I refuse to look around in case I see someone, everyone, watching me. I’m a drippy, squelchy mess, stumbling toward Dad and Linda, picking up tons of sand as I move. Waterfalls gush out of the many hems on the outfit, and, as I hobble out of the lake, more secret pockets release their water. I stand and cringe at the sucking sound as my swimsuit sticks to me, all four yards of the spandex-Lycra blend of it.

The lifeguard’s turned to talk to someone behind him, and the beach girls are on the far right, peering at a sand castle. I look back, and, hallelujah, the girl on the bleachers is gone.

Cherie and Ed forgot to mention that the beach portion doesn’t actually belong to them and is public property at all hours of the day. Their oldest son, Logan, round and berry-brown from a day in the sun, is digging a hole nearby, while the newest addition, Luke, lies on a quilt wearing a swim diaper.ĭad said I’d love it here because the beachfront cottage they’d rented was one of the only two Cherie and Ed had let out this weekend. To check whether she’s staring, I test her with a long gaze to the left of the bleachers, where Dad and his wife Linda are barbecuing. I can’t tell if the smile is a result of how long she’s been watching me bob here in the water. But right now there’s a little girl cross-legged on wooden bleachers peering at me from beneath a hand held aloft at her forehead, a smile on her face. The ideal time is when no one’s around and no one’s looking. They pace in their flip-flops and bikinis, and I wait. Besides the lifeguard watching from his perch, there’s a gaggle of girls my age patrolling the beach with younger siblings in tow. Only my eyes are visible, and I blow bubbles to ensure the rest of me stays submerged until the opportune time. People think he’s holy, untouchable, but nobody has seen under the mask. Well, monsters wearing saint masks, like in Flannery O’Connor’s stories. Same planet, different worlds.īut sometimes worlds collide and beautiful things happen, right?ģ. Because although, alliteratively speaking, Janna and Jeremy sound good together, we don’t go together. Like me-the way I don’t fit into Dad’s brand-new family or in the leftover one composed of Mom and my older brother, Mama’s-Boy-Muhammad.Īlso, there’s Jeremy and me. They’re in your face so much, you can’t see them, like how you can’t see your nose.Ģ. Saints, those special people moving the world forward. There are three kinds of people in my world:ġ. Morris Award finalist and an Entertainment Weekly Best YA Book of the Year-is a “timely and authentic” ( School Library Journal, starred review) debut novel that feels like a modern day My So-Called Life…starring a Muslim teen.

Saints and misfits book