You Only Live Twice

by Autumn Allen

Genres: Young Adult; YA Social Themes

Synopsis

An unforgettable, heartwarming, hilarious coming-of-age story about faith, family, all kinds of love, and a Black Muslim teen pursuing an ordinary goal in an extraordinary time.

Barely one week into senior year of high school, Boston native Zakiyyah is making her 2012-2013 Get Free Plan.

Step one: quit high school. (PSA: There are other ways to get to college!)

Step two: live like it’s Ramadan year-round.

As she gets deeper into her Plan, she starts to wonder if there’s someone out there who would be a good companion. To everyone’s surprise, Zakiyyah decides she wants to get married. But there are some complications.

Problem one: she’s never met a guy she liked. Zakiyyah’s family (reluctantly) and friends (eagerly) agree to support the search.

Problem two: what’s the secret to choosing a good life partner?

Enter Musa, by way of mutual friends. With marriage in mind, Zakiyyah and Musa get to know each other, progressing from email to instant messaging to phone calls. Things are going well… thrillingly well… until tragedy strikes Boston. In a moment of heightened emotion and stress, Zakiyyah and Musa have their first major disagreement.

Zakiyyah can call the whole thing off. But with or without Musa, what does it mean to live on her own terms?

Release date: July 28, 2026

Publisher: Kokila

Print pages: 368

Sample

Zakiyyah AbdusSalaam
2012–2013

بسم الله الرحمان الرحيم
This is for posterity.
(I’ve always wanted to use that word in a sentence!)
This is the year that I change my life.
At the beginning of this year, I am a typical high school student, going through the motions, doing what’s expected of me (mostly).
By the end of this year, I will rearrange my life.
I know, I know—-being “grown” is relative. My nana says every year from her tenth birthday onward she proudly announced, “Now I’m a woman!” I know how corny it sounds.
But in my case, it’s true. It has to be! (Cries.) I’m not waiting till my high school graduation. Or my eighteenth birthday.
Is this going to be a love story? We’ll see. I’m collecting other people’s stories. How they met their spouse. How they knew their spouse was The One. (There isn’t a One, I’ve decided. That’s just shorthand for someone who will make you smile, who will support you; someone who will be worth the effort it takes to stay together.) If I do find the one for me, I’ll be glad I recorded the story of how we got together. Maybe I’ll show this to our kids one day. (Maybe not.) Maybe I’ll use it as material for spoken-word poems. Hey, poetry about having your heart broken is sometimes even better than poetry about falling and staying in love. (Plus, heartbreak stories are so convincing, they’ve helped me stay away from guys for this long.)
But let’s stay focused. The guy is not the point. The point is to get free.
PART 1
The Get Free Plan


