Car Rides with Friends

Rayyan and I were fighting over Little Bites in the backseat when Theo called Hameed. It connected to Hameed’s car via Bluetooth: the modified speakers cracked Theo’s whip-like voice like a jockey’s wrist.
Zayn—riding shotgun, freshly-lined up Eid al-Fitr goatee peeking out the
window—reeled back inside the car, resting his hand on his cheek, elbow nestling into the car door. He needed to hear this.
“She was fuckin’ cheatin’ on me bro. Just caught her right at her little cousin’s quince!”
The Little Bites dropped to the floor of the car, abandoned by me and Rayyan. Our backs were needle-straight, threaded by our fear of making any movement. Else, we might betray some hint of acknowledgement, one that would make Hameed decline the call, leaving us without any words to hang onto.
“Yo, my cousins are in the car; they can hear you,” said Hameed, finally pausing the Jersey club music he swore “would melt your mind, cuz” (though, I’m not his, or anyone in the car’s, cousin—just a family friend). I wasn’t aware of the music till it was off—Theo’s voice was louder.
“Man, eff that, they grown, let ‘em hear.”
Zayn pressed his finger into the window switch, shutting out Little Ferry, New Jersey’s opium haze, and every sense that we were out on a celebration got shut out with it.

I looked at Rayyan—my best friend for sixteen of my seventeen years. His face pointed at the back of Zayn’s: an awl at the flesh of fresh hide. I steadied mine at the back of Hameed’s; I steadied my breath into silence.

Theo began: “We were in the car—oh, bro, I also sold my Benz, but I’ll tell you about that later–”
“WHAT?” yelled Hameed, Zayn, Rayyan, me.
Theo’s Benz—sleek and AMG-modded—was every dollar he ever earned in high school. I mean, he got the damn thing to impress his girl, who apparently wasn’t his girl any longer. Regardless, selling it was selling his livelihood.
“Just, please—let me finish,” Theo pleaded.
Everyone but Hameed—whose furious eyes were fixed on the road—looked at each other, our expressions were different triages from the same origin.
Rayyan’s I noticed first: his half-furrowed brow conveyed what I thought was worry, until a look at his sickle-shaped eyes betrayed him. He was intrigued.
Everything—from his clasped-together hands, jittering legs, quivering lips suppressing a smile—revealed himself.
Makes sense, I thought, he bleeds when we play Uno. But, not with his
hands—those obvious markers are concealed. He bleeds with his face.
I turned to Zayn. His eyes seemed glazed. And, upon noticing this, I realized he seemed pale—ghost-like. If it wasn’t improper, I would have swatted through his face, which seemed more like an apparition. There was no feeling there; that was Zayn’s feeling.

Makes sense, I thought, he never did—um—care when he lost at Uno; he’d just go back to his phone, vape, drink. He might even be drunk or high now. For thinking that, shame overwhelmed me. Here he was, on the day of Eid al-Fitr,
having been sober for at least thirty days; it’s wrong of me to assume otherwise,
especially someone who I call brother. In fact, here I was, thinking about how we played Uno while Theo—our friend—was talking. At the realization, I hung my neck low, sentencing myself to the gallows.
Theo’s voice fought against the pouring rain:
“Bro she drove me to this shit too. Tch—like, now I have to get an Uber brooooo. And they mad expensive too. And that shitty tux rental place—’cause ‘a suit wasn’t enough’ for a quince—prolly won’t accept this-ughhh.”
“Hey man, it’s okay. Just, please tell me what happened,” said Hameed.
I noticed him then, cruising in the rain—that, unlike us, Hameed was thinking. No. More than that, Hameed was caring. The same way that—when we’d play and rage at that stupid card game—he’d shake his head, smile, and reset the cards, dealing them like the last round was already a funny, distant memory.
Hameed had his eyes on the road, but you could tell they were really on Theo who was somewhere out there in the pouring rain in a soaking suit.
Small droplets, seemingly from outside, landed on Hameed’s lap. Though, the windows were closed, and…oh, I realized, the water wasn’t really just water at all.

