They decided to cover their books—controversial or not—just in case. It became a Beauty Salon ritual. They only used paper from a Japanese shop on Stephen Avenue, cutting it to fit the book jacket. They’d stencil the same two letters on the spine with their calligraphy set. B.S.

“That’s what you call a perfect cover,” Ashif said, holding up their first book.

“Maybe we should use B.B. instead? Burqa Books,” she said, and they laughed even though Ismaili women didn’t wear burqas. They’d read about a concept called taqiyya, which Ismailis used to practise along with other Muslim communities who were persecuted for their differing interpretations of Islam. They would dissimulate, pretend to be anything but Ismaili in an effort to protect themselves. “But that’s a kind of burqa, isn’t it? Because you have to hide who you really are,” she said and he agreed. She was so smart.

Into each book jacket they tucked their favourite poem, “Speak” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz. A poetic “fuck you” to potential censors, especially their parents.

At one salon, without warning, Shafina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He kept his eyes open, his heart thumping with terror and excitement.

“Is it your first time?” she asked when they came up for air.

“Yeah,” Ashif said, embarrassed.

“You’re a natural,” she said and pulled him back in.

After that day, their Beauty Salons turned into make-out salons. That’s all they wanted to do. Kiss and touch each other. They hid themselves in the library stairwell or behind the study room door until eventually they found a solution. They papered the glass wall and on it, they drew a few lines and some dots, a guise for an art project.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Sims asked, pointing to the wall when she walked in on them without knocking.

They scrambled to sit up, pulling down their T-shirts.

“It’s against library rules,” Mrs. Sims said. “You need to take it down.”

“But we’re mapping the world,” Shafina said. “See those lines…”

“Yes,” she said.

“They’re outlines of the continents. And those dots—they’re all the cities we want to visit.”

“Doesn’t look much like a map to me,” she said.

Ashif piped in. “That’s because it’s impressionistic. You know, like Van Gogh. A map of the world like a constellation of stars.”

Mrs. Sims examined the wall again. “Oh, yes! How very lovely. Good work, you two.”

When she left, they burst out laughing. “We’re a good team,” she said and he pulled her in for another make-out session.

Each evening and on weekends, they spoke on the phone for endless hours. Sometimes they were on the phone all night, falling in and out of sleep between their conversations. Other times, they’d say nothing, just listen to each other breathe. That’s when he knew he loved her. He felt with her what he’d never felt with anyone else. That he was at home. He could relax and be himself. When he finally found the courage to tell her, she said she loved him, too. “Forever and ever, chéri.”