Chapter 11

Kamal...
(McDonalds)

It's been a few days since my talk with Jameel in his bathroom and he is slowly but surely beginning to understand and deal with the uncustomary weirdness that surrounds my family. I couldn't be prouder of my parents and my siblings in taking their time to let Jameel adjust to his new sense of freedom and his new surroundings.

Farooq and Hamid decided to stay for another few weeks rather than rushing back to the states. They delegated most of the day to day office activities to their corporate staff. They took care of the larger responsibilities and opted to oversee their multiple business dealings via teleconference from our father's study. My dad won't admit it, but he was prouder than a peacock to have us all at home and working side by side.

He had even rushed to have one of the sitting rooms transformed into another office so that Farrah and I had our own area to work away from the buzzing telephones, video chats, and pings of computer's stock market software that constantly alerts my brothers with real time updates of the El-Sayed millions of dollars worth in investments.

In my opinion, I think my old man was going through something close to empty nest syndrome with all of us never being in one place at the same time for any length of time. Especially here in the Saudi's capital city, Riyadh. He's happier than a bug in a rug to have all of us at home. He seemed to take delight with all of our noise and fussing, our play fighting and even our not so good natured squabbling, although we have been keeping all of our usual boisterousness under wraps for Jameel's sake. We would probably scare him half to death if we truly decided to act up as we usually do.

When I found about Jameel's morning routine, I found it so adorable. He would wake up at the crack of dawn before anyone else in the house, and he would take a long hot bubble bath and groom himself until everything was silky smooth, from his luminescent skin to his luxurious locks. It was like it gave him the greatest of pleasure just to be able to do these things and I would tease him about it if it wasn't so heartbreaking the reason behind his delight in doing something as simple as taking bubble bath. Things people take for granted everyday.

I've had the housekeepers stock his bathroom with all kinds of scented bath oils and soaps ordered directly from Morocco. His lotions and other personal moisturizing creams Farrah ordered from one of her suppliers from Sweden, and from the way his skin gleamed and the shine radiating off his thick waves, Jameel was thoroughly enjoying pampering himself with the decadent products.

My day started like any other, Farooq and Hamid woke me up in the usual rude manner of jumping on my bed and harassing me. Once our morning tradition was observed we parted ways to go get ready to face the day. I would take a detour from going straight to the dining room and slap Hamid's hand away from the table. He never failed to try to finish Mommy's pastries before I could get my share, but I had to retrieve Jameel. He would be sitting patiently on his perfectly made bed waiting for me.

The only thing that Jameel has refused to budge on was his abaya (robe). I couldn't seem to get him to part with it. My brother's and I have all tried to explain to him that it was a female's garment. We tried everything to get him to wear everything from custom fitted slacks and natural cotton button down shirts to jeans and t-shirts. We even tried traditional thobe which was similar to his abaya but he refused and went right back to the swirling shapeless black robes, and when he was having a bad day his niqab (veil) would make an appearance too.

Yasmin cautioned me that his robes were what was familiar to him and they were like his security blanket. She also informed me that due to all the scarring on his body from his injuries, he feels more secure wearing his abayas. The thobe was more appropriate, as the male customary garment, but Jameel would most likely connect the garment to what our grandfather most likely would have worn in his presence. So Farrah, ever the fashionista had several in types, "more masculine," abayas made just for his specific measurements. He had plain cotton ones, embroidered silken ones, and some new breathable type fabric she's been experimenting with.

God everytime Jameel looked at me with uncertainty or silently asked me permission to do something with his expressive eyes. Something people usually considered mundane, like having an extra slice of toast with their breakfast drove me batshit crazy. The fear and stress he had to live with for so many years made me want to dig the old fucker up just to beat his corpse and leave the carcass in the desert so that the vultures can reduce him to nothing.

Another thing that Jameel still hasn't mustered the courage to do was to venture out and explore the house on his own and I was okay with that as well. I liked that he needed me, and that he trusted me enough to respond little by little to the gentle nudges I've been giving him to do things for himself. Things like selecting his food during our meals, and not waiting for me to tell him what or when to eat, or when use to the bathroom. He would even look to me to see if he should get up from the table, but he was getting a little better about it. He was beginning to feel a bit more comfortable around all of us, and I prayed that his confidence was growing as well.

I had to admit that Jameel took to the girls better after I had explained our family's dynamics to him. When we are in our own home, we are free to interact with each other as we liked, but when we were out in public we observed the time honored traditions of our birth land. The girls were covered from head to toe and even though we were from the same family when we went to some of the souks (markets) we either separated or we had to make it a point that we were their brothers so the segregation rules didn't apply to us.

Jameel slowly warmed up to my parents, my mom more so than my dad. He was intimidated by our father, but then again at some point all of us are. My father was a force to reckoned with. He was taller than average, and even after being married with grown children. He was still as fit as any of his son's. He had a distinguished splattering of gray in his hair and that was the only tell about his actual age.

Our mother on the other hand was just as flawless as our father even more so. She has always been that way, and my all of my sisters aspired to age just as timeless as she. Although mommy was still grieving over the only father figure in her life. She still managed to spoil Jameel rotten.

I'd been worried about her at first. I thought that she making up for her father's sins by overindulging Jameel with anything and everything he didn't even know he wanted, but that wasn't the case. Like every other female in the house, and myself included, although I'm very much a man. Jameel has captivated us all with his delicately stunning features, those soulful brown eyes, and that innocently sweet smile will gladly make a person want walk through the fires of hell wearing gasoline soaked drawers just to have him smile like the angel he is.