Shame took me down to my feet, where there rested chocolate chip Little Bites. Rayyan’s neck—still razor sharp—unwavered, though his eyes twitched down near my feet. He’s hungry, I realized. So I picked the Little Bites up for Rayyan, ignoring his glaring stink-eye.
Even when the bag loudly crinkled in my hand, Hameed was unfazed, so Rayyan loosened, accepting a Little Bite with a roll of his eyes. Zayn, though, looked behind—addled by the noise. When he realized what it was—that I had opened the bag—he reeled back to his position of indifference, except with a hand out back, reaching for a snack.
I obliged, handing him one. He scarfed it down quick.
At this point, I realized how quiet the car had gotten, and I questioned the whereabouts of Theo’s voice.
“Hameed?” I asked, “is Theo sti–”
“Yeah, I am,” answered Theo.
“Oh…hey,” I replied.
“Yo,” he offered.
“Sorry, I just needed to order the Uber. Staying here means there’s more of a chance I see her again. So…yeah. I’ll tell you what happened. So I come into the venue with her in my arms. You know, all romantical and shit; this my woman type-shit. And she’s wearing this dress—it’s green. It’s—like—crazy poofy, flows down her like the Niagara Falls. I wouldn’t-’ave ever thought that bitch’d, you know…”
I don’t know, I thought. But it seems that Hameed did. Because, when Theo said that, Hameed stopped the car on the side of the highway. The air of the car crystallized into silence, and we—Zayn, Rayyan, myself—crystallized with it: Zayn—the ghost—was now alert, frozen in awareness;

Rayyan scratched his goatee (rather, the two hairs he insists are a goatee), no longer hiding in diligence; as for myself, I was needle-straight, threaded—again—with the fear of movement.
The empty Little Bites wrapper fell down to my feet again—without realizing, I had let it go.
“I don’t know, Theo. What happened?” said Hameed.
He had the phone in his hand, and did it so fast that I never realized. The fury in his eyes—once fixed on the road—now pierced through the phone, to Theo. He sounded forceful, nearing anger. But, at Theo? Our boy? He was just cheated on.
He hadn’t even got to his story. The harshening rain barraged the car for a bit, until I
unfroze and said:
“Yo, Hameed. Let him talk.” Without realizing what I was saying.
Hameed stretched his face behind the seat, then stared cleanly through me. His goatee—pointedly triangular—reminded me of a devil’s horn; his eyes, though, were painted with the knowing fury of something almighty, near-divine—not unlike an angel.

His lips quivered for a second, considering for a moment the correct choice of words. But there really aren’t any for this type of thing.
“Theo,” whispered Hameed, “look, I’m sorry.”
I looked at Zayn and Rayyan—still fazed, spellbound by fear. And I realized right then that I should follow their example and just let Hameed and Theo talk.
Another wave of shame overcame me. Hameed’s was infectious, I supposed.
My pocket buzzed—my dad. He asked “where r u” on text. Afraid to move, I
ignored him, slipping the phone back in my pocket with only a flick of my wrist.

We let the silent rain numb our thoughts, and waited for Theo to finally respond.
“Yo, I’m in the Uber. Sorry, I muted myself. What was that?”
“Stop lying to me man, I know you’re not in an Uber. Bro, I know I shouldn’t have but…I thought…”
“Man, what do you mean? I’m not lying bro. Also, don’t worry about it.”
“Yo, Life360 says you’re still at the Quinceanera. We’re coming,” said Hameed.
Theo contemplated this for a second, right before the three worst noises came from the phone: three beeps, accompanied by a text that read “call declined.”
Hameed immediately switched gears, not even waiting for his engine to warm up. He placed Theo’s location as the destination, which was “twenty-three minutes” away.

Probably because of the car’s abrupt movement, Zayn and Rayyan thawed
through their silence, assuming their old positions. The questions of ‘why did Theo lie?’ and ‘why is Hameed sorry?’—they appeared on both their expressions: Rayyan’s more literally, as his eyebrows completely furrowed in curiosity; Zayn, though visibly pallor, held in his eyes some intensely vibrant curiosity. Unusual.
The three of us tuned into each other, once again left to diagnose our distinct prognoses. This time, we were vocal—Hameed’s authority was threaded with doubt.

“I say we leave him,” said Zayn, pointing his nose up.
“Huh? Seriously?” replied Rayyan, adorning his face with measured
bewilderment.
“Seriously. He’s only lied to Hameed, caused us issues if you remember that two-man…did Hameed and I tell yall ‘bout that?” asked Zayn.
“Nah,” I replied.

“Ight, so, basically, it was me and Hameed. We were at that one place…Juicy
Bites. Yeah. And Theo said he had set us up on this blind two-man with some baddies. So we’re there, thirty minutes early because we had nothing else to do, and walking around the place, scouting it out. There were a few other stores since it’s on a plaza, and we had gotten to this one alleyway at the complete opposite end of the street. We were talking about—well, you know—wingmanning each-other, the lies we’d tell to the girls, that kind of stuff, when we saw Theo in the alleyway with some girl. Yo, her skirt was off, and Theo was…pretty close to her if you know what I mean…but the girl and I locked eyes. Shit was so awkward.”
“Did you run?” I asked.
“No shit. If Theo knew we were there we’d’ve told his girl,” said Zayn, letting the weight of his words press into our ears.
“Hameed, where were you?” I asked.
Hearing this, Hameed depressed his shoulders, hanging himself deeply low from his once-confident posture. His sweat became visible, etching the mark of a mistress’ gross kiss on his forehead.
With that realization, I tilted my head.
Oh, I thought, shit. He told Theo’s girl. Worse than that, he made MOVES on Theo’s girl. He was acting differently…but, this? Unthinkable.
Rayyan, face aghast, shook his head, palming his lips and then exclaiming:
“Hameed, stop the car!!! DID YOU HEAR ZAYN? Actually, answer this: were you there when he saw Theo in that alley?”

