March 2019
Dinkytown, Minneapolis
The third time he showed up, I handed him the book and decided to ask what his deal was.
“I was … wondering …” I began, but then I didn’t know what to say.
“You’re wondering why I don’t just buy the book?”
I laughed in relief. “Yeah.”
“It’s complicated.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I can see you’re skeptical.”
I nodded.
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee after you get off and I’ll explain.”
A part of me deep inside sang with happiness, but then the enthusiasm evaporated. “I can’t. I have to go home and study for finals. My mom’s picking me up at closing because my car’s in the shop.”
“Ah, that’s right. It’s the end of the third quarter.”
I tilted my head. “I’m still in high school.” Might as well get it all out there.
“Really? You seem … very mature.”
I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not.
“Do you go to the U?”
“I did,” he said. “I’m working full time right now to save money to go back home.”
“Home?”
“Somalia?”
“Oh,” My mouth was wide. “Oh,” I repeated like an idiot.
“Yeah.” He looked grim.
“Wow.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty messed up over there right now. I left a few years ago because I was getting into some crazy shit and had to…” he paused and looked away. “…do some things I now regret doing, so I bailed. But there’s been some new developments and I’ve got to go back.”
“You have to?” I tried to make it a casual question but he grinned.
“Afraid so.”
We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds and I finally got up the nerve to ask. “What was it like growing up there?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably shitty. I didn’t go back there until I was fifteen. I grew up mainly in Paris. My father’s Somalian and my mother is French. She was a war correspondent and my father was a diplomat. You could imagine how that went.”
“Was?”
“Both died. Bomb.”
I sat there for a second, mouth open. “I’m sorry.”
He looked down. “That’s why I was sent to live with my grandmother in Paris. When she died, I was sent back to Somalia to live with my uncle. It was totally messed up. I was in a refugee camp for three years before I got to come over here.”
“I’m sorry.” I said again. I’d heard about those refugee camps.
“Was a long time ago.”
Awkward silence.
“I love Paris. One of my best friends, Julia, is French. Well, she was born there and moved here as a baby, but she has spent nearly every summer over there with her grandparents. She even has a French accent.” I was immediately embarrassed. I am the epitome of smooth sophisticated chic. The Midwest hick you see is a ruse. He says his parents are dead and I say I love Paris and my friend is French.
But he smiled. “I’ve got a brilliant idea. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee after you get off work and drive you home. Your mother can stay warm at home and the caffeine will ensure you stay awake to study.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” It would involve too much explaining—to him and to my parents—and right then I wanted to avoid my lying mother as much as possible. Plus, I was really, really trying to play hard to get. For Lily’s sake. She’d be proud of me. However, if he ever asked me again, I’d say yes for sure. But I’m sure he wouldn’t.
I have to admit, though, for a second, I was tempted. I could call my mom and lie to her. She had no problem lying to me. Why was I expected to always tell the truth? No. I wouldn’t lie to her, but I definitely wouldn’t be sharing details about my life anymore. I would go off to college and only come home as little as possible. But I knew I was lying to myself. Even thinking about avoiding my mother brought tears to my eyes. I didn’t want to admit it, but I loved my mom so much and her betrayal scared the shit out of me and hurt me in ways I didn’t know existed. I knew my anger was the way I was dealing with it. I knew it was messed up. But I also didn’t know what else to do.
The boy spoke, bringing me back to reality.
“We’ll just have to do the coffee thing another time, right?
“Sure.” I tried to hide my smile. I hoped Lily was right: that if a guy really liked me, he would keep asking even if I said no at first. “But wait. I don’t get the story until then? That’s not very fair.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Fine. Here’s the story anyway. I’ll make it brief. I’m a minimalist. I don’t own many things. I couldn’t find this book at the library so I had to come here. I don’t want to buy it because I’m already trying to get rid of all my stuff. I’m going back to Somalia in the fall. Everything I own needs to fit in a carry-on suitcase. And, besides, I enjoy reading here. My roommates aren’t college students. They just like the college scene. They are partiers and they are up all night, every night. My flat smells like piss and beer and sounds like a bad 90s rock concert—all the time. This place, however, is heavenly. Quiet, warm, and everybody leaves me alone.”
“Oh.” I suddenly felt guilty for talking to him so much.
“No, not you. I just mean I can read in peace here. It’s nice ...”
“Okay,” I said. He turned to sit down and I tried to think of something to keep him talking. “There’s a coffee maker in the back. I was going to start a pot. You want a cup?”
The smile lit up his face. “Yes.”
“Great. It won’t take long to brew. Be back in a sec.”
For the next three hours, we both sat quietly doing our own thing. A few customers, all students came in, but not very many since it was finals week. I had my books splayed on the counter and was studying between customers. One reason I liked my job there so much. The owner didn’t care if I did homework or studied during the slow times.
Tonight, when Ali stood to leave, he turned to me.
“I actually lied earlier,” he said.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“About why I haven’t bought the book.”
“What?”
“Well, I didn’t lie—everything I told you was true. I am a minimalist. I am trying not to buy anything since I’m moving back to Somalia, but …”
I arched an eyebrow.
“If I buy the book I have no excuse to keep coming here … and seeing you.”
His voice grew softer at the last three words. He looked away. I was pretty sure my jaw dropped down to my chest.
Just then there was a loud banging on the window right beside where we were standing.
A blonde girl with a red nose and angry scowl was using her fist against the glass to get our attention.
“Shit!” he said. He flushed as if he had been caught doing something illegal and I immediately realized the girl must be his girlfriend.
I turned. “You better go.”
I know my voice was a little curt.
“It’s not like that,” he said. But I was already behind the counter, putting his book back on a shelf. I didn’t stand up straight again until I heard the front door close.
When I looked outside again, they were gone.
It was stupid, but I felt a pang of disappointment. Hard to get?