Part 1 

“You did what?!” I exclaim. 

“Shhh,” my husband responds as several heads turn their attention away from the highschool basketball game to glare at us. I ignore them and glare at my husband. “I repeat, you did what?!” I ask, keeping my voice down to a (somewhat) reasonable level. 

My husband shifts uneasily and imperceptibly away from me at my tone. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. Sarikah has been so secretive lately and—” 

“Not that big of a deal?! I hiss incredulously, fighting valiantly to keep both my temper and my voice down. Despite my anger at my husband, I really didn’t want to disrupt the basketball game. Especially since it was one of the last games of my daughter Sarikah’s junior year of highschool. 

Keeping my voice down as much as I can, I growl “You violated our daughter’s privacy, something you have always said was sacred and something you said you would always respect as long as she didn’t do something illegal or unhealthy. We both know she wouldn't do anything that could mean losing a spot on a college basketball team. So why did you break your own rules? Is it because after years of spending all her free time with you, she’s finally spending more time with people her own age? Teenagers, Aleban. You’re jealous of a group of teenagers.” 

My husband’s face flushed and I knew I was right. He invaded our daughter’s privacy because of jealousy. . “Humayra, there’s something else. If you could just look at what I found—” Aleban withdraws a thin sheaf of papers from his coat. At the angle he’s holding them, I catch glimpses of what the top page says. One phrase in large, bold, letters at the top of page jumps out to me; Property of Sarikah. Suddenly I’m not able to control my anger. Aleban didn’t just invade our daughter’s room, he also stole an extremely official looking document that belongs to our daughter from it. The tiny, reasonable, non-angry part at the very back of my brain reasons that there’s a reason why Aleban took the pages. That part of my brain isn’t in charge right now though. The very angry, hypocrite hating part of my brain is and it is going to explode.    

“You. Did. Whaaat???!!!” I yell. Suddenly the gymnasium gets stone silent and everyone, even the competing basketball teams, stop mid-game and turn to me. I can’t see everyone’s expression, but those I can look ready to kill me. My face heats, but I’m still angry enough at my husband that I don’t apologize or make any other conciliatory move. That is, until I see my daughter, the ball in her hands, crouching as she’s just about to shoot. Shame floods my body. Instead of paying attention to one of the last games of my daughter’s most important year of school, I’m arguing with my husband, which is something I can do at home. 

“Humayra…” My husband whispers beside me. Even though me and Aleban are fighting and I am furious at him, the connection we’ve always had since we started dating is still strong. I know exactly what he’s thinking without even having to ask and his thoughts mirror mine: we should not be having a fight during one of Sarikah’s last games of her junior year season. I sigh and reluctantly stand up to give my apology to the gym at large. Being a responsible adult sucks sometimes.

Despite my simmering anger, I calm down enough to yell an apology to the  still-staring crowd in as friendly a tone as I can manage. Apparently it’s believable enough, because the basketball players resume their game and everybody turns away from me and Aleban. As the game starts up once more, I see our daughter glance at us one more time before she joins her teammates. I can almost see the wrinkles of worry on her forehead and I wince, feeling guilty. It was stupid of Aleban to bring up… well, whatever he wanted to bring up, that would negate the fact that he invaded his daughter’s privacy at his own daughter’s basketball game. I should’ve controlled my temper better, told him to shut up, that we would talk more at home as soon as he admitted to doing something wrong. Almost like he read my mind, I feel my husband’s hand on my back. I stiffen and the weight of his hand disappears. I don’t want to be comforted by my husband right now. He did something he shouldn’t have and I plan on wringing his neck for it (at home, of course). 

“Let’s just watch Sarikah’s game.” I say, my eyes staring intently at the game below. “You can tell me exactly what you thought you were doing, violating your own rules and your daughter’s privacy at home, where I can murder you easily. In my peripheral view, I see Aleban wince slightly.

 “I guess I deserve that,” he mutters. I snort. My husband definitely deserves whatever I throw at him.

The rest of the game passes, in not angry, but not peaceful silence as Sarikah’s team scores basket after basket. I’m proud to say that the hoop in our driveway and the endless hours spent as a family playing basketball paid off: Sarikah shoots and scores almost half of her team’s baskets. 

