“Everyone out!” she yelled as she barged in the door with her cousin in tow, but there was only one girl standing in the tiny bathroom, applying lipstick in the mirror in front of the two stalls.

“Bitch,” the girl muttered, moving away and leaving.

“Just get out!” Hanan moved a trash can in front of the bathroom door. She turned around just in time to see her cousin kneeling before the toilet.

And then of course Hanan knew, and couldn’t believe she hadn’t understood it before. The sudden decision to come to America, the sickness of her first morning in America. Rola retched for several long minutes, then slumped down on the floor of the stall, looking stunned. Hanan dampened paper towels at the sink and, kneeling beside her, wiped her forehead, her neck and her mouth, and smoothed her hair into place with her other hand. Rola gazed up at her warily, and Hanan was again reminded of how much Rola resembled her mother.

“I need your help,” Rola said slowly in Arabic. Hanan understood and nodded.

Later that night, they sat up in Hanan’s bedroom, wearing pajamas and drinking hot tea. Mama, glad to see them come home early, had retired for the evening. They formulated a plan together, like conspirators in a plot that could not escape the confines of the room. After they’d settled on most of the details, Rola wept quietly. Hanan wasn’t sure if it was from relief or sadness.

“He was in college with me,” Rola spoke softly, in Arabic. “We graduated together. I knew it was a mistake but … I don’t know … I was stupid. And then I missed my period.”

“What did he say?” asked Hanan in faltering Arabic, the words sounding awkward to her ears, but her cousin did not seem to notice.

Rola folded her arms across her chest, her face white and impenetrable, mummy-like. “He had stopped talking to me by then … he ignored me, my calls … and then I just got embarrassed because his mother was always the one who answered and I knew that he didn’t want to talk to me.” She sighed, and said in English, “I felt like such a slut.” She pronounced the word more harshly than necessary, hitting the “t” emphatically. “That’s what our culture does to you. It makes you feel like a slut for making a mistake.”

“American culture does the same thing, believe me. You should hear what some people here still think about single mothers.”

“Well, I went back to Ramallah, and all its eyes and ears. And I knew I had to get away, fast, to do this. Hanan,” she said, turning to look at her cousin, “it will become apparent in a month or so.”

“I know.”

“Your mother will tell my mother and my father will never allow me home again. They’ll say I disgraced them.” She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her slim arms around them. “You’re so lucky to live here, Hanan. You don’t have to worry about stuff like this. Everything is OK in this country.”