CHAPTER 1
How It Started
July through August 2012: the sweetest Ramadan ever. Qiyam at the masjid almost every night. Iftars with friends. Reading the Quran and taking classes to learn the meanings. Spending every minute of every day doing what was most important to me. Mostly things that would get me closer to Allah. Occasionally, taking a three--hour nap. (Don’t judge. Fasting in the summertime? Those last few hours are brutal.)
August 2012: Eid al--Fitr. Fun times. Drove down to New Jersey for Muslim Family Day at the BIG Six Flags. What? There were Muslims EVERYwhere! Abayas and thobes as far as the eye could see. It made me wonder what it must feel like to live in a majority Muslim country. Or even a city like Philly, where a Muslim sighting was no big deal.
My best friend Asiyah came down with us, and my out--of--state best friend Sumayyah met us there. In the afterglow of Ramadan, surrounded by Muslims, we screamed our heads off on roller coasters, nearly vomited on zero--gravity drops, drank slushies to cool down, and talked a mile a minute, hoping the day wouldn’t end. But it did. When the sun disappeared, we prayed in its purple wake, rows deep like the Eid prayer all over again. We promised each other we wouldn’t slip. We wouldn’t have to start all over again next Ramadan. We would keep our eman high and then get even better, inshaAllah. We chose three new habits we’d keep in our lives all year long. Daily thikr, daily Quran, and weekly fasting. We could do this. We would check on each other.
But on the long drive home to Boston, it felt like all that beauty, that comfort, that spiritual high, all that was slipping away. Left behind in a magical place that existed only in my mind.
August waved goodbye, with its slowness and its heat, leaving a pit of nostalgia in my chest. September barged in, all business and schedule, elbowing my dreams out of its way. And then it was the first week of school. Senior year. A.k.a. Purgatory.
First sight upon entering the building: a kid who’d been in my En-glish class junior year being cornered in the hallway by the assistant principal.
“I couldn’t find it, and I was gonna be late,” the boy was saying.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Applegate said, not sounding sorry at all. “You know the rules. You have to go home. And if you can’t get back before lunch, just come back tomorrow.”
I tried not to stare. The boy fumed silently, rage emanating from his eyes like lasers. Then he stormed back out the front door, holding up his pants with one hand as he walked.
It was his belt. The missing piece of his school uniform that he was being sent home over. A belt. All black, with no colors.
Ms. Applegate turned her attention to the other students coming in, looking everyone up and down, anticipating further offenses. I wondered how she managed to convince herself that her job made sense. If it was that important to them, why didn’t they keep spare black belts and black shoes in the office instead of sending kids home? Their big corporate sponsors must have money for that. But no. Charter school is all about Individual Responsibility. Rigor. Zero Tolerance. Blah blah blah. Like I said: Purgatory.
I made my way to homeroom. Then history. English. Physics.
Finally, lunch. A bit of relief. Just for a moment. Before the cafe-teria filled up.
I brought my tray of food--like items to an empty table and sat down to zone out. Outside the high windows, brick walls stared back at me, looking as bored as I felt. I could have gladly spent my twenty--five--minute lunch period in blissful solitude, daydreaming of freedom, ignoring the loud boys showing off and the painted girls preening and the suspicious teachers watching for minor infractions. But before I could fully enter daydream land, Kayla arrived.
“Heeyyyy!” She plopped down next to me and gave me a side squeeze.
“Hey,” I said, returning her squeeze with a pat and scooting over in pursuit of personal space.
Kayla’s hair was brushed into smooth, shiny waves and gathered with an elastic at the back, where a puff of defined curls spiraled out. Her edges were laid, not a disobedient hair in sight, but she still wore her three elastics on her wrist in case of a hair emergency.
“How was your summer?” she said. “I didn’t see you at all!”
“It was good,” I said.Actually, I thought, I was just internally weeping because it’s over.
“I hope we have a class together,” she said, organizing her tray into foods she might eat and foods she wouldn’t touch. “Can I see your schedule?”
I dug it out of my bag and she looked it over.
“Aw man,” she said. “Nothing.”
Our table was filling up. A trickle of kids at the far end, a few more in the middle, and then, right next to us, Tiffany and Monique.
