When I get back home, Grandma and my parents are watching Dr. 90210. Some lady just had a fresh boob job and all her girly bits are blurred out. I think Dad would jump at the opportunity of having his own cosmetic dentistry show. I can just imagine it—with his thick, dark hair swept to the side, maybe highlights (like the ones Dr. Rey has), and a new suit everyday. Then the cameras would come into our house. Mom is the pretty, thin wife. I’m the winsome only child.

“He filled out those pancakes,” Grandma comments. It always seems weird when she talks about modern things, because with her head covered she looks like an immigrant fresh off of an airplane. But Grandma curses—dropping F bombs occasionally—and even nudges me when cute guys pass by us, provided that Grandpa isn’t around with his constant disapproval of Amriki behavior. Go Grandma.

“Good job,” Mom says.

“He’s an excellent doctor,” Dad says.

“Why are you watching this show?” Grandpa asks, frowning. “What is this? That woman looks naked.”

“Her wickedness is covered,” Grandma says.

“Change the channel. Almira can’t see such things.”

I cross my arms, angry that Grandpa thinks I’m some little kid who can’t watch Dr. 90210. It isn’t pornographic at all. All the nasty body parts that Grandpa wants to shield me from are pixilated into blurriness. He’s such a censor nazi. When I was a kid, if Grandpa stayed over at our house, he’d never let me watch horror movies. He wouldn’t let me see The Sixth Sense or Poltergeist. He says infidels will corrupt my mind. He’s never let me have any fun.

“Almira will drive just as good as I do!” Grandpa thunders during the commercials.

Oh God, I don’t want to drive the way he does at all, but I smile anyway. I show my parents the picture of me behind the wheel and Dad grabs my phone to email the picture to himself, so that he can print it out for memories. I feel so proud of myself, so grown up.

Lisa calls and she wants to go to the mall. I say sure. I’m all hyped up after my successful driving lesson.

Maria is a junior, with her own car, so she drives us. She has a convertible, and we feel very sophisticated with the top down and the wind blowing through our hair. Maria doesn’t have much movement in her own hair, since it’s in a ponytail slicked back tightly with gel.

The only unpleasant thing that happens during the drive is when some gross truck drivers honk their horns and holler at us. We can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know it isn’t anything good. Maria extends her middle finger at them. Lisa and I look at each other and then do the same.

The rest of the time we’re checking out guys. Miami has great-looking guys. I haven’t traveled too extensively, but I feel that I might be in the best-looking city in the world, which means that I have to work hard to match the status quo. I pat my stomach. Yes, it’s still decreasing.

“He looks like a senior I know,” Maria says when a guy with very broad, muscular shoulders drives by us.

“That guy looks like Orlando Bloom!” Lisa yells in my ear.

We turn to look. Maria gets distracted and comes too close to the car in front of her. “Watch out!” I yell.

We get to the mall all in one piece. First we go into a beauty supply store and Lisa buys something called Fierce Pout that promises bee-stung lips. “I’m going to look like Angelina Jolie with this,” she says.

Maria and I roll our eyes. I purchase clear lip-gloss and Maria buys several lip liners and eyeliners. Sometimes Maria puts on a thick swipe of eyeliner as if she’s Amy Winehouse. Lisa loves makeup and wears it occasionally, while I only wear it sometimes. At least none of us looks scary, like the woman who keeps pressing us about a free makeover. She looks gruesome with frosted blonde hair, bubble gum pink lipstick, and purple eye shadow.

“I’ll make you look beautiful,” she says. “You won’t regret it.”

The three of us giggle and go next door to buy clothes. I pick out some shirts that better suit my slimmer physique. I wonder what will happen after Ramadan ends. Will I gain the five pounds that I’ve managed to lose? I’m thinking about exercising with Mom so that the weight won’t come back on. It seems like a horrible prospect, waking up early or staying up late to exercise, spending time with my hot mom who will make me do all sorts of impossible contortions to match her awesome body.

Lisa picks out a blue satin dress from a rack. “Do you think Peter will like me in this?” she asks.

