Counting Down with You(77)

“I’m okay.” Fatima offers me a thin smile. That’s hardly a good sign.

Now that I’m paying attention, there’s a clear tension in the air.

“I like your salwar kameez,” I say instead of prying. Whatever’s bothering her is probably better discussed out of earshot of her parents.

“Thanks,” she says, glancing down at the material. It’s a pretty orange color, a fading sunset, with exquisite purple designs woven in. I wonder if I can find something similar in Ma’s closet. “I like yours, too.”

Ya Allah, this is awkward. She keeps eyeing her parents in a way that’s making me increasingly uncomfortable.

“Do you want to watch something?” I ask. I’d suggest abandoning the room altogether, but I probably shouldn’t leave before I have a chance to properly talk to her parents.

“Sure,” Fatima says, and I click on the newest Netflix original movie.

Ten minutes into watching it, I understand Fatima’s uneasiness.

“Fatima decided to double major in biology and psychology,” Pooja Auntie says to Dadu, mouth curled in an unattractive sneer.

Oh jeez. Psychology isn’t scientific enough for a lot of brown parents. I know this because I’ve asked my parents about it halfheartedly in the past, and they looked at me like I’d asked for a million dollars.

This explains what Fatima wanted to talk to Dadu about. I sigh internally, knowing even Dadu can’t ward off the contempt radiating from Fatima’s parents.

“Now she has to stay in her undergrad for another year,” Mustafa Uncle says, rubbing his temples. “It’s horrible.”

“I chose to stay in my undergrad for another year,” Fatima says, her voice sullen.

A small part of me is jealous of Fatima for pursuing what she wants, which is probably a bad thing. No, it’s definitely a bad thing, because her parents look like they’re one word away from dragging her outside and screaming at her.

“It’s embarrassing, Fatima,” Mustafa Uncle says, shaking his head. “You should have finished your biology degree. Now med school is going to be postponed.”

If I tell my parents I want to pursue English, they’re going to look at me the way Fatima’s parents are looking at her right now. They’ll never be able to forgive me, much less speak to me again. My heart constricts at the thought.

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

As discreetly as possible, I reach toward the center table and open one of the drawers, pulling out a candle and lighter. Within seconds, the scent of lavender fills the room, and my muscles relax infinitesimally.

“This isn’t the place for this, Mustafa,” Dadu says, giving her eldest son a hard look before turning a warmer gaze toward Fatima. “I’m very excited for you, dear. You’re going to do amazing. Mashallah.”

Fatima’s expression lightens, and I’m glad to see it. As always, Dadu is ready to stand between us and the world. “Thank you, Dadu.”

I can’t help but wonder why her parents are like this. I wish I knew how all five of Dadu’s sons ended up being so harsh and strict when she’s always been anything but. At least in my case, I know it’s because of my maternal side, but everyone else is a mystery. I wonder if this is why Dadu feels like she’s failing us. Because somehow, despite her best efforts, her sons turned out into exactly what she tried to avoid.

It’s easier for men, I guess. Traditional ways cater to them. But I would think—I would hope—being around Dadu would set them off those ways.

And yet here sits my cousin, as miserable as me. And here sit her parents, as hell-bent on shaping her into something she’s not as my own.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance at it quickly. thinking of u. text me if u feel up to it.

Ace’s words cause my heart to skip a beat. Lionheart, I think to myself, recalling the playlist that’s been on a loop in my head since yesterday.

A burst of adrenaline rushes through me and I say, “I think it’s really cool, what you’re doing.”

Fatima looks at me, eyes wide. I don’t think she expected me to say something. I wasn’t even expecting it. “Thank you, Myra.”

I nod and try to ignore the way her parents are staring at me. Fatima looks relieved. Even if my words result in blowback, it’s okay if I helped her feel better.

“And what have you been doing in school, Myra?” my aunt asks sharply. “Samir told us all about his robotics club. Are you in something similar?”

I should have expected that. “I’m in Pre-Med Society,” I say, the words heavy on my tongue.

“I see,” my aunt says before turning her gaze toward my brother. “Samir, won’t you tell us about your last competition? Your mom said you guys came in first.”

“Of course, Pooja Auntie,” Samir says with a grin. “I actually have a competition tomorrow, too, but I’m not as worried as last time. I really thought we’d lose.”

I roll my eyes. I remember his last competition. He didn’t look distressed. In fact, he looked as confident as ever.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Samir,” Mustafa Uncle says, clapping him on the back. “You’re on the track to MIT at this rate. Making the whole family proud.”

“I was actually thinking of CalTech,” my brother says, sudden affliction passing across his face. He chews on his bottom lip and asks, “Do you think Ma and Baba will let me go?”