“What’s up?” they said, then sat down and continued their conversation. They were gossiping in explicit detail about a guy Monique had hooked up with over the weekend. An athlete, like her, whose body was . . .
I tried to mind my business. I studied my cold Tater Tots, chocolate milk, fish sticks, and cup of preserved peaches. Kayla had cut her fish sticks in half and inspected them before placing them in the Do Not Eat category. She leaned over and whispered to me.
“I need advice. Devin wants me to go to this party with him on Friday.”
Ugh.
“I thought you broke up with him?” I asked.
“I did.”
I stared at the brick wall.
“Should I go?” she asked.
I did not suck my teeth.
“Why would you?” I asked.
“Maybe he wants to start over.”
“Doyou want to start over?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”
Oh, Kayla, I thought.We have been over this so many times. Devin is a jerk. He is a player. He is beneath you. He has been stringing you along for almost two years. Enough is enough.
Swirling the bits of preserved peaches in sweet syrup, I sighed. “I guess you should decide if he’s worth your time at all. Then decide about the party.”
Kayla nodded earnestly. “You’re so smart,” she said.
Smart? I’d call it observant. Or maybe just having standards. But I couldn’t say these things to Kayla. And this was precisely how I ended up in these situations.
I’ve always been quiet, so people think I’m a good listener. When they think I’m a good listener, they talk to me about their problems. When they’ve poured out their feelings to me, they feel bonded to me. Before I know it, someone I think of as an acquaintance is treating me as a best friend.
It was fine being adopted like that when I was little. In my tiny Islamic school, the pickings were slim. Most of the families were friends, and the girl who claimed me as her best friend is still my real best friend. But in high school . . .
“Hey, Kay,” Tiffany said, “you coming to the party Friday?”
“I don’t know yet,” Kayla said. She glanced at me with a hint of panic in her eyes.
Understood. I was not supposed to speak about Devin.
Another problem with being quiet. You keep secrets easily, because gossip is boring. But in the world of high school drama, not spreading someone’s business is seen as some bond of unbreakable trust. Side effect: You accidentally earn people’s trust, and they keep confiding in you, and they keep feeling closer to you.
“What about you, gangsta?” Monique nodded her chin at me. “You gonna graduate without ever coming out to a party?”
“Yep,” I said.
Monique and Tiffany shook their heads. By now, everyone knew the deal. Sophomore year, they tried to get me to come to a party like it was a campaign. “How about if we throw a party with no drinks and no weed?” they said.
“And no boys?” I asked.
Their minds exploded. “How is it a party with no boys?”
If they only knew! “You just need a lot of food . . .” To be precise, you need Auntie Maryam’s rice and beans, Auntie Ummil--Khair’s pineapple upside--down cake, Auntie Ayanna’s mac and cheese, Sister- Salma’s bean pie, plus some auntie bringing a big tray of biryani, someone bringing fattoush . . . you get the point. Real food, from many cultures. Optional add-ons: Bring a speaker and let the teen girls fight for dominance, rotating between American music, Arab music, and desi music, plus some old--school hip--hop and R & B to get the older generation moving, leaving behind their no--music years for an hour or two. You can use a five--by--five--foot area for the dance floor, because when I tell you the girls dance together, I mean they dancetogether.
You’d kinda have to be there. It was too much to explain.
This is why I first got into spoken--word poems when I started high school. A place to put my real thoughts.
The bell rang for class, bringing hundreds of students to their feet. They yelled their last outbursts and threw things behind the teachers’ backs before getting corralled back into order and shepherded out the doors. We shuffled toward the hallway with the crowd, tossing unfinished “food” into the trash and stacking our trays at the counter as we filed out.
“What are you doing this weekend?” Kayla asked me.
“Not sure,” I said. “Probably hanging out with Asiyah.”
“Your best friend, who I’ve never met,” she said.
I chuckled, ignoring the hint of longing in her voice.
Kayla sighed. “I don’t know how I’m gonna resist going to the party. And if I go to the party I dunno how I’ll resist Devin.”
I groaned. Devin was not even that cute. He was charming, that was all. Couldn’t she see through that? Apparently not.
I wondered what it felt like to be so hooked on a guy. I’d read that having sex released chemicals in your brain that could be addictive. Maybe that was why relationships were so hard to break off, even if you knew they weren’t good for you.
“I mean, if you wanna hang out with us,” I said, “we’ll just be at the masjid.”
