I filled my time with practice exams and writing essays; I stayed up all night to avoid the nightmares. Mostly, I spent two weeks lying low, avoiding situations that might attract any attention—being a woman driving late at night, for instance, or being a Muslim with a drink in my hand at a club with my cousins. I stayed in the spaces I knew were safe, the spaces where the police officer wouldn’t be. By the time my flight left Amman in early January, my father had helped me schedule tours at both Smith and Wellesley. Unlike my classes at HWS, where the men mostly dominated the conversation, in the classes I sat in on at Smith, every single woman participated in lively, sometimes heated, discussions, each one declaring something smarter than the last. In the city’s bustling downtown, I didn’t feel the buzz of New York City, admittedly, but a buzz all the same.
On my second trip back, I felt a little more confident, more comfortable spending time with friends in a few select, safe places. After the rest of them had left, Yaseen, my would-be prom date, and our friend Maya remained, sitting on the floor of my room in front of the CD player. All night Yaseen had been barraging me with questions about Massachusetts because in a few months he was moving there, too, to attend Hampshire College, a fifteen-minute drive from Smith. I wasn’t going to date you.” “Why not?” Yaseen pretended to be hurt. You’re not attracted to me.” “I just wanted to be able to say I had dated Luma Mufleh, to be the only one that could say that.” “That’s a stupid reason to date someone,” I said, giving Yaseen a sisterly punch in the shoulder. “So you’re not attracted to me?” “You’re not my type.” I waited, wondering if Yaseen wanted me to be the first to say it. “I’m attracted to people like Maya, just like you’re attracted to people like Amin.” At first, Yaseen pretended to be disgusted.