The Perfect Girl

1

"They don't see the world she sees, Criticised for how she breathes,"

My mother and father were an obvious example of opposites attract.

They had come from directly opposed backgrounds, from families that would probably have never met or interacted if it hadn't been for their union.

There were very few things they had in common. One was their religion, both being Muslim and proud of it. They held the same morals, as well, holding up honesty and integrity and kindness above all else. Then, they were both attractive.

My mother was beautiful. She was a slim, dark-skinned woman with big eyes of brown, deep and soft. She had the kind of smile that might be on posters at the dentist's office, wide and straight.

My father was lighter-skinned, a broad-shouldered, strong man, with a sweet, dimpled smile.

The exact story of how they had met was unclear, since, despite both my brothers' and my own best efforts, my parents refused to reveal it. All really we knew was that they had met at university, through a combination of the MSA and some mutual friends. Mostly, when we asked, they told teasing stories about one another, rather than giving a straight answer. I had even attempted at asking my grandparents, once, about the truth, but I had only gotten joking in return.

Anyway, somehow or the other they had gotten married, and it must have been a good decision, because they had been together for 30 years.

A few years into the marriage, my eldest brother, Shuayb, was born. He was a full 7 years older than me, a fact that he never failed to remind me of. Then, two years later, my other brother, Amar.

For five years, my family had been made of only four members. A perfect square, an even number. My brothers fought, then made up, then fought, then made up enough times to drive my parents mad.

So of course, my parents wanted a daughter. Who wouldn't, after having to deal with two rather violent boys for so long?

And then I appeared. The one who broke the perfect four, but still, the first girl, the answer to my parents' duas.

As a child, my parents were concerned about how I never talked. This didn't last very long.

By age 4, I was chatterbox, a walking-talking radio. I had a tendency to splurt my emotions out, to update everyone on every, single, excruciating detail of my life. Still, my parents loved me, this I did not doubt. They loved this bubbly girl who was always happy, always confident.

I knew my role in the family, if only subconsciously. I was the one who was simple , the one who didn't need figuring out, the one who's greatest struggle in life was studying.

This, my greatest struggle, was what I was doing at that very moment.

I was crouched over my desk, taking notes.

I had long ago realized that this was how I memorized, that taking notes was the most effective way to get things into my head.

I had been working for about an hour when my door burst open.

"Whatcha doing, Hiba?"

I turned around to find Amar standing there.

"Studying," I replied, turning back, "Close the door."

He walked away without closing the door. I muttered an angry exclamation under my breath, then got up looked out.

"If you come into my room, close my door!" I called out in frustration.

"Nope!" Amar called back.

I let out a string of gibberish, then closed my door. I tried to get back to work, but my concentration had been broken now.

I never liked taking short breaks when I worked. I would go for a straight five hours, then stop for an hour, and then come back, not take five-minute breaks in between. I either obsessed over my work or didn't do anything at all.

I sighed, went down the stairs.

My mother was sitting on the couch, phone in her hand, going through her email. My father was nowhere to be seen, probably at my grandparents' house or working in his small study located down the hallway. I knew Shuayb was in his room, the way he always was.

Amar was undoubtedly the one who was most likely to be found in the family room sitting by my mum, head in her lap or video game controller in his hands. I was also often here, but I spent a lot of time in my basement, sewing together bits of fabric to make something new or painting a sunset.

When I came in, my mother looked up, smiled at me.

"As salaamu alaikum, Mama," I said, grinning back.

I did not have a set title for my mother. I called her Ami sometimes, or Mum, or Mama.

"Wa alaikum us salaam."

"What's there for food?" I asked, rather abruptly.

I hadn't consumed anything the whole day, except a cup of tea a few hours ago, and I was starving.

"Go see what's in the fridge." she shrugged.

This comment made me anxious. What that really meant was that I would have to cook myself something, because my mother almost definitely hadn't.

I knew she would later today, or tomorrow, or my father would, or someone in the house would, but I could not wait for that. So I went into the kitchen, and, too lazy to attempt at anything else, I toasted myself some bread and sat down while I waited for it to get done.

I pulled out earphones from my pocket, found an audiobook, and put it on, like I always did.