Counting Down with You(61)
“I don’t have a goody-two-shoes reputation,” I say calmly, even as my heart starts racing.
Some of my most-trusted cousins follow me on social media, only because I know none of them would ever do anything like what Sana did. Still, I didn’t expect Fatima to bring it up.
We all have things that go unspoken. Half my cousins post pictures in which they’re wearing shorts and crop tops, flaunting hidden tattoos and piercings, and even drinking or smoking—all things that are strictly forbidden by our parents—and I always silently like their posts and move on.
No one ever brings attention to the things we do behind our parents’ backs. And yet, here we are, talking about Ace anyway.
Fatima rolls her eyes. “Yeah, Myra, you do. You’re obviously not Sana over there, and thank Allah for that, but you definitely play by your parents’ rules a lot more than some of us.”
A lot of my cousins are more vocal about their displeasure when it comes to some of our restrictions. Samina, who wants to go to college in California and is being manipulated into staying in New York. Naureen, whose brother told their parents about her Filipino boyfriend—taking away all her freedom. Arun, who acts too feminine for his family’s taste and had all of his clothes and makeup thrown away without warning.
But it’s not always like that. There are so many wonderful Bangladeshi parents out there.
For example, Maheer, whose mother is probably my coolest aunt. She supports his dream of becoming an actor, even if it means spending all her time working in order to afford his private acting lessons. Or Liana, whose family promised her she could go to college wherever she wanted, and they’d move with her whenever she made her decision. Their parents are willing to hear them out and understand their side and support their hopes and dreams.
Then there’s me.
My case isn’t quite as extreme as some of the others, so Fatima’s comment makes sense. I’ve never spoken out against my parents and, at this rate, I don’t know if I ever will. It doesn’t mean I agree with the way they act, but I’m not exactly actively fighting it.
I know a lot of my cousins hate their parents, but I don’t hate mine. I love them and, in some ways, that’s worse. If my parents ever kicked me out, I think I’d still miss them.
Because of that, I’ve always kept under the radar. Since no one knows my English aspirations, this thing with Ace is my first visible act of going against my family’s rules.
“He’s just a friend,” I say eventually for lack of anything better.
Fatima snorts. “I saw your friends’ comments on the post. Cora and Nandini, right? They have a ship name for you two.”
“They’re just being silly,” I say, looking at my plate.
“Is that right?” Fatima says, her voice teasing, but then there’s a visible shift in the air. “Listen... I want you to be happy, but I know your parents. If you’re going to rebel, maybe start smaller. I don’t think dating some random white guy will go over well.”
I know, I almost say.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
Every time someone reminds me how out of place my relationship with Ace is, my heart sinks lower and lower.
I am taking a huge risk with Ace. I know my parents, too, and I know Fatima is right. If they ever find out, they will in all likelihood murder me and bury my body in our backyard.
I lock those thoughts up tight in the back of my head. That’s the least of my problems right now. If I’m going to fight my parents over something, it’s going to be my English degree.
“Don’t worry.” The words burn as they leave my throat. “I know better.”
30
T-MINUS 15 DAYS
My brother and I are sitting in the living room, basking in the midafternoon light, when the doorbell rings. I glance up from my book.
Samir is on the floor in front of me with a biology textbook cracked open and his phone in his hand, his fingers moving rapidly. It must be his friends.
“Are you going to get that?” I ask.
Samir groans dramatically. “Okay, you don’t have to whine.”
I roll my eyes and turn a page.
“It’s for you,” Samir says as he comes back, a set of matching footsteps following him. “That dude you tutor is here.”
I look up and freeze at the sight of Ace standing in my house, holding a bouquet of flowers. His leather jacket is missing, replaced by a fancy mustard coat overlaying a cashmere navy sweater. Even his hair is combed through, although a few dark waves slip free, falling into his sea-colored eyes.
“Oh my God,” I say under my breath. Is he out of his mind? Showing up at my house with flowers? I’m going to die. My family is going to legitimately strangle me. I should’ve taken Fatima’s warning more seriously. “What are you doing here?”
“Is your Dadu home?” he asks instead of answering. I contemplate walking over and shaking him, but that would make the entire situation worse.
This is my fault. I should’ve said something last time he showed up unannounced, but I didn’t think there would be a repeat occurrence.
At the sound of her name, Dadu appears in the kitchen doorway. She looks at Ace and then at me, eyebrows raised.
For a moment, sheer panic overcomes me. Only Allah knows what kind of assumptions Dadu is going to draw from this.