Mrs. Jain didn’t show me the mirror until I was eleven.
In the years before, Ishani and I only danced in the lounge room, while Mrs. Jain sat facing us on the sofa, an indulgent smile on her face, clapping along. Sometimes, she’d stare out the window, and we had to wave our arms and stick out our tongues to get her attention.
The driver flirted with both of us. As soon as we climbed in the Dhow Khasab Tour’s van, Mohamed told Tori and I he was honored to transport such beautiful women to Musandam, the place he now called home. Tori was all “ooohs” and “ahhhs” at the snack box on each of our seats, the herd of goats crossing the road as we sped through Fujairah, even the security checkpoint as we crossed the border from the United Arab Emirates into Oman. Mohamed posed many questions. What were Tori’s impressions of Dubai? How did her students compare to those in the States? What had it been like living in Detroit? They howled together as she practiced the Arabian Gulf dialect for “more dates, please.” He complimented her intelligence, her wit, even her trim figure. Through the rearview mirror, Mohamed sent me smoldering stares, winks, and raised eyebrows.
