“Kind…of?”
Saira laughed, and then her mouth was on Amina’s mouth, and Amina was rapidly getting used to that unfamiliar-yet-familiar taste. A little sweet. A little salty. Hint of chocolate.
Turned out, the two of them could do anything.