I didn’t think much of it when I said it. Maybe I expected her to laugh and say thanks but no thanks. To my surprise . . .
“Really?” Her eyes and smile brightened like a toothpaste ad. “I could come with you? You wouldn’t mind? What should I wear?”
I glanced at her school uniform. Her collared shirt was tucked and tied at her tiny waist, showing an inch of skin, her navel ring glinting above her khaki skirt. Definite dress--code violation, but somehow she pulled it off. She took in my hijab and abaya, probably wondering if she owned anything remotely similar. (Mine would have been a dress--code violation too, but I got special permission on religious grounds and had been wearing my black abaya to school since sophomore year. Hence Monique’s nickname for me. She called it a gangsta move.)
I shrugged. “You can just wear something comfortable . . .”
She practically buzzed with excitement. “It’s that big one over by the train station in Roxbury, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there! I pass by it all the time and always wondered what it’s like inside.”
“It’s a public place,” I said.
“Yeah, but, you know, that’d be weird to just walk in, right? Plus, I wouldn’t know what to do. Or wear. Can you bring me a scarf or something?”
“You don’t have to . . .”
“That’s the respectful thing to do, right?”
How did I get into this? Was I really going to bring Kayla to the masjid? The masjid wasmy time. My real life. My freedom. No explaining myself. No keeping my guard up. I wondered how I could back out of this.
“I’m so excited!” Kayla squealed, giving me a hug as we parted ways for class. “You’re the best!”
Her enthusiasm left me speechless. She walked away with an extra bounce in her step.
Dang. Was I gatekeeping my happy place? Yes.
Was that acceptable behavior for a Muslim? Hmph. Maybe not.
Fine, I thought. I’d let Asiyah be the welcome wagon. That was her forte.
—
Stupid rules.
Boring classes.
Social overload.
Repeat.
By Friday, I was exhausted and practically in physical pain dragging myself to school. When I should have been getting dressed for jumuah, I was sitting between a teacher’s pet whose hand shot up to answer every question and a slacker who audibly snored through Mr. Cooper’s lecture about the rivalry between Shakespeare and Marlowe. When I should have been on the bus to the masjid, I was in precalculus watching the minutes tick by while Ms. Ashley, a chipper white woman about four years older than us, requested our homework answers in the timid voice of someone who expected to get jumped. My eyes glazed over. I pictured the flaky sambusas for sale after the Friday prayer. I may have started to drool.
Ms. Ashley cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Uh, Zakiyyah-?”
I blinked back into focus and swallowed. “Huh?”
“Oh, um, I was asking what you got for problem thirteen.” She smiled hopefully and pushed up her tortoiseshell glasses.
I looked down and noticed I hadn’t opened my notebook, which was probably why she called on me. Trying to get me “engaged.” I flipped open to my homework. “Is it . . . hy--per--bo--la?” I asked.
“Yes!” She sounded like I’d won the lottery. “Great job!”
It was 1:45. Jumuah was ending. People at the masjid were greeting each other, lingering, catching up. Sister Angela was heading to the storage closets to prepare for community service, food that would be packed in family--sized boxes for people in need.
If it was Ramadan, I’d be opening the Quran to read Surat al--Kahf while the crowds dispersed, then going down to help Sister Angela. But here I was instead, stuck in class. I folded my arms over my chest and waited for the final bell.
The minute school let out, I practically ran to the bus stop and joined the battle to get on the first bus that came. Maybe I could get to the masjid- in time to soak up some leftover Friday goodness. One of the only pluses about our charter school was having shorter days on Fridays. Still, our “short” days were like regular days at other schools. Monday through Thursday, they kept us till almost five p.m. Needless to say, I was not interested in staying after school for activities.
Avoiding the elbows of the other teens, I found a spot near the rear door. Standing, but not squished against other people.
Riding the bus alone still made me miss the days when Asiyah and I took the bus together to middle school. It was a big city adventure after being shuttled to our tiny Islamic school in my mom’s minivan in our elementary years. But for high school, Asiyah’s parents wanted more for her than the options in Boston. It was their last chance to put her on track for college success and beyond. Unconvinced by the lotteries and charter school options, they moved out of the city, leaving me to navigate high school on my own.
I pulled out my phone and texted Asiyah.

