Counting Down with You(14)
Ace tilts his head, his stormy eyes meeting my dark brown ones. “Any time, Ahmed.”
Right. I doubt he’ll even remember who I am after the Regents. Still, I wave as I head for the door. I check my texts and snort at the ninety unread messages from Nandini and Cora.
As I walk home, I can’t help but wonder who Ace really is beneath his intense stares. Even though I don’t plan to act on it, I think I’m just as curious about him as he is about me.
Maybe in these next three months I’ll come to know the real Ace Clyde. Based on our study session today, I don’t think I’d mind all that much if that were the case.
8
T-MINUS 26 DAYS
“Myra, you look so tired,” Dadu says, pressing her wrinkled hands against my cheeks as she observes the dark circles underneath my eyes. “Did you get enough sleep last night?”
“I’m fine, Dadu,” I say, gently pulling her hands away. “I’ll sleep a lot tonight, if that’ll make you feel better.”
We’re sitting in the living room, Dadu and I on the couch and Samir on the floor in front of us.
My house isn’t the largest on the block, but it’s warm and comforting. My parents worked hard to buy it, so I never let myself appear ungrateful for it. They’ve done everything they can to ensure that Samir and I have a bright future ahead of us.
Our walls are painted sky blue, and our worn, mismatched furniture follows a similar color scheme. Surahs from the Quran hang as decoration from the walls, alongside paintings picked out by my mother. Flowerpots line the window sills, and I remind myself to water them in Baba’s absence. If his favorite marigolds die, he might burn down the entire house.
Ma stole some books from my shelves to display on the coffee table, but right now they’re hidden beneath Samir’s overflowing folders. Half the floor is wood paneled and the rest is covered by lilac carpet. There’s a smattering of blue from when Cora, Nandini, and I dropped nail polish last time they were over, and it’s a miracle my mother hasn’t noticed the stain yet.
Right now, a spectrum of colors is reflected against the living room walls as Samir plays a video game on the large, flat-screen television. Dadu and I both wince when a particularly gruesome death shows up on the screen.
I have to be careful not to jump at the gunshots, especially since a plate of steaming khichuri and dimer korma sits in my lap. There’s no way my mom won’t notice—or smell—the stain if I somehow tip my plate over.
I try to help Dadu with cooking when I can, though I’m not the best at it. We don’t talk about it a lot, but Dadu had a daughter who passed away when she was only seven. My dad barely got to know his younger sister—my would-be aunt—and no one ever brings it up for obvious reasons.
I think that’s part of why Dadu goes easier on all the girls in our family than our actual parents do. I have a plethora of girl cousins, and she treats every single one of them with incredible tenderness, as if to make up for her loss. My paternal grandpa, Dada, used to do the same before he passed away a year ago. I can’t begin to explain how much I cherish that.
I finish eating and set the plate down on the table before checking my phone. My feet are warm in my grandma’s lap as she reads the Bengali newspaper, her glasses sliding down her nose. Samir must have gotten it for her after his shift at the deli nearby, owned by one of my mom’s friends from the mosque.
I send Cora and Nandini a Snapchat of Samir and caption it: omg he’s STILL hogging the TV I could be watching a rerun of rupaul’s drag race rn!!! Almost immediately they send back matching Snapchats expressing sympathy for me.
I’m in the midst of replying when my ringtone blares, Dua Lipa’s voice blasting loud enough that I drop my phone. I forgot I left the sound on so I wouldn’t miss any of my parents’ calls.
I huff but answer the phone, holding it in front of my face as my mother comes into view.
“Myra, why didn’t you call us yet?” my mom demands.
We’re off to a great start. “I’ve had a lot of homework. Sorry?”
“Samir called us yesterday,” she says, her voice thick with accusation. I cast my brother a glare and see that he’s grinning at me. He sticks out his tongue when I catch his eye. Sometimes I think he has no idea how much his achievements highlight my failures. Other times, I think there’s no way he can be that oblivious.
“Sorry,” I say again.
My mom passes the phone to Nanu and Nana, who eye my flimsy T-shirt skeptically. I cross my chest with one arm and give them a forced smile. “As-salaam alaikum.”
After several agonizing minutes of them asking about my upcoming college applications, my mom takes back the phone. I can’t help but be low-key bitter my grandparents are even awake this late, presumably to catch up with my parents on everything they’ve missed.
“Are my plants still alive?” my dad asks, smushing his face against my mother’s. Neither of them know how to properly angle their phones for video chatting. I think that might just be a parent thing across the board.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m taking good care of them.”
“Thank God,” he says, the lines of his face relaxing. But then he purses his lips, considering me. “How is your homework going?”
“I have a US History term paper due soon,” I say. “I was assigned President Jimmy Carter. He’s actually pretty interesting. Did you know—”