Hameed was in the process of stopping the car when he asked; he must’ve been too absorbed in that task to answer Rayyan’s question.
“Hameed was there,” answered Zayn on Hameed’s behalf, “He saw it too. We even talked about it afterwards.”
Hameed, sighing, offered his account:
“Yeah, that’s true. But, just like I told you,” Hameed spoke in falsetto with those last four words, “who cares? He’s our friend, what he does isn’t our business.”
He squeaked this last part out: “Anyways, he might’ve been on a break—you
know how he is with her.”
How he caressed his tongue over the word ‘her’ made it seem like more than that—just a word. The word honeyed from his mouth like droves of sticky-sweet ambrosia, sweeter and thicker than the light Little Bites from a few moments ago. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want one, I thought, maybe he was already full with her. I just wish I knew ‘her’ to be anyone other than Theo’s girl, who I suppose was actually Hameed’s.

Zayn snickered, “might’ve been on a break. You don’t know that.”
“I don’t need to,” declared Hameed, “you know you’re supposed to trust your friends, right?” Hameed darted his eyes back at me, as if he knew my suspicions.

“Same way I was supposed to trust your game on that two-man?” Zayn jeered, chuckling derisively to himself; he stroked his goatee—the same devilish shape as Hameed’s.

He totally copied Hameed, I thought to myself. Except, upon further inspection, it seemed more pointed: jagged and horn-like.

“Just shut up,” said Hameed, “we’re like thirteen minutes away anyways.”
As if hearing Hameed, my pocket buzzed again; this time, however, it was a call from my dad—not a text.
Shit, I thought, I forgot.
So, afraid for my livelihood, I picked up and held the phone to my ear. The rest of the car—knowing my father’s strictness and pull—fell into pensive silence; it was almost laughable, since—just a moment ago—we were so wrapped up in whatever Theo had going on.
In fact, at that moment, Theo’s issue seemed unimportant.
“Assalamoalaikum,” said my dad through the phone, “where are you guys? It’s been half an hour. Please, come to the party; Hameed has the address, right?”
Shoot, I thought, I’m done if he knows we’re all the way out here, some thirty minutes out. And, if I’m done, then my dad’ll tell their dad and then they’ll be getting into their own trouble and then that’ll all be on me.
Hameed, stretching back from his seat, looked at me, discerning the decision I would have to make: the party, or Theo.
Zayn, noticing Hameed noticing this, stretched back from his seat too, also
looking straight at me. The decision was the same: Theo, or the party.
Rayyan—at my side—tilted his head like a scientist dissecting their specimen. This look confirmed his indifference.
These three strangers who I call brothers—they’re looking at me, expecting from me a choice. And, whether I give one to them, I will dissatisfy at least one.
The party, or Theo; Theo, or the party.

He’s our friend, Hameed’s eyes seemed to plead. But there was something
beneath it: this…urgency. His angelic expression conveyed righteous fury—the same
look he’s had this whole time. Though, different now. That triangular goatee looked
different too, like it was puffed and encroaching; it reminded me of the embracing wings of an angel. The kind of angel that muffled you with its chest, fastened you with its arms, and finally captured you with its wings.

He’s a cheater, Zayn’s sardonic smirk said to me. There was this provoking look about him. An aura that detracted from his earlier innocence—an innocence of
indifference that seemed quite derealizing. That goatee, I realized, seemed more like the horn I’d attributed to Hameed.

Though I met Rayyan’s eyes, and they told me I should pick Zayn, I knew my choice, and—after I whispered it to my father—the rain seemed to have stopped as we drove back to the party, abandoning Theo.

Facing the floor, my eyes rested on the Little Bites. Rather, the empty, torn- through wrapper that once held Little Bites. It looked alone. The shame of it all hit me then.

Haseeb Haider is a freelance writer, aspiring policy lawyer, and student at New York University. Interested in how narratives of change affects reform, he volunteers with various public service organizations to this end. Currently, Haseeb is writing a speculative, literary fiction novel about how democratic systems of power create authoritarian leaders; if you are interested in that sort of thing, please follow him on instagram (@5starhaseeb).