Page 1 of A Discovery: Love and Other Things

Prologue

Chapter 1

“Don’t you think you should bring more clothes? You’re going to be gone for two months!”

Mom’s freakishly short arm was elbow-deep in a jumbo bag of “Feel the Heat” kettle-cooked barbecue chips while she leaned against my headboard.

“You know I don’t like to check in luggage,” I said, tossing myLearn Arabic in 30 Dayshandbook into my carry-on roller. They should really have called itLearn Arabic or Go Blind Tryingbecause anyone who valued their sense of sight the least bit deserved a warning about the damaging effects of reading five hundred and forty-two pages printed in seven-point font.

Checking in luggage was always a hassle. The lines for the drop-off counters were especially excruciating when summer travelers flocked to the airports in droves in their shorts and flip flops. International travel was already a lengthy process, and the last thing that I wanted to do after nearly a day of traveling was stand at the luggage carousel and try to distinguish my suitcase from the sea of identical bags on display.

No. If I was flying all the way to Egypt, I didn’t want to waste a single minute that could be better spent exploring my new surroundings.

“Still, you’re going to be in the desert all day for eight weeks, sweating in the hot sun. You’re surely going to need more than a couple of pairs of pajamas to change into at the end of the day, Kitty. Do they even have a washing machine at the hotel?”

Mom’s chomping was growing louder by the minute with all the talking and open-mouthed chewing she was doing on my bed. She’d better pray I didn’t find red seasoning dust on my sheets, or I’d be bunking with her tonight, and I knew how she hated my habit of watching Turkish dramas—subtitles on but the volume extra loud—late into the night on my iPad. Myoohsandaahscomplemented by tearful sniffles weren’t exactly soothing to a bedmate at two in the morning.

“It’s not ahotel,” I corrected. “It’s ahostel. And I’m sure I’ll be okay. People go backpacking for like six months in Europe with two sets of clothes all the time.”

I was certain that my five outfits, complete with breathable linen shirts, jeans, and flowy skirts, and two pairs of pajamas were quite enough for the trip. As far as underwear, I’d opted for my most comfortable, made of cotton. The desert sun was said to be unforgiving, and I didn’t need to worry about getting a heat rash under my boobs, or God forbid, on mycooch.

“What if you go out somewhere nice like for dinner or something?” Mom countered as she stared into the chip bag. She had evidently blazed through the contents already and now resorted to tipping the bag into her open mouth to catch the crumbs.

“You better not get any crumbs on my bed,” I scolded, imagining being poked by a million razor-sharp, well-seasoned potato shards. “And I’m going on a dig, not to party it up with Egypt’s finest.” In about forty-eight hours, my life would be devoted to the whims of Dr. Campbell, PhD, and his excavation team.

Mom abandoned the empty bag of chips and readjusted herself into a cross-legged position before dusting her hands off on her chinos with no regard for my warning or her clothes. For such a cute woman, she really operated more like a frat boy.

“I just want you to find time to enjoy yourself, too. You’re flying all the way to your father’s home country for the first time. This visit is more than just an internship. It’s a chance to reconnect with your heritage.” Her clear blue eyes shined glassy behind a film of wetness that threatened to puncture my chest.

I couldn’t lie. When I had seen the announcement for the internship open to third-years in the Stanford Archaeology newsletter in my email, my heart had throbbed in my chest. It was an ache for something that I had never had before—a connection to my father’s heritage.

I didn’t remember much of Mohammed Taha, lovingly known to me asBaba. He’d passed away when I was only four years old. According to Mom, he had migrated from Egypt to California to study computer programming in college and had ended up meeting another aspiring programmer named Wendy, my mother, and falling in love. They had married after completing their bachelor’s degrees and soon discovered they were expecting me.

Mom said that he’d been the one to pick my birth name, Sanura, which meant “kitten.” I’d ended up going by Kitty early on because it was easier for Americans to pronounce.

I’d been nearly three years old when Baba had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. His health had declined rapidly soon after his diagnosis. Unfortunately for him, his own parents had passed away years prior, leaving him and his younger brother, Yusuf, to be raised by family. Yusuf had planned to visit us while my father was sick, but according to Mom, Baba hadn’t wanted anyone to see him sick. The hair loss and constant nausea from chemotherapy and radiation and tumultuous seizures had been too much for Baba’s pride to handle his baby brother seeing. Then, shortly after my fourth birthday, Baba had woken up one night vomiting uncontrollably, and Mom had rushed him to the ER. He’d never come back home.

Flash forward to now, I was a twenty-one-year-old half Egyptian, half American who had just learned enough Arabic per my degree requirement to carry on a conversation. At first glance, I looked Middle Eastern with my olive skin, large almond-shaped eyes, and long, thick, curly dark hair that reached just above my ass. And speaking of ass, that was definitely not something I’d gotten from my mom’s delicate-featured side. My entire frame was thin with barely anything in the boob department, but my ass was round enough to warrant wearing one size larger than expected by the rest of my measurements.

My eyes were even dark brown like Baba’s had been. Back in elementary school, I had always wished I could have pretty blue eyes and blonde hair like Mom so I could fit in better with the Ambers and Laurens, but that just wasn’t in the A-T-C-G DNA base pair configuration that had been dealt to me.

Because of my looks, people expected me to speak Arabic fluently—especially other Middle Easterners I had met on the university campus—but if learning a foreign language hadn’t been one of the requirements of my bachelor’s, I probably would have struggled just to say “hello.”

It wasn’t my fault, though. I wanted to learn as much as I could about my culture, I just didn’t have the tools to do so. And Mom tried to encourage my learning, but she was just as limited as I was in her knowledge. She didn’t have any contact with Baba’s family, and his brother Yusuf had never reached out again after Baba’s death. So, when it had come time to choose what I wanted to study in college, Egyptology had been my first choice. It was a chance to learn the history of my people through the remains in the sand. To start from the beginning—the birth of their civilization.

“Just promise me you’ll make some time to connect to your roots. This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip, and I want you to make the most out of it.” Mom dabbed at her eyes, the guilt of not doing more to educate me about my history clearly eating at her.

But it wasn’t her fault.

I lifted my palm in the air and placed my other hand over my heart, ready to dry her tears. “I swear to party like an Egyptian rock star in an effort to make this the most memorable trip of the century,” I said solemnly, then bit my lip to contain the giggle threatening to break through.

A pillow immediately flew past my head. “That’s not what I meant, smart ass!”

“So, is that anoto smoking hashish while I’m there?” I jabbed.

She flashed me her famousdon’t-press-your-lucklook. “Sanura Taha, if I have to bail you out of an Egyptian jail, I’m never going to let you step foot out of this house again.”

I rolled my eyes. “Boring!”

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