Page 77 - A Woman Is No Man

school together had Meriem done anything wrong. Most of the girls in her
class had found a way to break the rules at one time or another, even Deya.
For her, it had been one Friday afternoon after jumaa prayer when she had

thrown a metal chair from the fire escape. To this day, Deya didn’t know
why she had done it. All she could remember was her classmates staring at
her with impish smiles, telling her that she didn’t have the nerve, and then
standing at the edge of the fire escape and plunging the chair down five
stories with relish. The principal had called Fareeda to tell her that Deya
had been suspended. But when she went home, head bowed, Fareeda had
only laughed and said, “It doesn’t matter. There are more important things

to worry about than school.”
It wasn’t the only time Deya had broken the rules. She had once asked
one of her classmates, Yusra, to buy her an Eminem CD because she knew
Fareeda would never allow it. Yusra’s family wasn’t as strict as Deya’s
grandparents, who only allowed her to listen to Arabic music. Yusra
smuggled the Eminem CD to her in school, and Deya listened to it

obsessively. She identified with the rapper’s tension, admired his defiant
attitude and courageous voice. If only Deya had that voice. Some nights,
whenever she had a bad day at school or Fareeda had upset her, Deya would
slip her headphones on and fall asleep listening to Eminem’s words,
knowing that somewhere out there was another person who felt trapped by
the confines of his world—comforted by the fact that you didn’t have to be
a woman or even an immigrant to understand what it felt like to not belong.

Thinking of it now, that was the only time Deya could remember ever
asking anyone to do something for her. It wasn’t like her to ask for favors—
she never wanted to be an inconvenience, a bother. But it was the only way
now. In the lunchroom, she gritted her teeth and approached Meriem.
Meriem gave her a small smile as she handed her the phone, and Deya tried
not to flush in embarrassment as she rushed to the nearest bathroom. Inside,

she turned away from her reflection in the mirrors. The face of a coward.
The face of a fool. She entered a bathroom stall, closed the door behind her.
She could feel her heart beating against her chest as she dialed the number.
After four rings, someone picked up. “Hello,” came a woman’s voice.
Deya coughed. Her mouth had gone dry. “Umm, hi.” She tried to keep
her voice from cracking. “Is this Books and Beans?”
“Yes.” A brief pause. “Can I help you?”

“Umm . . . can I speak to the manager? My name is Deya.”