Back in the United States, I couldn’t stop thinking about the people I had seen lined up on the hard ground of the desert, the morality police kicking people who had fallen asleep on the floor of the mosque, the lights, and the opulence a direct assault on my pilgrimage. Misty was less patient about my sullen mood than DeeAnn, who told her to give me time. A few days later, Misty found me folded over on the same couch. “I’m gonna stay in.” “Take a nap now, then we can go tear it up on the dance floor.” Misty shook her hips for emphasis. “I really don’t feel like it.” “Melissa will be there.” “I told you, I’m straight.” It had been almost ten days since I had returned; Misty was done with patience. Misty wasn’t just the first person in her family to go to an elite college, she was the first to attend college period.
Despite the exclusive zip code, Misty was the only one of my friends who actually had to work to pay for college. On that first night, when I said my father worked in steel, Misty had pegged me for a steelworker’s daughter, blue-collar like her. There was an Armani suit in my closet that Misty loved to borrow, long after she figured out my dad wasn’t a steelworker. Misty and I may have come from different classes and countries, but we had a lot in common. Misty told me once that every knowable drop of blood in her body had come from Maine, and that was on purpose. Maybe that’s why Misty was good at changing the subject when someone asked about my family, or why I didn’t tease her when the thick Maine accent she was so good at hiding came out after a few drinks. No one had ever met a member of Misty’s family; like me, she kept her family far away from Smith and Smith far away from them.
You know, I had a Jewish friend in college.” “I know, Dad.” “What does her father do?” I knew if I told my dad the truth—that Misty’s father had left the family years ago—he would judge. Misty knew exactly which saltwater-stained shack to turn in to for my first lobster roll. “Just slow down and pull over,” Misty said, turning the CD player off. The police officer approached my window, where, thanks to Misty’s instruction, I had my license and registration ready for him. The officer stepped back slightly and said, “Are you trying to bribe me, ma’am?” I felt Misty’s head whip toward “She’s not from here!” Misty exclaimed, touching my shoulder as if to reel my hand back into the car. Back on the road, Misty and I laughed and laughed. We drove through Kennebunkport, with its huge mansions, and Misty pointed out the Bush compound. Now I would learn exactly who Misty was, a luxury she would never have with me. Misty’s grandmother Leana was a short, sturdy woman with her gray hair pulled back to reveal deep lines carved into her forehead. Misty laughed and translated.
After we dropped our bags in the upstairs bedroom we would be sharing (apparently, even Leana thought we were dating), Misty said she needed to go see some aunts and cousins. “And, Misty, don’t forget to fill up the caaah with gas.” I had rarely eaten pie and never made one, so I opted to stay. Misty left, and Leana got busy pulling out ingredients and preheating the oven. “Misty just loves rhubarb pie.” I was confused. Breaking barriers, doing the impossible, it only seemed to make Misty stronger. Misty returned a few hours later to find us setting the table. But by the time I traveled to Maine with Misty, I had already been weighing the options carefully, nearly constantly. In 1994, two years before I made pie with Misty’s grandmother, US Attorney General Janet Reno had issued an order that would allow homosexuals from other countries to seek political asylum in the United States. All I knew was that every time I thought of going back to Jordan for good, I thought of that police officer and the thousands just like him.