I finally have a secret, but it’s an ugly secret and I’m not sure what to do with it.

Ma always used to tell my two half sisters about boys, especially American boys, and how they will take that secret thing between your legs for nothing. “No committer.” That’s why Mina and Monia were married so young. I think it’s also because their father, my mother’s first husband, was dead, and Baba wanted to get rid of the problem of unmarried girls in his house.

“Your husband has to be the one to take it from you,” Ma told me once. “Otherwise you are a disgrace to us and we are stuck with you forever.” Then she said, in English, “You shameful.”

One day I went over to Patsy’s house after school. Her parents weren’t there and the house felt quiet with no television on. I was surprised when the doorbell rang and Michael was there. At first I was happy to see him, but then I got a funny feeling and went back to the dining-room table to work on my homework. He was looking at Patsy funny and it seemed like he was someone else.

“We’re going to go study in the back, okay, Kadeeja?” Patsy said, without even looking at me.

My ugly-sounding name sounded uglier than usual, and it seemed strange to me that she had me over but then was going to study in another room, but I said okay. I don’t know how much time passed, but I started to feel panicky when I didn’t hear any noise. I went toward her parents’ bedroom, which is all pink and purple. I was in there a couple of times before when we jumped up and down on the waterbed. The door was closed so I knocked on it. At first there was no answer, but then I knocked again, and Michael said, “Come in, Khadija.” (One of the reasons I like him is because he says my name how it’s supposed to be said.)

I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t Michael and Patsy under the covers in the waterbed.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Kadeeja,” Patsy said. “Just leave us alone, okay?”

I turned away and shut the door behind me. I felt horrible, like can’t-see and can’t-think kind of horrible. My books were all over the place and I couldn’t stuff them in my bag fast enough. I ran from her front door to our house. Thinking about what I saw made me feel dirty, like when you go by a car crash and look by accident and on purpose at the same time, but then you feel sick because of what you saw.

When I got home, my mother was playing with little Hamouda, who is two and a half years old. When I saw them I started to cry.