Counting Down with You(59)

Ace pulls out his phone. When he offers me an earphone, I take it without question. A soft instrumental song plays as the stars move around us.

He breaks the silence.

“I don’t want to go to Yale,” he says, voice hollow. “I want to go to NYU for piano performance.”

I pause, my heart heavy. It’s almost painful to keep my gaze focused on the ceiling when I want nothing more than to look at his face. “You’ve never said anything before.”

Ace laughs but the sound is choked. “It just seems...so useless. I’ll always be second to Xander. He’ll take over dad’s business with his Yale degree someday, and I’m going to be left in the dust. What’s the point?”

I reach out, intertwining our fingers. “This is why you practice the piano three hours a day,” I say, understanding dawning. “Why you take lessons. Why you miss school for competitions all over the world. Ace, it’s obvious this means so much to you. Have you...” I pause, realizing the hypocrisy in my next words. Have you considered telling the truth? My shoulders suddenly feel as if they’re carrying the weight of all the planets around us. “Does anyone know?”

He exhales quietly. “My dad might pay for the lessons, but I don’t think he pays enough attention to realize it’s more than a hobby for me. Ever since my mom left—” He cuts off, the words choked. I squeeze his hand again until he gains a hold of himself. “The piano is the one thing that still connects us. She’s a world away, and I’m here, but our love for music—it’s constant. It will never go away. It’s how I keep her with me. She’s the one who flies me out for international competitions, meeting me halfway. It’s our thing. Whenever I play, it’s like she’s still with me.” He shudders and I press my shoulder against his. “I can’t imagine a future without the piano, but I don’t know if my dad or Xander will ever understand that.”

I wish you’d tell them the truth. I wish you’d do what makes you happy. I try to say the words, but I can’t.

How can I, when I’m in the same situation? I can’t tell him to apply to college any more than he can tell me to change my major.

“So what are you going to do?” I ask softly.

“I don’t know,” he says. In my peripheral vision, he ducks his head, staring at our joined hands. “All I know is that I don’t want to do what they want me to.”

The silence folds around us and my eyes grow wet with all that’s left unsaid. “I don’t want to do what my family wants, either. I want to go to Columbia for English.” My voice cracks as I say, “I want so much, but I’m afraid I’ll never have it.”

Ace sighs and offers me his other hand. I take it, and we sit in silence for the next ten minutes, his fingers tracing the lines in my palm. In the quiet, I can hear our hearts breaking.

wishing wells are for those
with fortunes much larger than I
in my pocket, I hold a single gold coin
in your pocket, you hold my heart
I carry your dreams inside my ribs
you carry mine between your hands
we board a ship sailing for the stars
hoping to wish on them instead
but then the ocean demands a price
and slowly, carefully, hopelessly,
we sink alongside our anchor
It’s only after those ten minutes that I remember it’s Friday. I turn to him in alarm, wiping my cheeks hastily. “I thought you had a family dinner?”

“My dad’s out of town,” he says but gets to his feet, helping me up. His eyes gleam with unshed tears, and I pretend not to notice for both our sakes. “I should take you home, though. I’m sorry for bringing up...you know.”

“Hey,” I say, brushing my fingers against his jaw. The touch is gentle, given without any expectations. “No saying sorry.”

He rests his forehead against mine. “No saying sorry.”

And though neither of us can heal the rift between us and our parents, between us and our dreams, I wonder if we can’t heal whatever is left. If we can’t heal together, at each other’s sides.



29


T-MINUS 16 DAYS

I hate coming to community parties.

They’re worse with my parents around, but they’re bad regardless. The problem isn’t my cousins—or at least, the problem isn’t a majority of my cousins—but rather the adults.

There are dozens of brown aunties and uncles hovering over our heads, picking us apart with their eyes and turning us to dust with their words.

The only solace is the relatives I actually like. My favorite cousin, Fatima, is sitting next to me tonight. We’re at some fancy restaurant in Queens that looks out on a glistening bay, which I’m pretty sure leads into the East River. The restaurant hosts over a hundred attendees, and waiters dressed in blue walk around offering refreshments.

Fatima is a junior in college. Despite the four-year gap between us, we’ve always banded together in favor of the horde of elementary kids running around. The only rough spot in our relationship is how uneasy I become when we talk about her academic interests. She’s majoring in biology, and I’m almost positive it wasn’t her choice.

For a moment I consider asking her how it all went down, but I’d hate to recount any fight with my own parents, so I refrain.

“So what’d you get Sana?” I ask instead, nudging a piece of butter chicken with my fork.