I miss Ramadan! =(

She was probably at field hockey practice or one of her ten other extracurriculars. Better that way. Asiyah and her unlimited data plan could get carried away with texting. I put my phone in my bag.
The seats lining the sides of the bus were filled with adults. Sleepy--looking medical professionals wearing scrubs. A man in a suit. A few men and women wearing skirts or slacks with button--up shirts. One guy in thick overalls carried a lunch box like people in those old photos of construction sites, dangling their legs from metal bars up in the air, clouds and skyline behind them.
Between the seated adults, teenagers ruled the aisle. Some held on to handles. Some held their arms out, dramatically showing off their ability to stabilize themselves when the bus jerked to a stop. Half the teens were from my school—-I could tell by the uniform. They called out to one another using all the colorful language their parents wouldn’t allow at home and the teachers wouldn’t allow at school.
The adults shifted in their seats. Some rolled their eyes, and some glared at the offenders. A middle--aged woman muttered to herself, looking out the window like she needed to escape. The man in the suit drew his eyebrows in concern, like he wanted to say something, to influence these young people. The bus driver kept his eye on the rearview mirror, as if he expected a fight to break out. I guess they’re never sure who they’re dealing with—-regular teens, or truly out--of--control teens.
Honestly, the other teens annoyed me too, but I understood why they acted that way. If the offices, hospitals, wherever adults spent their days, controlled their every move all day long, I think adults would do the same thing. When they finally got their freedom for the day, they’d spend a few hours screaming into the void before doing it all over again tomorrow.
I looked past the bodies to see how much traffic was ahead. That’s when I noticed a young man seated at the front of the bus. He wasn’t young enough to be a high schooler, but he didn’t seem annoyed by the chaos around him. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice. He wore a pristine cream--colored thobe and a matching kufi. He held a mini-ature Quran open in his right hand, but by the way he glanced at it and back out the window, moving his lips, it looked like he was reciting from memory. He was probably a hafiz. He seemed so . . . serene.
The bus jerked and we all leaned forward. I caught a glimpse of a cream-colored hijab. Next to the young man sat a sister wearing the slightest smile, like she was remembering something sweet. The beads at the cuffs of her navy blue dress shimmered delicately in the sunlight. Her hand rested in his, like they were each in their own world but had to make sure their person was still there. I was mesmerized. And as I stood there watching them, I kid you not, they started to glow.
I held my breath and looked around. The rowdy teens kept shouting, and the grumpy adults kept frowning. A light so bright emanated from their corner of the bus that I started to wonder if they were angels. Were they even really there?
“Stop requested,” the automated bus voice announced, and the bus lurched again. The brother closed his Quran gently and placed it in the breast pocket of his thobe. The couple waited for others to descend the stairs, then they stood, thanked the driver with a smile, and stepped off the bus. They took the light with them.
As we pulled away from the curb, I watched to see if they would disappear into a cloud or become a beam of light. Nothing supernatural happened. They just strolled away effortlessly, like their time belonged to them and their sense of purpose made them untouchable. Like they were in this world but not of it. Unbothered by this world, and therefore free from it. Attached to Allah alone.
They were Happy Strangers. Alone, but together. How poetic!
In my mind, this life was supposed to be lonely. But look at them, on the same path, seeking the same goal. Maybe even helping each other. Like me and Asiyah, but more committed?
What was their life together like? Was it easier to be Muslim because of the bond that they had? Did being together somehow make their bonds with Allah stronger?
My mind was 100 percent in their imaginary business when the bus nearly flew by my stop. I smacked the stop button and pushed my way to the door.
“Thanks,” I said to the driver.
“Mm--hm,” she grumbled. Translation:You’re lucky I stopped for your last--minute behind.
On the sidewalk, I checked my watch. I had thirty minutes left to pray. I dodged an elder with a cane and a dad pushing a stroller, rushed across the street during the last five seconds of the walk signal, and hustled toward the front entrance of the masjid. Through the black gates, up the concrete steps, into the massive brick building. Turned away from the elevator, which moves an inch per minute, ran up the stairs, and took off my shoes. I made wudu so quickly I almost forgot to wash my feet. I composed myself and fast--walked to the musalla.
In the prayer room, I tried to slow my breath and calm my mind. But my heart was sinking. During Ramadan, salah had become a rest, something I looked forward to, a little bit of peace, a sneak peek at Paradise. It felt that way when I prayed right on time. Rushing to squeeze in my salah made it just another task in a hectic day.
Allahu Akbar.
I raised my hands and bowed my head. Every time my forehead touched the floor, I asked Allah for help. I didn’t use words. I just submitted, put my heart in front of the One who knew my situation, and yearned for something better.
I wanted to spend Fridays putting on my best abaya, going to the masjid early for a good spot, carrying a Quran in my purse, not rushing to catch my prayers, weighed down by a backpack full of textbooks.
I wanted to decide what was important to learn and skip what was irrelevant to my life.
I wanted to choose my environment, who I spent my time with, not just on the weekends, when I was burnt out from long days at school, but every day.
I wanted to be content and serene in my own world, unaffected by the chaos surrounding me. There had to be a way to free myself. Not “someday.” Not after graduation. As soon as humanly possible.
I needed to start planning my escape.

