Counting Down with You(51)

But...maybe another day. Maybe there’s a balance here. Maybe I can’t pursue English, but I can have this in secret for the little time I have left.

“Well, this is it, I guess,” I say, shrugging off the leather jacket and passing it back to him. I miss its weight and smell as soon as I take it off. “Thank you for walking me home.”

Ace nods and cards his fingers through my hair one last time. I hold my breath when he leans forward and brushes his lips against my forehead. “Good night, Karina.”

“Good night, Ace,” I say, my pulse fluttering in my neck, an offbeat rhythm spurred by his touch.

I wait for him to leave and watch until he turns the corner before I slump against my door, suddenly exhausted. That wasn’t how I expected my day to go.

But maybe in the dust of lingering defeat, there’s room for some victory.



26


T-MINUS 17 DAYS

I completely give up on attending school the next morning.

After my alarm goes off, I stare at the ceiling for approximately ten seconds before I call it quits. My emotions are too overwrought to deal with people today. “Dadu!”

Not even a moment later, my grandma opens the door, her expression tinged with concern. “What’s wrong, Myra?”

“I’m not feeling well,” I say. It helps that I still look like a disaster.

Dadu makes a worried noise and comes into my room, pressing the back of her hand against my forehead. “Ya Allah, you’re burning up,” she says. Before I can say anything, she leaves, presumably to grab a thermometer.

Samir appears in my doorway, raising an eyebrow. He’s holding some kind of strange robotic contraption in his arms and has his backpack slung across his shoulder. “Ditching? Imagine what Ma and Baba will say.”

“Shut up,” I say halfheartedly. “You’ve ditched school for video games before. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Touché.” He considers me, and the amusement falls from his expression. “Do you have a math test or something? You should’ve texted me. I would’ve come home from work earlier last night if you needed help.”

Despite everything, I smile. “No, but thanks. I’m good.”

Dadu reappears, waving the thermometer haphazardly. “Myra, sit up. Let me see.”

“That would be my cue to leave,” Samir says, grinning as he waves a hand. “See you later, Dadu. Later, slacker.”

I roll my eyes as he leaves and Dadu comes to take my temperature. It’s only slightly above average, but she still asks, “Do you need to go to the doctor?”

I shake my head. “Just one day of rest, I think.”

This would never work with my parents, but Dadu likes to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. The stories of my father’s childhood in Bangladesh sound like heaven—tales of him and his brothers playing hooky and skipping school to go to the beach, where they’d spend hours lying in the sun and fooling around. He usually leaves his late sister out of those stories. I don’t blame him, but it makes me sad.

Maybe the loss of his sister made him more restrictive, the same way that it made Dadu more lenient. People react to grief differently.

I think being around my mom has furthered that restrictive behavior, since my maternal grandparents are a lot more strict than Dadu. Nanu and Nana have never been anything but kind to me, sending me gifts and the like, but I know they’re the reason Ma expects so much from me. They raised her a certain way, and now she’s trying to raise me the same way, even though our generations are vastly different. It’s hard sometimes to separate my parents’ beliefs from my culture and my religion, but at the end of the day, I know it has nothing to do with being Bangladeshi or being Muslim. Blaming it on either of those would be turning to a scapegoat. They both make me who I am.

I love Bangladeshi culture—from the lyrical poetry to the hearty food to the breathtaking fashion. And I find comfort in being Muslim, in praying, in believing. In my heart, I know that Allah loves me, no matter what. If only I could say the same for my parents.

Dadu pats my cheek. “Go back to sleep. I’ll make chai and we can have a movie marathon later.”

“Thank you, Dadu. I’d love that,” I say and burrow into my blankets. Before I fall back asleep, I shoot Nandini and Cora a quick text saying: I’ll be absent today :( I’m not feeling well, sorry guys!!!

At least next week is spring break. I just have to survive tomorrow, and then I’ll have a whole week to myself.

I wake up around 10:00 a.m. and stumble into the dining room, a blanket around my shoulders. Dadu frets over me for a few minutes but then leaves me to eat.

After I finish breakfast, I take my chai and sit down next to Dadu in the living room. I take a moment to light a cinnamon-scented candle before I open Netflix to find a Bollywood film.

Dadu lets me choose without complaint. I click on Kal Ho Naa Ho, in the mood to cry over someone else’s life. As the main character, Naina, starts her monologue about New York, I lean my head against my grandma’s bony shoulder and toss a second blanket over our laps.

“I’m not as crazy as Naina’s Dadi, right?” Dadu asks, glancing down at me as the grandmother character starts singing, horribly off-key.

“Not even,” I say, patting her hand. “You’re the coolest Dadu in the world.” I pause. “But maybe don’t start a singing career.”