Counting Down with You

by Tashie Bhuiyan

  My parents are going to kill—oh.

  I falter and stare at my own hands as if they’re strangers. My parents are eight thousand miles away. They’re not here.

  “Ahmed?” Ace says, looking at me with a bemused expression. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry, I—” I don’t know how to explain the irrational anxiety that rose up inside me at seeing the time. I don’t know if he would understand. I’m not scared of my parents—but I am scared of disappointing them. “Sorry,” I finish weakly.

  “What’s going on?” His eyebrows are furrowed now. “Do you need me to take you home?”

  “No, it’s not—” I stumble, trying to find the right words. Finally, it seems easier to tell the truth, if only the bare bones of it. “I have a curfew, and I thought I broke it. But my parents are out of the country right now, so it’s fine. Just a force of habit, I guess.”

  Ace looks at his watch with a frown. “You have a curfew of 5:30 p.m.?”

  I smile bitterly. “5:15, actually.”

  He blinks at me like he’s unsure what to say, and I don’t blame him. I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know that most sixteen-year-olds have a curfew of 8:00 p.m. at the earliest. But I’m not like them. My parents are the way they are, which means there are a million things other people can do that I’ll never be able to.

  “So are you...all right? Are you going to be in trouble?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “They don’t come back for a month,” I say and bite the inside of my cheek. Ace doesn’t need to know about my family life. In fact, this conversation doesn’t need to happen at all. “I should head home anyway. We’ll reconvene tomorrow in the library? You’ll actually be there this time?”

  Ace keeps staring at me, and my stomach twists. The look on his face makes me feel like he understands more than he’s supposed to, and I’ve known him for all of a day.

  “Well?” I ask, forcing myself to speak up despite the unease weaving through me.

  He leans back in his seat and flicks his fingers in another salute. “Yeah. See you then.”

  I nod and gather my stuff in a calmer manner. I put everything away neatly before grabbing my paper plate and milkshake to throw out. “Thanks for the food.”

  Ace tilts his head, his stormy eyes meeting my dark brown ones. “Any time, Ahmed.”

  Right. I doubt he’ll even remember who I am after the Regents. Still, I wave as I head for the door. I check my texts and snort at the ninety unread messages from Nandini and Cora.

  As I walk home, I can’t help but wonder who Ace really is beneath his intense stares. Even though I don’t plan to act on it, I think I’m just as curious about him as he is about me.

  Maybe in these next three months I’ll come to know the real Ace Clyde. Based on our study session today, I don’t think I’d mind all that much if that were the case.

  8

  T-MINUS 26 DAYS

  “Myra, you look so tired,” Dadu says, pressing her wrinkled hands against my cheeks as she observes the dark circles underneath my eyes. “Did you get enough sleep last night?”

  “I’m fine, Dadu,” I say, gently pulling her hands away. “I’ll sleep a lot tonight, if that’ll make you feel better.”

  We’re sitting in the living room, Dadu and I on the couch and Samir on the floor in front of us.

  My house isn’t the largest on the block, but it’s warm and comforting. My parents worked hard to buy it, so I never let myself appear ungrateful for it. They’ve done everything they can to ensure that Samir and I have a bright future ahead of us.

  Our walls are painted sky blue, and our worn, mismatched furniture follows a similar color scheme. Surahs from the Quran hang as decoration from the walls, alongside paintings picked out by my mother. Flowerpots line the window sills, and I remind myself to water them in Baba’s absence. If his favorite marigolds die, he might burn down the entire house.

  Ma stole some books from my shelves to display on the coffee table, but right now they’re hidden beneath Samir’s overflowing folders. Half the floor is wood paneled and the rest is covered by lilac carpet. There’s a smattering of blue from when Cora, Nandini, and I dropped nail polish last time they were over, and it’s a miracle my mother hasn’t noticed the stain yet.

