The Engagement

“Good morning Baba,” I greeted my dad who was standing over the stove making breakfast. “What you makin’?”
“Ah, good morning habibti!” Baba turned towards me with a bowl full of batter in one hand and a spatula in the other, “I wanted to surprise you this morning by making you chocolate-peanut butter chip pancakes, but I just can’t do it! This is why you need to eat more Arabic food! I can make that, not this American garbage you love so much!”
I walked up to my dad taking the bowl out of his hand as I gave him a kiss on his right cheek. “Here let me do it.” I looked down at the bowl and saw a yellow liquid that didn’t resemble pancake mix in the slightest bit. “Hey, Baba what did you put in this?”
“Ma barif! I don’t know! What ever the damn box told me to put in it” My dad had a habit of switching from Arabic to English and vice versa in conversation. It frustrated his employees and people who didn’t speak Arabic, but I was used to it and expected it.
Deciding there was no hope in fixing the mix I put the bowl in the sink and got out two cereal bowls. “Chex or Honey Bunches of Oats?”
“Chex please, and you know how I like it.” Nodding my head I poured the cereal into both bowls before adding the milk and sugar. Once I mixed the sugar in I stuck both bowls into the microwave for a two minutes. “Zain, I need to talk to you.” My father spoke up right as the microwave started to beep.
“Alright, hold on one second,” I grabbed two spoons and stuck one in each bowl. Placing a bowl in front of my dad I sat in the seat to his right. “What do you need?”
“Last night, your mom and I were invited to Byt Samra for dinner. And as you know their son, Omar, is in NYU Med School; well he said something last night. And your mother and I we had a long conversation about it. Omar asked us for your hand in marriage, and tomorrow night they are coming over for dinner where we will accept his proposal.” As Baba told me this his eyes never left my face, carefully scanning for any signs of emotion.
“No. I refuse. I will not marry Omar. Jesus Baba! I’m only 17! What about college? What about my life? No. Laa. Just laa.” I threw the spoon down in a fit of anger. Why would he even consider that? Is he crazy?
“You know Omar though! You’ve been friends with him since you were walad, a kid. He’s nice, and he’s smart he can support you!”
“NO! Baba, you have to understand I’m not going to marry him. I want to go to school, move to London, get a job, make money and then I’ll get married. I don’t want to be like Fatima, she’s 19 and already has a kid! I can’t do that! We don’t live in Syria! It’s not normal for girls to get married so young!” I was stubborn just like my Baba, which is a problem when we get into arguments. Our arguments can last for days, because both are too damn stubborn to just give up and admit defeat. But this argument couldn’t be like the others it had to end today. The Samra’s needed an answer by tomorrow, and I’ll be damned if that answer is anything but no.
I was pulled out of my thoughts when I heard Baba spit-firing Arabic at me so fast that i could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying. After a solid two minutes of him yelling at me he finally calmed down “I don’t care what you say. You are going to marry Omar whether you like it or not. Might as well accept it now, and I know for a fact he will let you study. He wants a smart girl, not an idiot like Fatima.”
I knew the look he was giving me, it was the if-you-don’t-agree-with-me-I’m-gonna-take-everything-you-love look. I didn’t say anything, I just nodded and left the kitchen.
I avoided Baba at all costs whenever if we were in the same room I left, if he tried calling me I ignored him. I just didn’t want to talk to him. After a while I just locked myself in my room and read until I eventually fell asleep.

******
My mom walked into my room the next morning, while I was looking through my closet for something to wear tonight. I have to wear something modest but I don’t want to be too modest and look like a prude. “Z please talk to Baba, you have to understand why he’s doing this. He wants what’s best for you, and he thinks Omar will treat you right and take care of you. Please just talk to him.”
“What about no? I don’t want to talk to him. If he really wants what’s best for me he wouldn’t make me marry Omar.” I grabbed my baby pink skinnies and a denim-style top, and went to the bathroom to do my hair
“Zain, I’m serious. You have to talk to him.” My mom followed me into the bathroom where I had laid out all my hair products on the vanity.
“And, I’m being serious too. I’m not going to talk to Baba unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I looked at my mom through the mirror as I curled my hair.
“Ya Lateef! My God, you’re just as stubborn as Baba!” My mom left me to finish getting ready.
Just as I swiped on some mascara the doorbell rang, I looked out the window in my bathroom through the blinds and saw Omar standing behind his parents with his hands shoved in his pockets. I checked my phone for the time and saw it was only 3:30, those fuckers were early they weren’t supposed to be here for another half hour.
I quickly ran out of the bathroom and to my room to quickly change and put on some jewelry. As I ran through the hallway I heard Omar’s dad, Umo Sayed Uncle Sayed’s, loud voice greet my parents. I knew I really had to hurry up they were going to be asking for me soon. I threw on the outfit I chose earlier and grabbed a random pair of nude heels I had in my closet. Quickly before I left my room I threw my lucky arrowhead necklace on and sprayed myself with my favorite perfume. I heard my name mentioned a few times as I walked down the stairs to face my fiancée and his parents.
“Ah, there she is. Zain, Taa'i la hown, Habibti. Come here my dear.” Baba called at me as if the last twenty-something hours never happened.
I smiled sweetly and walked into the foyer where everyone was standing. I walked over to Omar’s mom, Aunt Samar, and gave her two kisses, one on each cheek. I walked over to Umo Sayed and shook his hand, “Shlonak Umo? How are you uncle?”
“Good, Alhamdulillah thank God.” Umo Sayed held my hand with both hands as he smiled down at me. Even with my five-inch heels I was at least 6 inches shorter than Omar and his dad.
I finally turned around and faced Omar who was standing by the door with a small smirk on his face and a little red box in his hands. “Zain, beauty, who knew a name could describe someone so perfectly.” Omar was always able to woo girls over with his smooth lines but I wasn’t going to let myself swoon over him.
“Omar,” I greeted him as I extended my hand out towards him but he just looked at it.
The smirk on Omar’s face slowly turned into a full out grin as he let out a small chuckle and grabbed my arm to pull me into a hug. “No need for that respectful Arab girl bullshit with me,” he whispered into my ear so only I could hear. When Omar finally pulled away he just smiled down at me, “Well, Zain, I think you know what I’m about to ask…”