Happy Stranger
The moment I walk out the door I am a stranger
I am a stranger for my Creator
Yaa Ghafoor yaa Raheem
They offer me the dunya while I want Your deen
And
It is all worth it for You yaa Rabb al-­alameen
It is a daily struggle to get closer to You yaa Arham ar-­rahimeen
They will joke they will laugh and they say
“You don’t need to wear that, you’re free”
But what a miserable freedom that must be
What they don’t understand yaa Muqeet
Is that
My freedom comes from being a slave of You
Everything that I do is in the name of You
If only they understood
Yaa Hakeem yaa Wadood
I am a happy stranger and slave
And I pray that I am one of those under Your shade
On that scorching day when there will otherwise be no shade

Love this poem . . . and it’s so much better hearing you read it.
Aww . . . and yeah, that’s the idea of spoken word lol
PS—­while you were planning your escape, the future love interest was starting classes, working an overnight shift, and picking up his little sister from school. No time to daydream about chillin at the masjid. Just saying!
Dude, who asked you? This is my story lol, make your own. PS—­Bold of you to assume there’s only gonna be 1 love interest . . .
Burn!


CHAPTER 2
An Hour on Friday
There’s an hour on Friday between the jumuah crowds and the evening crowds when the masjid is quiet and peaceful. I love jumuah and volunteering and halaqahs and youth group, but the quiet hour is my favorite.
There’s also an “hour” on Friday when prayers are answered. And I had some important prayers that day.
I didn’t know what was on the other side of high school. While Asiyah had been refining her college list since middle school, I still hadn’t made a list of colleges I would apply to. Nor did I have solid ideas for a job or career. But I figured since I was ready to be done with high school, I must be ready for whatever came next. I prayed for guidance, and I begged for freedom until I had no more words.
When I finished, I sat against the wall. The whispers of the elders remembering Allah’s names blended with the tones of Quran recitation. The high windows flooded the space with light, illuminating the pale green carpet. Outside, a bird beat its wings and then pulled them in against its little body. I smiled, thinking of the ayah in Surat al-Mulk I had learned a month ago. Oh, right. Quran. I hadn’t opened it all week, since school had started. Another of my Ramadan commitments down the drain. I had time to read before the masjid got busy again. First, I pulled out my phone to text my mom.

I’m at the masjid. I’ll get a ride home later iA

I opened my new texts from Asiyah.

Asiyah
Assalaam alaykum chica
Assalaam alaykum
Yo
Assalaam alaykum warahmatullah
lol
Asiyah
there you are
give me my rights
وعليكم السلام ورحمة الله وبركاته
Asiyah
ok show-­off! Where u at?
masjid
Asiyah
perfect. I’ll be there at 6 iA
bring money

At 6:09, my phone blared the most obnoxious ringtone possible, courtesy of Asiyah, who programmed my phone to ensure I would never miss her calls. The older sisters looked up and watched as I fumbled to turn off the ringer and hurried out to the hallway.
“What?” I whispered when I picked up.
“Salaam to you too. Come outside, please.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I need you.”
I forced a dramatic sigh. “Out front or out back?”
“Back. In the lot. Hurry.”
I shoved my feet into my sneakers and jogged down the stairs. Asiyah- was sitting in her car, and she waved me over urgently.
“Get in!”
The driver stuck behind her honked his horn. Asiyah waved at him like they were friends.
I sank into the passenger seat. “Great etiquette,” I said. “Where are we going?”
“To find parking.” She pulled out of the lot, turned a corner, and inched up the street.
“You couldn’t do this without me? What am I, your good--luck charm?” I scanned for open spots.
She chuckled and adopted her sheikh accent. “Haram, sister. Good--luck charms are not of our religion. Oo!” Spotting a car pulling out, she put her blinker on and waited. “I was feeling lonely, okay? It’s a long drive! But see? Miracles happen when you are here. Maybe youare my good-qadr charm.”
She switched off her Raihan album and shushed me to focus. We got out and admired her perfect parallel parking job. She caught her reflection in the car window and adjusted her carefully draped hijab.
“Tonight’s the night!” she said, looping her arm in mine. She scanned the sidewalk for eligible bachelors as we approached the masjid.
“It’s always the night,” I said.
“I feel like you’re not on my side.”
“I’m totally on your side. I’m skeptical of your methods.”
“Hmph. Bring me a better plan, then,” she said.
I snorted.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “The pickings are slim out here in