  Right now, a spectrum of colors is reflected against the living room walls as Samir plays a video game on the large, flat-screen television. Dadu and I both wince when a particularly gruesome death shows up on the screen.

  I have to be careful not to jump at the gunshots, especially since a plate of steaming khichuri and dimer korma sits in my lap. There’s no way my mom won’t notice—or smell—the stain if I somehow tip my plate over.

  I try to help Dadu with cooking when I can, though I’m not the best at it. We don’t talk about it a lot, but Dadu had a daughter who passed away when she was only seven. My dad barely got to know his younger sister—my would-be aunt—and no one ever brings it up for obvious reasons.

  I think that’s part of why Dadu goes easier on all the girls in our family than our actual parents do. I have a plethora of girl cousins, and she treats every single one of them with incredible tenderness, as if to make up for her loss. My paternal grandpa, Dada, used to do the same before he passed away a year ago. I can’t begin to explain how much I cherish that.

  I finish eating and set the plate down on the table before checking my phone. My feet are warm in my grandma’s lap as she reads the Bengali newspaper, her glasses sliding down her nose. Samir must have gotten it for her after his shift at the deli nearby, owned by one of my mom’s friends from the mosque.

  I send Cora and Nandini a Snapchat of Samir and caption it: omg he’s STILL hogging the TV I could be watching a rerun of rupaul’s drag race rn!!! Almost immediately they send back matching Snapchats expressing sympathy for me.

  I’m in the midst of replying when my ringtone blares, Dua Lipa’s voice blasting loud enough that I drop my phone. I forgot I left the sound on so I wouldn’t miss any of my parents’ calls.

  I huff but answer the phone, holding it in front of my face as my mother comes into view.

  “Myra, why didn’t you call us yet?” my mom demands.

  We’re off to a great start. “I’ve had a lot of homework. Sorry?”

  “Samir called us yesterday,” she says, her voice thick with accusation. I cast my brother a glare and see that he’s grinning at me. He sticks out his tongue when I catch his eye. Sometimes I think he has no idea how much his achievements highlight my failures. Other times, I think there’s no way he can be that oblivious.

  “Sorry,” I say again.

  My mom passes the phone to Nanu and Nana, who eye my flimsy T-shirt skeptically. I cross my chest with one arm and give them a forced smile. “As-salaam alaikum.”

  After several agonizing minutes of them asking about my upcoming college applications, my mom takes back the phone. I can’t help but be low-key bitter my grandparents are even awake this late, presumably to catch up with my parents on everything they’ve missed.

  “Are my plants still alive?” my dad asks, smushing his face against my mother’s. Neither of them know how to properly angle their phones for video chatting. I think that might just be a parent thing across the board.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m taking good care of them.”

  “Thank God,” he says, the lines of his face relaxing. But then he purses his lips, considering me. “How is your homework going?”

  “I have a US History term paper due soon,” I say. “I was assigned President Jimmy Carter. He’s actually pretty interesting. Did you know—”

  “What about physics?” my dad asks, as my mom’s gaze grows heavy.

  I bite my lip to withhold a sigh. Why would my parents want to hear a cool fact about Jimmy Carter anyway? “Yes, I’ve been doing my physics homework, too. We had an interest
ing lab assignment today. We had to weigh our shoes for it, so I was walking around in only my socks.”

  “And precalculus?”

  I don’t even have an answer for that one. “It’s fine.”

  My dad’s eyes narrow, mirroring my mother’s expression, but before he can say anything, I turn the phone toward my grandma. “Dadu, Baba is on the phone.”

  She looks up from her newspaper in surprise and reaches for my phone. I’m pretty sure she tunes me and Samir out half the time, unless we’re talking directly to her, and I don’t blame her.

  Ever since Dada passed away, she has these days where she’s incredibly low-spirited. I know she misses him horribly, even if she never talks about it.

  There are so many burdens she carries that I wish I could help her with, but there’s only so much I can do.