After the game, Aleban and I wait until almost everyone has gone, even though my husband is itching to get out of the gym, to get back to our argument and show me the sheaf of papers he stole from our daughter’s room. I am itching to do the same, to yell at my husband in the safety of our (soundproofed) bedroom, to make him see that nothing, nothing could make up for the fact that he invaded Sarikah’s privacy for no reason. He promised never to do it, so he never should’ve. But even though I want to get back to arguing, as much as he does, I know that if we try to get out of here right, we will be here for another hour as acquaintances catch us unawares and force us to talk to them. Plus my husband has a terrible sense of direction. He knows the names of everybody in our neighborhood, but he can never remember where their house is. Chances are that if we go with that crowd, I will lose Aleban in the crush. And after what happened during the game today, I am in no mood to look for him or talk with people I barely know (or care about). So when Aleban starts to rise from his seat like everybody else, I pull him down and make him wait. By the time the crowd has thinned enough that we could leave, the only people left in the gym are the grandparents and their exasperated familial caretakers. Well the grandparents, their caretakers and a trio of middle-aged females cluster around the gym double doors. A trio I secretly call The Evils of Society. When the crowd of people was first leaving the gym, the Evils weren’t stationed by the door, but at some point as the crowd dwindled and the smartest (but also the ones who always have some juicy secrets) got up and started leaving, the Evils put themselves in the direct path of the door. Whenever someone tries to leave the gym, they are sidelined by the leader of the Evils (the most evil of them all) Mrs Piddlebe and forced into conversation for several minutes. Anyone else who tries to leave, as Mrs. Piddlebe is engaged, is blocked by her minions; Crony 1 and Crony 2. In my mind, I can almost hear Mrs Piddlebe’s screechy voice and see her white teeth flash in a resemblance of a smile as she throws insults sharp as knives at me. I defend myself as best as I can, but every fighter eventually gets tired and sloppy and then her remarks land, digging into me like little daggers, blood seeping out. I don’t like people defending me when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, but if I ever need him, Aleban is always there at my side during these times. Sometimes he does step in, when I can’t breath and blood is pouring from the wounds of every one of Mrs. Piddlebe’s little knives, his voice angry and stern with the tiniest hint of fear beneath it. Aleban hates being rude to people; his parents spent years ingraining that in him. But he loves me and dislikes Mrs. Piddlebe more than he hates being rude. Even with my husband though, I still hate interactions with Mrs. Piddlebe, no matter how much my husband or I stand up to her, her words always seem to wound me. And today, I gave Mrs. Piddlebe that much more incentive and weakness for her to taunt me with. 

“Humayra,” my husband says and I realize I am growling, my nails digging into my palms, my teeth clenching so hard my jaw hurts. 

“Humayra,” Aleban says again as he places a hand on my back. I relax slightly into his touch, some of my tension leaving me. Even though we were arguing, it felt nice to always have someone at my back (this time literally). “It’s okay. If you don’t want to interact with that…'' he hesitates, almost looking guilty (my parents-in-law also taught Aleban to never curse)  “that biscuit. I know another way outside the gym.” 

 I raise an eyebrow doubtfully at my husband.

 “How did you find a shortcut when you’ve been to half the games that I have? If there was a shortcut in here, I would’ve found it before you.” 

“Not unless Sarikah showed it to me because she knew I wouldn’t tattle on her for being a stickler for the rules.” Aleban replies. 

“I am not—” 

“Hamooyra,” Mrs. Piddlebe’s screechy voice interrupts us mid conversation, and I turn to find her heading towards with a perturbed expression on her face. I fight the urge to flee as she comes ever closer. “Okay. Yeah, we can take the shortcut. Lead on.” I say, hurriedly shoving my husband into motion when it feels like he’s not moving fast enough. In response, Aleban grabs my hand and power walks (and I mean power walks) towards the staff locker room entrance. I open my mouth to comment on the fact that we are heading into a restricted area, but keep my thoughts to myself at the memory of my own husband calling me a rule follower (which I am not. I just often agree with the sentiments of those who make the rules). Behind us Mrs. Piddlebe screeches something, but her words are lost as we reach the staff door and Aleban pulls out a keycard, opening it as soon as the scanner turns green. I enter first, Aleban right behind me as the heavy door falls closed behind us.