When it came time for Lina’s wedding, I invited Ginna so I’d have a friend there instead of just my critical relatives and my boring cousins. I even taught her to dance Arabic style, which was very easy for her, probably because she has so many different kinds of blood in her that they all move in different ways. (You should see her dance those sexy Latin kinds of dances. The guys all think she’s hotter than hot, flyer than fly.) Ginna knows how conservative our culture is, though, so she didn’t wear one of her usual tight little skirts, just a dress that reached her ankles that made my mother tell her how nice she looked and how glad she was that she was joining us and that she hoped she’d enjoy herself.

My parents are from the same village in the West Bank, and half of the village lives here in Glendale or Hollywood or Anaheim. The older people all act the same way they did when they were home, which isn’t fair in a lot of ways because we’re in America now, but they tell us that we are not supposed to be living an American life.

When we got to the hotel, we saw some of the old village ladies coming up from the parking lot dressed in their best show-off rozas. They looked so out of place—those short little thick-waisted women with flowing white scarves and all their youth’s gold dripping off them, almost from another planet.

Ginna smiled. “Look how pretty they look.”

We went into the ballroom that had been reserved for the reception. Lina looked so pretty in her fancy white dress, sitting with her new husband, Jaffer, at a table at the front of the room. Jaffer’s family has been very successful in this country so the wedding had lots of decorations, there was a good band playing, and Lina was heavy with gold. Theirs was a love marriage, at least in that they chose each other, so she showed her happiness more than a lot of brides do.

We went to our table and sat down. Two old ladies came and greeted us and I introduced Ginna, who smiled sweetly and said, “Marhaba.”

“They wear so much gold,” she whispered, her eyes stuck on the golden coin headband of one of the women.

“Weddings are for showing off,” I told her when they walked away.

“Tsst,” hissed my mother, who was wearing her newest roza with gold threads and all the jewelry she owns.

We watched the people coming through the door and Ginna seemed to be enjoying it. I saw her looking at the young guys who were coming in. “If they’re here this early, they’re either too young, religious, or married,” I whispered in her ear.