At the fundraiser that evening, Arshad is Superkid in his royal-blue kurta pajama and his crocheted white prayer cap. He’s miraculously at hand whenever someone is needed—to carry messages between organizers, to track down particular members of the community, to guard the video camera during the videographer’s breaks. Now he directs attendees to the spaces for various events, now he hands out pens and ink and paper for the calligraphy competition, now he works the slides on the laptop during Imam Zia’s speech about the future of the center. He’s a whirlwind in blue, streaking through the swelling throng, the men in suits and salwars and jeans and caftans, the women churidared and jilbabed and abayaed and hijabed, the young boys and girls dressed to their parents’ tastes in bright and shiny traditional outfits of every gaudy hue.

He has time for little else the first half of the evening—no time to hang out with his friends, to be dejected about not winning a prize for his recitation, to keep an eye on his sister. Thankfully, Amina is under Najiba Aunty’s care, playing with her friend Taghrid.

After the isha namaz there’s only one event left: the Quran Jeopardy! Originally his father was supposed to conduct it. Arshad had helped him put the quiz together, and he’s excited. But Ismail has since assumed post outside to supervise the activities in the lot, and the role of quizmaster has fallen to Imam Zia. Three contestants have been selected: the father of Arshad’s friend Jemaal, a senior from his school, and his mother’s business partner, Khadija Aunty.

Imam Zia, elegant in his navy blue robe (blue like his!) begins with a disclaimer in his rueful British accent: “Pardon me if I botch this, I’m not too familiar with this American format of answering with a question. And as I didn’t prepare this quiz, I may not even know all the answers myself. But, ah, Brother Arshad, over there, definitely does. A round of applause for him, please, he helped create this quiz.”

The audience claps, turning to look at him, and he’s thrilled at being singled out for praise, and for being addressed as “Brother.” It almost makes up for his failure at the recitation competition and for missing all the fun earlier.

But what could be more fun than the contest that unfolds? His father could never have been as entertaining as Imam Zia, who is funny and can quote from the Quran and narrate incidents from the Hadith to support the answers. He teases the participants good-naturedly, especially the two males, when they get an easy question wrong.

Once he tsk-tsks when nobody gets the question right, and he points to Arshad and says, “Why, even a twelve-year-old knows this!”

Arshad is called to shout out the answer: “What is iqra?” He adds, “And I’m eleven.”