Confessions of a Muslim Girl

Chapter 15 - That One Crazy Night

            “Hey, Mom, I can wear this, right?” I ask when my mother comes into the room.

            She surveys the article of clothing in my hand. “Noha, that is much too revealing. I cannot let you wear that without a cardigan or jacket of some sort on top.”

            Irritation flows into my blood as I sense the attitude beginning to appear in my tone. “Mom! You told me I could wear it! I can’t believe you’re changing your mind about it now. That is so unfair!” I shout.

            My mother’s eyes flash with anger. “Noha Ali, I by no means told you that you could wear that without something on top. I assumed that it was understood that the sleeves on the dress are much too short.”

            Tense seconds tick by and finally, with gritted teeth, I say, “Fine.” My mother leaves and as she steps out, anger bubbles in me, unable to be contained for long. I raise my middle finger and flick off the door that my mother has just exited from.

            Shame consumes me as I think back at this part of the story. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe that I had the audacity to do that to my mother. In the Quran, it says that disobeying and disrespecting one’s parents is the equivalent of committing a murder. How many murders did I commit that one night alone?

            As I stand there looking at the dress that is practically sleeveless, I formulate a plan. I grab a random jacket to cover up over the dress. For the next half an hour, I fake my way through looking like I’m fine. It’s not until my dad drops me off at my middle school that I drop the façade. I hurry over to the bathroom. It’s mostly empty, and I am glad.

            I look at myself in the mirror. I reach into my bag and take out some eyeliner and mascara. In a matter of minutes my fresh-faced innocence that I detested so much is transformed into sultry sexiness. Next, I take a deep breath, and then remove the jacket that I have worn on top. My tan arms look nice as my skin’s glossiness shines in the dim lights of the poorly-lit bathroom. I take off my shoes and then reach underneath my dress and take off my leggings. I bite my lip and look down at the clutch I have brought. Folding my leggings gently, I stuff them into my bag. I look into the mirror with satisfaction.

            I look hot. The ruffle on the sleeveless dress barely covers my arms. The neckline cuts above my bust. The knee-length dress shows off my well-defined calf muscles obtained from hours of running track.

I hear the pounding music begin to sound from the dance hall. After looking at myself one last time, I walk out of the bathroom feeling like someone I am not, someone who I could only dream of being.

            Thinking back, I walk over to my window seat, shivering slightly at the cold being radiated from the glass. As I sink into the seat, I wrap my arms around my knees. Just four years ago, I exposed my body for the world to see. I still had my limits, thank God, but what would have happened if I had not stopped there with that one night? I don’t know.

            Once I’m on the dance floor, I look around with excitement. Farah isn’t here, she had to go to her cousin’s graduation in Maine. Maysa goes to another middle school, and we aren’t allowed to bring people from other schools to our dance. I am glad, because I’m sick and tired of Maysa and Farah being all good and religious and not taking a chance to just shut up and LIVE. Live like how I want to live, on the edge.