“Fine, laugh all you want,” Hannah finally said, looking defeated. “But I don’t hear any of you coming up with ideas of your own.”

“Okay, okay,” I said once the laughter subsided and I had pulled myself together. I hated to admit it, but she was right. Since neither Liv nor Tania had any other potential options, I had no choice but to at least entertain Hannah’s suggestion, regardless of her previous track record.

“So who is this someone that you know?” I finally asked.

“His name is Omar. He’s a friend of a friend. We were in undergrad together, although I think he graduated a year before me,” she said, the smile on her freckled face slowly reemerging.

“Okay . . . well, what is he like?” I asked, trying to sound interested. I still wasn’t sure if I fully trusted Hannah’s judgment; however, with this three-month deadline looming over my head like an ominous cloud, I knew I had to consider all my options.

“From what I remember, he’s really smart, friendly, and I think he was president of the Muslim Student Association on campus, which means he must be pretty in touch with the culture. That might get you some bonus points with your parents.” Hannah grinned.

I thought back to the bearded guys from my alma mater’s MSA and winced. Hopefully Omar had stronger social skills than those guys, but it was still a gamble. His MSA background would definitely earn him points with my parents, but I wondered how well this trait would hold up to my list. My idea of “being in touch with the culture” meant having a superhuman tolerance for spicy foods, knowing enough Urdu to have basic conversations and watch Bollywood movies without the subtitles, and making semiregular appearances at the mosque. Anything more than this might be too much. Anything less might not be cultured enough—as was the case with the non-desis in the past.

My phone suddenly buzzed. I looked at the screen to see a text from my mother. When I clicked on it, an image of a man with wide-rimmed frames, a shaved head, and a red polo shirt outlining his rounded gut popped up. Below it, she had typed PHD. I clicked the screen off.

“Everything okay?” Hannah asked, her face eagerly awaiting a response.

Maybe the guy she had in mind wouldn’t turn out to be so bad. I figured as long as he didn’t turn out to be a felon . . . or one of my cousins . . . or a lesbian, there might actually be a chance.

“Okay,” I said haltingly. “I guess I’ll do it.”

“Great!” Hannah jumped up excitedly. “Don’t worry, Leila.” She grabbed me by the arms and gave me a tight hug. “I’ll set everything up; all you have to do is show up.”

The clock ticking away, I returned Hannah’s excitement with an apprehensive smile and silently prayed that by some divine miracle, my friend, just this once, would somehow turn out to be a better matchmaker than my parents.