“Excellent, man. Thank you.” Al-Karim pointed to the bleachers. “There’s your girl.”

Ashif turned to see a girl sitting at the top with a massive book splayed open on her lap. She had thick glasses and a navy-coloured beret over a mass of curly hair. She wore a tartan skirt, fishnet stockings, and army boots. “Her?” he asked incredulously.

“Sorry, man. She’s a bit of a freak, I know.” Al-Karim laughed. “Hard to believe she’s related to Arzeen, right?”

“I don’t know, Al-Karim…” he said, trying to back out of their deal. If he hangs out with a girl like her, everyone will think he’s a weirdo, too. He doesn’t want to stand out, be called names as he was when he was younger. He was often teased for being too small by other kids. And at school, for being brown, too. The first time it happened, he didn’t even know what it meant. He was six and a new friend told him he wasn’t allowed to play with them anymore because he was a Paki. Ashif thought it was in reference to his lunches, which his mother always over-packed. But when he told his mother, she explained the real meaning and told him it didn’t matter. That boy wouldn’t have been a good friend, anyway. Ashif asked her not to pack his lunches with Indian food anymore and she agreed.

“Next time I’ll set you up with someone beautiful, okay? You just need a little more muscle, man.” Al-Karim squeezed his biceps. “That’s what all the babes want.”

“But what am I going to talk to her about?” Ashif asked.

Al-Karim picked up a flier from the registration desk and handed it to him. “Start with this.” The title read, TOP 10 CAREER CHOICES OF 1986. SPONSORED BY THE ISMAILI ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT COMMITTEE. “About time the two of you started thinking about your future, don’t you think?” he said with a laugh.

Ashif plodded up the bleachers to Shafina and handed her the flyer.

She glanced up from her book. “For me?” Under her thick glasses, her eyes were large and bulbous.

“Yup.” He plopped himself next to her.

“Are you with the Ismaili Students’ Association or something?”

“Nope. A friend asked me to hand them out.” He planted his elbows on his knees and cupped his face.

She scanned the form and handed it back. “Thanks, but I’m not interested in propaganda.”

“Propaganda?” he said, sitting up. “This isn’t propaganda.” He nervously scanned the gym. Everyone could see them up here.

“It is when it only gives you one side of the story. Besides, I don’t need a workshop,” she said using air quotes for the word workshop, “to tell me what to do. Please, people. I already know what I want to do.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised by her confidence.

“Yup. Liberal Arts.” She licked a finger and turned to the next page in her book. “Well, for my first degree, anyway.”

The word arts felt foreign to him, reserved for rich white kids, like skiing and cottage vacations. “But what can you do with an arts degree?”