Page 44 of You Started It

“This is such…do you even hear yourself? How hypocritical…I mean, I can’t even with you. I only got together with Axel because, well, because I was single. You put the wheels in motion for that to happen. You started it.”

“Real mature, Jamie. Sorry for thinking we could possibly be friends.”

“That’s just it. We never really were friends. I had just conflated our romantic relationship with a friendship. Ergo, I don’t think there’s a way we can be friends now, since the foundation was never there.”

“Why does everything have to be all or nothing with you?” he asks, his voice rising slightly.

“Because, Ben, it does.”

Ben studies my face. Perhaps he’s hopeful I’ll falter at his puppy dog eyes, but they don’t seem to affect me as much as they used to.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” He reaches for the door handle.

“Wait,” I say. He turns back to look at me, a glimmer of hope forming in his eyes. “I don’t think I should tutor you anymore. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Whatever you say.” His shoulders slump before he exits my car.

I reverse out of Ben’s driveway and make the short trek to Axel’s. After parking, I grab the contract, stuffing it into my backpocket. I basically run to his front door and knock aggressively, a rush of energy coursing through my body.

A man with a beard, sprinkled with gray and trimmed to perfection, answers. “Hello,” he says, his Arab accent thick like molasses.

“Hi.” I try to catch my breath. “Is Axel here?”

“No. But Alexander is.”

“Right.” I laugh but his father doesn’t reciprocate. Time to lay on the charm. “I think Axel is a ridiculous nickname too. Especially since he has such a strong, classic name.”

Despite the thick beard, a miniscule smile becomes visible. I reach out my hand. “I’m Jamie Taher-Foster.”

“Taher,” he repeats as he shakes my hand. “Arabi?”

“Yes.”

“Hal tatahadath alearabia?” he asks.

“No. But I understand it a little.”A littlemight be an extreme inflation of the truth.

“Come in,” he says, waving me in from outside. “Do you want to learn?”

“I’ve always wanted to but no one in my house speaks it. Sometimes my uncle does, but mostly just when he’s angry.” And those aren’t words I can repeat to my fake boyfriend’s father.

Mr. Dahini chuckles. “Your mother, she’s an Arab?”

“Yes. Her parents are Palestinian.”

“Christian or Muslim?”

I don’t know why Arabs always ask me this.

“Greek Orthodox, but we’re not very religious.”

I feel like I’m being interrogated and failing, badly. From what I’ve seen and heard of Axel’s parents, their culture is extremely important to them and so is religion—in his foyer alone there are three crucifixes. I can’t imagine what his father is thinking right now, speaking to this half-Arab girl who can’t even answer simple questions without stumbling.

“Ah. You either are religious or you’re an atheist. No middle.”

“Baba.” Axel comes down the stairs, shirtless, to find me and his father discussing faith and religion. Totally normal conversation for someone you’ve only just met.

“Alexander,” his father says, his voice low. “Is this your girlfriend?”

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