I can feel the skin droop off of my face as I frown. I force myself to smile weakly, so that I won’t give away my true feelings. “I don’t think so,” I say. “The fabric is too shiny.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I pick an irresistible lavender dress for Parent Night and try it on. “You’re smokin’,” Maria says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“That dress is great for your coloring,” Lisa says.

There’s a mirror attached to the outside of the dressing area. My flip-flops are off and I’m walking around barefoot, twirling around. I look slender in the dress. Even my legs aren’t as canklelike as usual. I like what Ramadan is doing to my body. What a shallow sentiment, since it’s such a holy month, but I’m fifteen years old and I forgive myself for thinking this.

As I’m admiring myself, someone floats into my vision. Sultry eyes and lots of thick hair swim behind my reflection in the mirror.

“Shakira,” Lisa whispers to us.

We all turn around. It’s her. She’s wearing a pink sweater, short skirt, and matching pink ballet flats. Her pink Chanel handbag swings off her arm. We look at our own handbags, which are Coach, Nine West, and Gap. But why am I feeling inferior over a handbag? Handbags come in and out of style. Still, we dislike her for her beauty, her Chanel bag … and for her sharp tongue, which scorched me the other day.

“Hi Shakira,” Maria mutters.

“Hi,” Shakira says breezily. “Are you all shopping for Parent Night?”

“Yes, and for other things as well,” Lisa says.

“Are you going to wear that dress for Parent Night?” Shakira asks me.

“Yes,” I say.

“It doesn’t suit you at all,” she says.

“Why not?”

“The hem hits the top of your calves and the waistline is at your hips. It’s for someone much taller.”

She’s right. I hate it that she’s right.

“So, we’ll find one in a different size,” Lisa says.

“I don’t think they have one for her size.”

Ooh, cutting me down. She means that I’m fat, that the store doesn’t have a size seven for my height. “I’m sure they have the same style in my size,” I say, trying to maintain some dignity.

Maria narrows her eyes at Shakira. “Almira has a wonderful figure,” she says. “So I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t say she doesn’t,” Shakira says. “She looks normal for a high school girl.”

Now I’m a freak and I have to be mollified by the “normal” label. I know I’m short, therefore the slightest sign of chunkiness makes me gargantuan, but she doesn’t have to rub it in. I worry that my legs are short compared to my long torso or that my head is too large for my body. I look at Shakira’s long legs, perky boobs, sticklike arms, and model’s face. I hate her. There, I think it. I don’t even feel bad for thinking it.

Shakira shrugs her shoulders, not offended by our obvious ire, the hatred spewing from our eyes. Lisa presses one foot forward, as if she’s ready to leap at her.

“Yeah, right,” Maria says.

I raise my shoulders high, even though I really feel horrible by what she’s implying.

“I went to the Orlando store all the time and know what this chain has and doesn’t have,” Shakira says. She turns around and walks out of the store.

To prove her wrong, we look through the racks. Shakira is right. All of the lavender dresses are made for Amazon women. I can’t find one that hits above my knees. Lisa finds a deep-purple dress in a slightly different style, with a V-neck collar, and it’s the perfect length for me.

“Don’t listen to her,” Lisa says.

“What a nasty twit,” Maria growls.

My friends are trying to make me feel better, but they can’t. First Shakira said that Peter could never be my boyfriend, and now she thinks I’m short and fat. I shouldn’t care what she thinks about me, yet I do. I’m not going to let her have any power over me, I decide. She’s living in her own fantasy world of snobbery and shallowness, where she thinks she reigns supreme. She isn’t going to drag me into her pathetic fantasy. There are already rumblings at school, mainly from girls, that no one wants to be her friend and that she’s stuck-up.

After buying our Parent Night dresses, we go to the food court and of course I can’t have anything. Being in the food court is aggravating, because I normally sample everything. An ice-cream cone here, Thai food there, yellow rice, beans, a warm pretzel, lots of soda. My mouth waters, as much as it can considering that I’m dehydrated. Drool can’t collect in my mouth because my body is withering up the longer I’m without food and water.

“Do you want some?” Maria asks, waving an egg roll under my nose.

“I can’t,” I say. Egg rolls. Oh my God. So crispy looking. I can’t eat it anyway because it has pork in it and Muslims can’t eat pigs, but I sure wouldn’t mind a spring roll. And the fried rice looks so delectable, loose and steaming. Why do I have to starve myself like this?