  I busy myself with taking my plate to the kitchen and washing it. When I come back, Samir is on the couch with my grandma, leaning over my phone.

  “Have you been eating enough?” my mom asks. When I take the seat next to Samir, I can see the worry etched into her expression. Again, I withhold a sigh. It’d be nice to receive some of that concern. I know my parents love and care about me, but they never show it the way they do for my brother.

  “Yeah, Ma,” Samir says, holding up his arms to flex. “Look at my muscles. They’re growing!”

  I pretend to gag, unimpressed, but he doesn’t notice, too busy kissing his nonexistent muscles.

  My mom starts cooing like she always does around Samir, and I roll my eyes, reaching for the remote to switch the channel now that he’s not playing video games anymore.

  “Hey,” he complains, trying to knock the remote out of my hand.

  “Hey what?” I say, smacking his arm. “You’re not even using the TV now. You’ve been hogging it all day.”

  “I was in the middle of something!” he says, stretching his body across mine. I wriggle out from underneath him and clutch the remote behind my back. “Myra Apu, give it back!”

  “No,” I say, pushing him away. “You use the TV every day, I just want it for an hour to—”

  “Myra, give Samir the remote.”

  I fall silent and stare at my phone, still held in my grandma’s hand. My mom doesn’t say anything else, but saying it once is enough. Almost robotically, I give my brother the remote and sit down beside my grandma.

  Between my parents, my mom has always been more strict. I think it’s because Dadu raised my dad. Yet he still follows my mom’s lead, so it’s not like it really helps.

  My maternal side tends to be more conservative in nature, even if they’re all really nice people. We clash on quite a few of our views, partly because I’m part of the Bangladeshi diaspora, and partly because my outlook on life tends to be more liberal. While I firmly believe there’s nothing wrong with being a more conservative Muslim, it’s hard to relate to my family when I feel so on the outside of what they expect from me. I try my best to always be open and understanding about how everyone interprets their faith, because I’d want the same courtesy for myself.

  I’ve always believed that Islam on its own is beautiful. Islam in the hands of people who are determined to tear others down—not as beautiful. It’s the same way with any culture, any religion. There will always be people who carry out beliefs without stopping to think of the meaning behind them, who follow without question, who don’t think about who they might hurt in the process.

  I partake in religious activities when I have the time—praying helps with my anxiety—whereas Dadu prays five times a day and constantly rereads the Quran. She’s much more religious than I am, but that’s never been a problem between us. She loves me, and I love her, and we’re both devoted to Allah in different ways.

  With my parents...things are more complicated.

  Dadu presses her leg against mine, drawing my attention to her. She offers me a small smile before turning back to my phone.

  I don’t say anything else as she bids them goodbye. Before she hangs up, my mom says, “And Myra, make sure my Hindi serials are being recorded. I want to watch them when I get back, so don’t fill up the DVR with those silly reality shows you like to watch. And be nice to your brother. We’re not there to look after him, so you have to do it.”

  “Ma,” my brother whines, dragging the word out. “Nobody needs to look out for me.”

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

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

  What were the other things Google said about coping with anxiety? Aromatherapy? Maybe I need to buy some candles.

  “Myra?”

  My grandma is holding out my phone, the screen dark. I take it and start to get off the couch, but before I can, my grandma wraps her fingers around my wrist. “What were you saying earlier?”

  My brain feels like it’s filled with white noise. “What?”

  “About that president you like. What did he do?”

  “Uh...” I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. President... Oh. I didn’t realize she was paying attention. “Right. So President Jimmy Carter ran for governor of Georgia before he was president. He campaigned on a super Republican-esque platform while being a Democrat and basically said he would support racism against Black people, which is obviously whack. But then when he was elected, he was all like just kidding! and said Black people deserve the same opportunities as everyone else and should be treated equally. All the racist people who voted for him were so appalled because they thought he would support their views, but he really just scammed them into voting for him. Isn’t that interesting?”

