Her brows scrunched, eyes looking up. “Yeah. I have one.”
I twirled my pointer finger. “Okay. You’ll have to turn around and head down toward 9 Mile Road then.”
She dropped me off at the little Middle Eastern market located in the modest downtown area of our suburb. And as I closed the door, she opened the window and threw one of her credit cards at me and told me to get whatever would be good for the night. “Take it. You’re not paying for anything.”
“Do you want me to get other stuff? I can put out a spread of little finger-foods.” I leaned forward and touched her arm hanging out the window.
Her eyes widened. “Are you kidding? Do it!” she replied, then drove off to buy liquor.
From what I had heard, some of her friends usually brought store-bought platters and frozen junk that were thrown in the oven or the microwave. Rhonda needed to up her game, and I’d be the one to help her with that.
“Ahlan. Ahlan ya habibi.” The little old lady who owned the market welcomed me into her arms and gave me three pecks, alternating cheek to cheek.
“Hi amtou. Kif sahtik?” I replied, asking how her health was. I’d been around the Arabic language all my life and understood it, but usually replied in English out of fear of making a mistake.Amtoumeans aunt. She was technically not my aunt, but she was related to my dad. In any case, with our culture you call your elders aunt or uncle out of respect, even for those who aren’t related to you.
The family that owned this market were distant cousins of my dad, though I’m not sure how they put it together and how they coincidentally ended up in the same suburb on the other side of the world. This market was like a home away from home for him when I was younger. As a child, I spent hours in the back room with my distant cousins running through the aisles of herbs and spices while the adults sat to drink coffee and chain-smoke by the back door. The best part of hanging out there was the amount of expensive pine nuts I could eat without anyone knowing. I’d stick my arm in the massive storage bins and grab hands full. That sounds unsanitary now that I look back, but they were my favorite. There’s something about the slight metallic aftertaste of pine nuts that I could never resist.
At the market, I grabbed enough ingredients to make my paternal grandma’s Fattoush salad. Then grabbed a few cans of chickpeas and a container of tahini along with a few other items that would be used for the hummus. I won’t tell you what they are for fear of my mother’s wrath. My dad’s mom taught her how to make it and made her swear that she would guard the recipe with her life. I also grabbed two bags of pita among some other things to make mini pita sandwiches for everyone to snack on.
“Étienne, this is a lot,” Rhonda said as I was preparing food.
“Is it too much? I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back.”
“Nonsense. Here, let me help you,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
I waved her off. “Continue what you were doing. I got this.”
The problem is that she was the one who needed the help, not me. She was still tidying her condo and grabbing extra chairs from the basement to place in the living room. People were supposed to be arriving shortly and none of the alcohol was cold. Most of it was still sitting on the kitchen floor next to the large cooler she had me drag in from her garage. One of her friends volunteered to come early with bags of ice and to help set up, but that friend hadn’t arrived yet.
Eventually, Rhonda’s friends trickled in one by one, some bringing alcohol with them and others bringing food that was obviously prepared by the staff of the local Kroger or Village Market. It was perfectly fine, though. The food looked really appetizing. Yet some of her friends dropped their belongings on the kitchen counter or the dining room table and left it there. To Rhonda’s relief, I took charge of setting up the food. I unpackaged everything and arranged it on the dining room table, circling the pita sandwiches I had made and the bowl of hummus resting in the middle of a platter filled with toasted pita chips. Trust me, it isn’t that hard to go the extra mile.
Rhonda’s friends were quite fun. They were all nice to me and were excited to finally meet “little Étienne,” telling me how much my name would come up when Rhonda was talking about work.
Little Étienne, eh? I’m 5’10 without shoes, that’s not little.
“Don’t you listen to Jason. He’s an ass,” one of them whose name I didn’t catch yelled from across the room.
Initially, I didn’t want to drink alcohol that night. For a seventeen-year-old to have been drinking twice within a two-week period—three times if you include Dana’s jacuzzi—seemed to push it. But by the time I was introduced to each of Rhonda’s friends who walked through the door, I had been offered so many drinks and shots that my mind felt like it was a buoy floating back and forth within my skull. These girls wouldn’t take no for an answer. Should I be calling them women? They were older than me. Is that disrespectful to have been calling them girls?
But seriously though, I couldn’t handle drinking as much as they were. Then again, they were older than me.
After filling a plate with some food and grabbing a can of Vernors, I headed to a chair in the corner of the living room to sober up. I didn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of a party like at Thad’s cousin’s house. Once in the chair, I began to eat and looked around the room. They were all in their early and mid-twenties. Some were huddled into a corner talking about their love lives or something, and others were scattered into twos, engaging in conversation I was too distracted to pay attention to. This was different from the party Thad and I crashed. There wasn’t garbage littered everywhere, or people crawling across the floor in their intoxication. These women were mature. They understood that you could have fun without making a mess of yourself.
These are my kind of people,I thought as I observed everyone.
“All right. Étienne. Let’s hear about your Thursday night.” Rhonda silenced the whole room, forcing all eyes on me. Thiswasthe reason she invited me over in the first place. She was too impatient to wait for our next shift together.
I felt like a deer caught in the path of those ridiculously bright, new LED headlights. I didn’t know what to do. I froze as a wall of fear appeared in front of me. And I think she knew it caught me off guard as her eyes darted across the room, then landed on me again.
“Honey. It’s okay. You’re okay around us,” she tried comforting me before adding, “Every one of us has one of you. And some, more.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that at the time, though I do now.
“Wow. Um. This is weird.” I gulped, then began. “So, um. I have this friend. Well, more than a friend now. I guess.” I stopped for a second, heart pounding through my chest. “He’s this guy in my grade who I’ve noticed for a long time. But not in a creepy way.”
I gave them all a quick recap of Thad and how we met on the last day of school. Then I told them about our time spent together leading up to the night of his birthday. I couldn’t believe how comfortable I felt around these women. Was it the alcohol helping me talk? Or was it their presence? They all gave me their undivided attention. They welcomed me into their lives and were genuinely interested in who I was. So why would I hide from them? Why would I hide from you? You’re the one who decided to read this.
Rhonda walked over to me and handed me a rocks glass that was filled to the brim. I probably didn’t need more alcohol, but I guess they would take care of me if I had too much. I stopped for a minute and looked around the room, hesitant to continue speaking. She said it was a whisky sour and that I would enjoy it. I took a sip of the drink, being careful not to spill it, and felt the skin on my arms raise into goose bumps. I took another sip to see if it would help calm my nerves, which I think it did. Rhonda pulled a chair up and threw her arm around me, then I began describing exactly what happened after my night at the bar with Thad on Thursday. Well, Friday morning.
“So. We were driving home. I was still kind of upset with him and what he said about the almost-fight. His hand was in my lap, holding on to mine…”