Read Online That Other Me by Maha Gargash - Free Book Online

Despite the murmur of traffic, the bursts of car honks and bicycle tinkles, and the sounds of shuffling people—talking, shouting, hawking—I say, “It’s so quiet.” I’ve never seen the juice shop so empty. Adel agrees, with a weary groan that makes my voice sound too cheerful. He seems to be waiting for something to happen. I follow his gaze to the beggar girls and consider whether I am boring him. Huddled on their heels in a semicircle at the side of the shop, they seem engrossed in a game that involves pebbles and dirt. But they’re quick to look up whenever a car stops, to calculate whether there’s an opportunity waiting.
    The fakhfakhinas arrive in long, narrow glasses, each with a straw and fork. They brim with chunks of banana and strawberry packedwith other fruits in an exotic slush. For a while, there is only the clink of metal on glass. When I look over at Adel, I notice he is taking his time. With a deliberate twirl of the wrist, he forks a cube of pineapple and closes his mouth around it. He does not chew, just waits for it to melt on his tongue.
    I hear an Egyptian song I do not recognize as a gray Honda edges in front of us; the girls in the car are Khaleejias, their shaylas wrapped loosely around their heads. Adel reverses to give them space and continues to back up, making way for a second girl group arriving in yet another car. He stops at the far edge of Farghaly, and a third car, a black Nissan, lunges into the gap between the girls’ cars, braking with an abrupt screech.
    The girls scream, and Adel lets out a wicked laugh at their panic. I giggle, too, at the boys’ bungled attempt to attract the girls. The Nissan blasts the brazen lyrics of a song that demands, “Come to me, come to me, before I lose interest.”
    â€œThose boys must be Kuwaitis,” I say.
    â€œWhy would you say that?”
    â€œBecause Kuwaitis are always foolhardy and impatient.”
    â€œOh, really?” Adel looks at me, amused. “Why couldn’t they be Bahrainis?”
    â€œToo polite,” I say, adding quickly, “anyway, that’s what I hear from some of the girls at the sakan.”
    â€œWhy not Qataris?”
    â€œI don’t think so. They tell me that the Qataris are too sweet, too accommodating. They would never be so offensive.”
    â€œKuwaitis, huh?” He is more interested in this bit of information than any of the dental lessons I’ve given him. He looks away with a crooked grin. “How do you know so much?”
    â€œI don’t really know anything for sure. Like I told you, it’s what I hear.” I utter the lie with a straight face. I could add that Emirati boys conduct the flirting game with frightening seriousness, and that Saudis may lead it to the point of obsession. But I hold my tongue. I don’t want him to know that I often join the sakan girls (and even Dalal) for a bit more than juice at Farghaly. Our flirtations have all been innocent, of course. But Adel might not understand that. If I tell him, he might lose respect for me.
    â€œKuwaitis!” Adel straightens up and rests his chin on the steering wheel. His curiosity is piqued. “Look at them, thinking they can bulldoze their way into the girls’ hearts.”
    We are sufficiently close to watch every detail of the unraveling scene, yet far enough away not to attract attention. Comfortable in this spot, I watch the girls in both cars shout at the boys, accusing them of reckless driving and uncouth manners. The boys respond with nonchalant sarcasm. It is clear they are taking the taunts in their stride, turning their heads coolly to the right and left, from one car to the other, while every now and then alarming the girls by stepping on the gas to produce a sudden vroom . The girls screech. The waiters scuttle from car to car, trying to restore calm with sweet words, in stark contrast to the biting threats they direct at the circling