  I’m not sure Dadu caught half of what I said, because I started interspersing English with Bengali halfway through, but she’s beaming like she understands, so I’ll take it. “Very interesting.”

  A smile finally graces my lips. “Thanks, Dadu.”

  She runs a hand over the back of my head affectionately. “Always, Myra.”

  I return to my room, hoping to find a distraction when I catch sight of the clock. I still have time to do the Isha prayer. I head for my closet, grabbing a headscarf and a janamaz prayer mat. Maybe this will help with the unease still coursing through me.

  As I set my phone down, an Instagram notification appears at the top of my screen. Ace Clyde (@AlistairClyde) has requested to follow you.

  I stare at it for several moments before accepting. His profile is on private, but I press the button to follow back anyway, and wait for him to accept my follow request in return.

  In the meantime, I send a screenshot to Nandini and Cora and ignore the twenty texts of screaming that follow, returning to my janamaz. Still, I’m tempted to join them. With the way things are playing out, I can only imagine what tomorrow will bring.

  9

  T-MINUS 25 DAYS

  The school library is different. Nothing about it is out of place compared to yesterday, but it’s definitely different. It feels like everyone is holding their breath, waiting for something.

  Or maybe it’s just me.

  Xander Clyde, student body president and Ace’s brother, appears in my peripheral vision. I watch surreptitiously as he peruses the aisle ahead of me, looking through cookbooks.

  I blink.

  He finally seems to find the one he’s looking for and, when he turns the cover my way, I glimpse something about Italian recipes.

  Huh.

  Xander makes for the self-checkout and I look away, returning to my task of finding another copy of The Scarlet Letter so Ace and I don’t have to share mine. I spot it on the upper shelves and grimace. The upper shelves are my enemies.

  I stretch on my tiptoes. I’m almost there, my fingers brushing against the spine, when someone laughs behind me and I jump, my hand knocking into the book. It falls forward, nearly smacking me in the face on its way d
own.

  I part my lips, too shocked to fully process it. What—?

  A hand reaches for the book at my feet, and when I look up, Ace is standing there with mirth lining his eyes. He looks like the midnight sky, from the dark vastness of the night to the bright moon and shining stars, and it’s slowly driving me up the wall.

  “You could have just asked someone for help.” He looks far too self-satisfied as he leans against a shelf, and I can’t help the indignant noise I release.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the book. I don’t wait for a response, walking past him and back to my table. As I make my way through the aisles, I curse at myself for getting riled up over nothing.

  His footsteps sound behind me, and I withhold the urge to roll my eyes. At least he showed up on time today.

  As I sit down, he says, “You seem tired,” while looking me over.

  I am tired. But that’s too much information. I don’t want him to assume my exhaustion is because of his little Instagram spectacle.

  In reality, I’m tired because I spent the better part of last night scouring the internet for better anxiety-coping mechanisms. I decided to try them out for a few days each, to see what sticks. The first one I picked was writing down my thoughts, but even if it does help, I know it won’t be instantaneous.

  But I’ll always have my countdown for that. Nandini found the technique on TikTok and sent it to me a few months ago. I’ve adopted it as mine ever since.

  When I look up, Ace is still watching me. I feel too hot and too small in my oversized sweater, the sleeves slipping over my wrists. After the phone call with my parents yesterday, I didn’t have it in me to wear a crop top again today.

  “Thanks,” I say and point to our books. “Let’s study.”

  “Hold on.” Ace disappears between the shelves. I stare after him for a moment before sighing, burying my face in my hands.

  Even though I can feel my exhaustion viscerally, I didn’t realize I looked tired. I never wear makeup, mostly because I’m lazy, but I should’ve done the bare minimum and put some color corrector beneath my eyes. I’m sure Nandini would’ve let me borrow hers if I’d thought to ask. We have a similar light brown skin tone.