Counting Down with You(69)

Oh no.

Oh no.

I left him alone for half an hour and he went and blew my cover. I shouldn’t have put any faith in him. How could I be so stupid?

“What did he say?” I ask, my heart racing. Ten, nine, eight—

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Myra.”

I nod, my leg jiggling up and down. “Okay. Okay. I’m gonna go talk to him.”

“I love you,” Dadu says as I stand, squeezing my hand. “I gave you permission to go outside with him. Okay? Tell them that.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven—“I love you, too.”

I take the steps two at a time, hurrying to Samir’s room. I knock once before letting myself in without waiting for his response.

“What did you tell Ma and Baba?”

He looks up from his laptop, bemused. “About what?”

“About going outside with Ace and his sister, Samir. Don’t play dumb,” I say, my jaw so tense I’m afraid it’s going to break. I can’t believe he told them. I can’t believe that, after he promised me, after I asked him not to, he told them. “What did you tell Ma and Baba? You promised me.”

“Nothing,” he says, giving me a strange look. “They asked me what I did today, so I told them we hung out with the dude you were tutoring. I didn’t mention anything about the crush. I wouldn’t break a promise. What’s the big deal?”

The big deal is that Ace is a boy and they’re going to kill me. The big deal is that Ace isn’t Bangladeshi or Muslim and they’re going to kill me. The big deal is that I trusted you to understand when you never will and they’re going to kill me. The big deal is that you don’t think before you speak and now they’re. going. to. kill. me.

“How could you do that, Samir? God, you’re the worst,” I say as my throat tightens painfully, and I turn, ignoring the way his face falls as I leave his room.

In the privacy of my own walls, I brace myself for the conversation I’m about to have.

I light three different candles and take a deep breath.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

In and out. Inhale and exhale.

I press call.

“Myra,” my dad says. Already, there’s heavy disappointment in his voice. I wish for once, for once, he would take my side when it matters. I know it’s too much to ask of my mother, but he was raised by Dadu. Just once, can’t he let me have this? “Samir said you were outside with a boy today.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. There’s only one card that’s going to let me go unscathed: the reminder this is all for school. “Yes. I’m tutoring him because my teacher asked me to.”

“On a Saturday?” my mom asks. Even through a phone screen, she’s intimidating. “You should have told your teacher it’s against your religion to be alone with a boy.”

Stop blaming your rules on our religion. I don’t say that. It won’t matter to them.

“We’re never alone,” I lie. “We always study in the library, so there are lots of people around.”

“What are you tutoring him in?” my dad asks, eyes narrowed.

This isn’t going to go over well. I inhale deeply and murmur, “English.”

A silence follows before my dad shakes his head at me. “That’s a waste of your time. Assisting your teacher is one thing, but tutoring this random boy one-on-one is another. If we’d known Miss Cannon was going to leave you on your own, we wouldn’t have agreed to let you help her. You should be focusing on science anyway. Samir said you do this every day.”

I want to strangle my brother for his obliviousness. Why would he ever tell my parents that? It wasn’t enough to say I was tutoring a boy, he had to go into depth about it? I never took him to be that clueless.

“It counts as a grade,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. The copper taste of blood floods my mouth. “Miss Cannon is substituting it for one of my projects.”

My mom scowls. “So? Tell your teacher you can’t do it anymore. She can’t force you to tutor this boy if you don’t want to.”

But I do want to. Maybe it was a forced situation in the beginning, but it’s far from that now.

“Private tutoring will look good on college applications,” I say instead, lowering my gaze.

“Yeah, and will bowling with him look good on college applications, too?” Ma asks. “What were you thinking, Myra? How could you be so irresponsible?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, but I know it’s a futile attempt.

“Oh, is that so? You don’t think you did anything wrong?” My mom looks at my dad, clear disappointment written in her gaze, causing my blood to curdle. In response, my dad’s own expression darkens. It’s always like this. As soon as she’s upset, he follows suit. I hate it so much. “This is the daughter we’ve raised. Imagine what people will say once they find out. Astaghfirullah.”

Why does anyone care? I want to scream. Why do people care how I spend my time? Why do my parents care what those people think? What does it matter?

“It was just one time,” I say, and my voice cracks, making me wince. They’ll see it as another sign of weakness. “It’s not a big deal, Ma.”