Again, I would be in a church-like atmosphere because of a marriage, and I assumed it would be more of the same: hushed voices, hand clamped over my knee so I didn’t get any ideas to rush up and down the aisle out of turn.

I was wrong. Sunday school at the masjid meant being back up in the women’s section, which jutted like an unhinged upper jaw over the lower men’s chamber. It was packed with girls, separated by age and presided over by weary teachers who hardly looked old enough to drive, much less come up with reasonable lesson plans.

My mom, gushing and glowing, soaked up all the congratulations by several giddy moms. I got introduced to them, but their names passed over me like the hems of their gauzy scarves. And of course, once she had done her part of maneuvering me over the crossed legs and outstretched hands on the floor, she disappeared.

Great.

I got sandwiched between two girls, Sabrena and Hala. They were obviously sisters, or else the type of best friends whose devotion could be reflected in how their jaws, noses, and even slight bands of sun-freckles seemed to mirror each other. I only knew their names because they kept popping them into conversation, like I would forget if I didn’t hear them pointedly every few minutes. It was obviously a setup from the get go.

My stomach grumbled. I could have used a breakfast burrito, or maybe just skipped over the rational pattern of meals in the days and gone to town on a burger and fries. Brother Khalid had been infiltrating my kitchen a lot recently, scorching pans in his determination to make us the perfect couscous and chicken peppered with bitter pickled lemon or an elaborate cooked salad that would, in his words, “take us right to Casablanca.”

It was hard to remind myself that this would be over soon when Yulia was still looking at him with those wide moon eyes and . . . well, I was here. Next to Sabrena and Hala, who were as subtle about their mission to “make me feel welcome” as if they were acting out a comedy routine on Open Mic Night.

“And then there’s . . . oh, but Hala could tell you more about that, right, Hala?”

“Sabrena really likes our weekend camps. You should join us sometime.”

Not if I could ever help it.

The only really interesting thing happened around lunch, when I was being dragged downstairs to the kitchen in the basement. A familiar name rang out.

“Brother Rehan!”

I looked up. Sabrena was waving giddily. Hala rolled her eyes.

“Since when did you give your own cousin that much respect?”

Sabrena rolled her eyes right back. “Since I realized it totally annoyed him. And so does what he’s wearing, by the way.”