“Are you sure?” Maria asks, a wicked grin on her face.

“Don’t tempt her,” Lisa says. “She’s trying to be good.”

“Sorry!”

I watch Lisa and Maria heartily eat Chinese food, which I love. Before Ramadan, Mom would order Chinese food and I would gorge myself on vegetable chow mein and beef fried rice, but now I have to wait until I break fast. Maria slurps on a smoothie and I want one so bad. I’m thirsty. My stomach growls. Going to the mall used to be pleasurable, but the reminders of food, and having my archenemy tell me that I don’t look good in clothes, really sucks.

There has to be some solace for sitting here not being able to eat with my friends. I know the solution: being even more alone in my thoughts by daydreaming. Robert Pattinson swims in front of my eyes. His face looms over me. He glitters in the sun. “Almira, my love,” he breathes.

“Yes, my love,” I say.

“Come away with me.”

“Whatever you say.”

I close my eyes. The sounds of screeching children and laughing teenagers vanish. All I see is Robert. All I know is Pattinson. He grabs my hand. We’re on the beach. He’s wearing these flowing, white pajama thingies that I see in newlywed photo shoots, and when I look down, I glimpse a white skirt swishing around my ankles. We’re married! That has to be it. The sun is rising and he puts his arms around me as we watch the sun part the clouds. I take the opportunity to run my hands through his wild hair, something I’ve always wanted to do.

“Cool,” I say.

I’m so caught up in my fantasy that even with my eyes open, my mind isn’t in the real world. There’s a bowl of complimentary noodles in front of me. They look so flaky and crispy. I see my fingers grab one. I really, truly am not thinking at all when I put it in my mouth. The same reflex that grabs candy off the desk at Dad’s dental office and reaches for chips at parties compels me to put that noodle in my mouth and start chewing.

Then it dawns on me. Duh, I’m not supposed to eat. I’m ruining my fast.

Maria and Lisa are busy checking out guys. They don’t notice my Ramadan faux pas until I stand up so fast that my chair falls back.

“What’s wrong?” Maria yells.

I rush to the closest bathroom and spit out the noodle. I spit some more to get the taste out of my mouth. None of it has reached my throat, but I can taste the fried goodness on my taste buds. I don’t even want to rinse out my mouth, lest any drop of water reach my stomach. I take a paper towel and wipe my tongue with it.

A blond toddler and her mother look at me and back away. Some girl I recognize from school stares at me and then also exits. A girl scurries behind me and shakes her head with distaste. Yeah, I’m a crazy lady all right. I grip the edges of the sink and take a good look at my reflection. My brow is sweaty and my eyes are glazed over.

I open my mouth wide to see if there are any crumbs left there. What have I done? I almost destroyed the rhythm of my fast. As much as I hate other things in my life, not keeping my word to fast for an entire month seems like the worst thing in the universe. I’d be a big, huge failure. I imagine the fat F in red ink my math teacher gave me years ago on a quiz. It was my first and last F, because I hate failing. I don’t want to fail Ramadan either. That would be, like, a big event, something God is surely watching for. I won’t repeat what happened during last Ramadan, when I cheated … and Dad’s mouth formed a thin line, Mom tried to console me, Grandma shook her head, and Grandpa roared about my lack of discipline. Now my whole family wants me to win at this thing. People change. I’ve changed.

“Almira, what’s wrong?” Lisa asks. Maria and Lisa open the bathroom door so hard that it bangs into the tiled wall behind it.

Maria grabs both of my shoulders and gazes deeply into my eyes. Neither of them knows. They didn’t see me put that dreadful noodle in my mouth.

“The smell of food was making me nauseous,” I say.

“We’re done anyway, so let’s go,” Lisa says.

Both girls are frowning and fussing over me. They take turns patting my arms and smoothing down my hair. I don’t like the attention, because it makes me feel guilty. But at least that noodle hadn’t gone down my throat. I feel like an anvil was about to fall on me, but it missed me by a few inches. Walking away from a near tragedy, I shiver from the cool air conditioning of the vast mall.