Case and point, last night our mother made the very traditional dish of the kingdom, Kabsa Biryani with Laham. It's a savory rice dish loaded with vegetables, raisins, nuts, and spices like cumin, cinnamon, pepper and nutmeg. It's served with roasted shanks of Lamb that is placed right in the middle of the platter.

We had even dined traditionally by sitting cross legged on the floor in the family room and eating off the same humungous platter and making sure we used our right hand and kept our left far away the platter since it was considered unclean. I love my culture I truly do, but sometimes it was too many rules to remember and the punishments for breaking any of those rigid set in stone rules in this country is extreme to say the least.

I don't know who had started the conversation about American food, but we had gotten on the subject of milkshakes and chicken nuggets from McDonalds. Our dad groaned and licked his lips at the mention of chocolate milkshakes, and our mother just kissed her teeth. She said that kind of food was a heart attack waiting to happen in a pretty package. Jameel had piped up for once and asked what a milkshake tasted like and why did Hamid look like he was going to eat his own finger at the mention of nugget chicken.

Although I wanted to laugh at his little play of words, I didn't, I knew how sensitive he was around all of us at once. I gently corrected him by telling him that the proper term for the dish was chicken nuggets. I had explained what they were and what a milkshake was and the different flavors they were available in.

I told him that they are high in fat content, that's why mommy considered them bad for you. It was then that Hamid added his two cents by saying if something tasted like heaven, it was usually bad for you, and that's why exercise was invented. I didn't even know what to say to the only one of us who despised going to the gym, so I had to shake my head at Hamid's warped sense of humor.

It was early afternoon and father, Farooq, Jameel and I were sitting in the office. Jameel was busy surfing the wonders of the internet with wide eyed curiosity that was borderline on complete awe. While he was doing that, I helped Farooq to go over some reports from the different department heads of one of the import export companies we took control of from our deceased grandfather. Hamid was off doing what he does best, and that was to pester Fatima in

the kitchen into feeding him his body weight worth of leftovers. It was a miracle he wasn't morbidly obese thanks to his superpowered metabolism.

We were almost done going through the lengthy reports when Hamid came banging through the office door almost startling Jameel to death. The poor boy squeaked and dove for straight for me. He landed right in my lap and climbed up my chest almost reaching the top of my head.

"Asre' (hurry up). The girls brought back McDonalds." He hollered before abruptly disappearing back the way he came.

My father's head shot up so quick, his glasses bounced on the tip of his nose. "Matha? Ayn? (What? Where?)" And he was up and out the door.

Farooq and I stared at each other for a split second before I wrapped my arms tightly around a still clinging Jameel, hipped Farooq's big body out of my way, and squeezed through the door and bounded off towards the kitchen.

I stopped long enough to deposit my precious cargo on the countertop and reached for one of the cup holders with four large cups in it. "Ow!" I yelled and snatched my hand back and rubbed the away the sharp pain radiating through my abused digits. I pouted at my mother who was giving me the look with the wooden spoon still in her hand. Hamid and our father were holding their reddened hands in the same manner so she must mean business.

None of dared to reach out for the food for fear of the woman breaking our knuckles. We all stood there drooling like rabid animals at the mouth watering smell of greasy golden chicken nuggets and crispy French fries. I knew the woman was torturing us when she set out three small glasses and took her own sweet time in pouring the three different flavors of milkshakes, strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate into them.

She came over and handed them one by one to Jameel for him to taste. I almost forgot that I was dying to sink my teeth into the fried food by the way he licked the milky froth from his top lip. I willed myself not to blush as my cock twitched behind my zipper. My siblings would never let me live it down if I threw a boner right here in the middle of the kitchen. Jameel finally

selected for the strawberry milkshake and our mother handed him a large container of fries and a another container of nuggets complete with an array of dipping sauces.

It was only then she waved her hands finally giving us the go ahead to eat, and we all converged on the food like a hungry pack of dogs. Mommy just shook her head at us and pointed a well meaning finger at our father. I guess that was all the warning he was going to get not to gorge himself on this kind of meal. She took a small shake for herself and left us to it.

Farooq sat down in the corner of the breakfast nook and leaned over his food protecting it from poachers. He paid us no mind whatsoever. Hamid looked like a squirrel gathering food into his overstuffed cheeks like he was preparing for a long winter. The girls were at least had some form of home training, but they were eating with just as much enthusiasm as everyone else. I refused to look in my father's direction so when mommy asked me later how much he ate, I can actually tell her I don't know and get away with it.

I could help but watch Jameel's experience with his food. It was so adorable how he pulled out a fry and looked at it. He almost went cross eyed he had it so close to his face. Then his little nose scrunched up as he sniffed it.

"Take a bite little one, you'll like it trust me." I said as his wide eyes shot up to mine.

He carefully brought the fry up to his delectable lips and he took a bite. I watched his eyes light up and he dug into the container for another. I opened a package of ketchup and squeezed some on a plate and dipped my own fries into it. Jameel followed suit and gave a tiny hum of delight before sampling his nuggets and humming in delight some more. He eagerly sucked on his shake until he gave himself brain freeze, but he was happy none the less, and I felt my heart swell in my chest. I would do anything to keep that smile on his face.

I almost lost my nuggets to Hamid, I was paying so much attention to this beautiful boy in front of me, but I squirted him in the face with some ketchup. He wailed and went to wipe his face and I snatched my nuggets back. I settled into eating while listening to Jameel happily slurping away on his shake. It was one of the best afternoons I have ever spent at home with my siblings and my little beauty sitting at my side. Happily indulging in our uncustomary treat with no worries other than guarding our nuggets from each other.