Counting Down with You
Tashie Bhuiyan
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear reader,
We’re about to enter some big emo hours, so hold on tight. Counting Down with You is the story of my heart, and it was written as a love letter to young brown girls. It wasn’t that long ago that I was a brown teenager, not that I really feel like the spitting image of an adult at twenty-one years old. The older I am, though, the more I realize that there is no “right” way to represent all of us, since we are not a monolith. We all come from different backgrounds and have different experiences. However, when I set out to write this story, I chose to write it from a deeply personal place. The main character of this novel, Karina Ahmed, represents one experience—my experience—but she does not represent all. In this book, my goal was to always give her agency, and give her room to grow. This is undeniably a love story, but Karina is not waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from the challenges of life. At the end of the day, this is her story, and these are her decisions. Just like her, we can’t rely on other people to come save us—we must be lionhearted on our own.
When I was younger, I often felt helpless. We don’t always have the freedom we seek, and it’s hard to rise up against our circumstances when we are young and have limited means to protect ourselves. But this is me telling you right now that it gets better. I know it’s hard to believe that, especially when the future seems so bleak, but it’s true. Someone gave me this advice at sixteen years old, and I hope to now impart it on you: stay as strong as you can. That’s all we can do. We might not be able to fight back or run away, but we can continue to believe in a better future. As you follow Karina on her journey, I hope you find a sense of belonging and understanding. Being seen is the most tender form of love, and I see you. I do.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. If there is only one thing you take away from this book, let it be hope.
All the love,
Tashie
PART 1
Spark
1
T-MINUS 28 DAYS
Airports are the true chaotic evil.
There are too many things happening around me. Too many people in a hurry, too many people lazing around, too many announcements on the overhead speakers, and way too many tearful goodbyes.
Anarchy reigns in my little corner. My mom is on the phone, saying goodbye to her ten million friends, and my dad looks like he already regrets agreeing to go on a month-long trip to Bangladesh with her. Even with my earphones in, JFK Airport is too loud.
I wish I were anywhere else.
My younger brother, Samir, stands next to me as I sip the drink I forced him to buy me at Starbucks. In my other hand, I have a book flipped open to pass the time.
Dadu, my grandma on my paternal side, is busy fretting over my dad’s shirt. “Tuck it in,” she says in Bengali.
I hide my smile behind my drink when he reluctantly tucks in his shirt. Dadu isn’t someone to mess with.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” I ask Samir, taking out an earphone.
“Who knows,” he says. “Whenever Ma finally gets off the phone.”
That was decidedly unhelpful. “So...never.”
I still think the beginning of March is too chilly to go on vacation, but knowing my parents, plane tickets were probably cheapest today.
Even though I love my parents, I’m happy to see them leave for a month to visit my mom’s side of the family. A part of me wishes I could go, since I love visiting Bangladesh and soaking in the beautiful, bustling energy of Dhaka, but the idea of spending an entire month surrounded by only my relatives is horrifying. Thankfully, high school takes priority over seeing extended family. Being sixteen is a good thing sometimes.
Only sometimes.
My mom finally gets off the phone and gestures to their suitcases. “Come help me, Samir.”
While my brother helps them check in their luggage, I sidle up beside Dadu and lean my shoulder against hers. She’s been at our house for a few days now, helping Ma and Baba pack for their trip.
“Hi Myra,” she says, calling me by my dak nam, my familial name. I prefer my legal name, Karina, the bhalo nam all my friends use, but I don’t mind when Dadu calls me Myra.
“Hey Dadu. Ready for your second Uber ride?” I ask. “Baba said we’re going to have to take another one home.”
“Another one?” she asks, squeezing my wrist. Her skin is wrinkled from old age and hours of hard work, but it’s warm and familiar. “Do you think they’ll try to kidnap us this time?”
“Inshallah,” I say jokingly. God willing.
Dadu laughs and swats me on the shoulder. “Don’t make silly jokes, Myra.”
I grin. “Sorry.”
It’s nice to have a light and easy conversation like this. We don’t have them often, because my grandma lives year-round in New Jersey. Every summer, I beg my parents to let me stay with her. They usually refuse until Dadu steps in and says she misses me, which is as good as saying Your daughter’s coming to visit me whether you like it or not.
My parents return carrying only their handbags. My mom is shaking her head at my dad as he shows her something on his phone.
“Samir, you can download things from Netflix on your phone right, right?” my dad asks, looking pointedly at my mom.