Ace sighs, leaning farther back into the couch. “He’s definitely going to die.”
I laugh again and shove his arm after making sure Dadu isn’t looking. “Just watch the movie.”
As we’re watching, Ace’s phone keeps buzzing. He glances at it a few times and irritation flickers across his face before he puts it away without replying. I’m tempted to ask, but it’s not my business.
One of my favorite dance numbers comes on, and Ace nudges my foot. “How come you never dress up like that?”
I roll my eyes, though I’ve also been imagining myself in Naina’s shimmery lehenga. “She hasn’t been dressed up for the entire movie, Ace.”
“Yeah, but she’s dressed up now.”
“This is her engagement party!”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“Say what?”
“That someone needs to propose to you in order for you to dress up. You know, technically, I did prompose, so maybe you could wear one to prom—”
“Oh my God, be quiet.”
Ace makes an mhmm sound but mimes zipping his lips shut when I shoot him a glare.
A scene with Aman’s doctor comes up, and my skin crawls. It must show on my face, because Ace reaches forward to pause the film. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
He frowns. “You’re shaking.”
I glance at my hand and realize my fingers are trembling. Ugh. I should’ve been more careful when choosing a film. I’m always extra sensitive the day after an anxiety attack, and things trigger me more easily. Right now, apparently seeing a doctor on the screen is enough to make my body protest.
I take a deep breath, trying to inhale the scent of cinnamon in the room. It helps a little. “Um...it’s just. Doctors.”
“Are you scared of them?” he asks, sounding baffled. His gaze darts to the candle on the table in front of us, and his eyes narrow before he looks back at me. “I thought you were in Pre-Med Society.”
I smile faintly. “You would remember that.”
“Don’t change the subject, Ahmed.”
Damn. I wasn’t even trying to change the subject. I guess we’re having this conversation then. “It’s just...my parents want me to be a doctor. I don’t really want to be one, but I don’t think I have much of a choice at this point. It is what it is, I guess.”
Ace turns his entire body toward me, his expression uncertain. “What do you mean you don’t have a choice?”
I play with a loose thread of my blanket. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to let my parents down.”
“What do you want to do?” Ace asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“If it matters to you, it matters,” he says softly. “What is it?”
I lean my head against the back of the couch and loll it to the side to look at him. “English. But my parents don’t think that’s a real degree.”
Ace’s gaze is heavy. “Why not? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I laugh hoarsely. “I’m sixteen. I don’t have the answer to that. Do you know what you want to be?”
Ace hesitates oddly. “No,” he says, and it sounds like a lie. Before I can press, he follows with, “But you’re so hardworking and focused. You must have some idea what you want to be. A teacher? A journalist? A lawyer?”
I bite my bottom lip, the tiny seedling of a dream eagerly sprouting to life between my ribs. “I think being a teacher would be cool. But I don’t know. There are so many options.”
“That’s a real career, Ahmed. What about that isn’t a real career?” Ace asks, his thick brows furrowed in genuine confusion.
I sigh, wishing there was an easy way to explain. Even Nandini and Cora often grow frustrated with me when it comes to this. They insist my dreams of pursuing English are just as valid as any other. I don’t know how to say I know, but who’s going to tell my parents that?
Even now with Ace, I’m empty of words. He’s asking because he cares, just like my friends, but at the end of the day, none of it matters.
“It’s just not in the cards for me,” I say quietly. “Can we continue the movie?”
Ace observes my countenance for a moment before he presses play.
Ten minutes later, I’m bawling as Shah Rukh Khan’s character, Aman, runs for his life.
Ace silently passes me three tissues, and I nod gratefully. His phone buzzes and, this time, he flicks the side of the screen, switching it to silent.
Five minutes from the end of the movie, I look over to see that Ace is crying, too. He’s not bawling like me, but there’s definitely a tear sliding down his cheek.
I want to poke fun at him for it, but it’s sweet. He notices me watching him and hastily wipes at his face.
“What?” he asks defensively. “That was sad, Ahmed.”
I offer him a watery smile. “Ready to watch another one?”
Ace glances hesitantly at the tissue box. “Will it be as sad?”
“Maybe not as sad. This one kind of takes the cake.”
He nods slowly. “Put it on.”
We switch movies and he reaches forward to grab the paper bag he brought, pulling out a container of soup and plastic bowls. “Here, you should try to have some of this before it gets cold.”
“You’re such a mother hen,” I say, the realization causing fondness to spring up inside me.
Ace sticks out his tongue in reply and ladles soup into a bowl for me. He glances at his phone again, and his expression grows darker. When he notices me looking, his features soften and he hands me a spoon. “I hope you like shrimp.”
Ten minutes into the movie, I reach forward to pause it.
“What?” Ace asks, looking me over. “Is everything okay?”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to figure out how to express my gratitude. Finally, nothing seems to encompass it as wholly as, “Thank you.”
His expression shifts with surprise and he tilts his head. “For what?”
I flush, feeling small under his inquisitive gaze. “I don’t know. For bringing me soup and watching Bollywood films with me, I guess. Just being you.”
Ace looks even more surprised at that. “You’re thanking me for being me?”
For the first time in days, I feel shy in front of Ace. I duck my head and offer him a bashful smile. “Yeah, I am. For being you and not who others expect you to be.” I shrug, my heart fluttering uncomfortably in my chest.
He’s smiling now, his dimples digging craters into his cheeks. I can’t help but think I’ve never seen someone so alarmingly beautiful in my entire life.
“You’re kind of wonderful, you know that?” I add unthinkingly. Before I can fumble over my misstep, his grin becomes impossibly wider.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Ahmed,” Ace says before he checks over my shoulder—for Dadu, probably—then reaches over, taking my hand in his, and squeezing.
Dadu’s words about Dada linger in the back of my head, about him turning out to be different from what she expected.
Ace isn’t exactly what I had in mind, either.
27
T-MINUS 17 DAYS
We’re figuring out a third movie when Dadu calls us for lunch. Ace looks a little wary. I understand why a second later when he whispers, “Is it going to be really spicy?”
I struggle not to laugh. “You’re so white,” I say, without considering whether I should watch my tongue.
Before I can regret it, Ace sighs and nods. “Mia tells me all the time. So is my tongue going to fall off?”
I snort. “You don’t have to eat it if it’s too spicy.”
Ace gives me a sharp look. “Your grandmother made it. Of course I have to eat it.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, grinning. He wants to impress my g
randma. I don’t know why that makes me so stupidly happy. “I don’t eat things that are super spicy.”
“So it’s...not spicy?”
“No, Ace, it’s not.” Probably. Today would be the day that Dadu decides to throw all caution to the wind in order to spite the random white boy in our house.
It turns out Dadu made pulao with chicken korma on the side, which is the best. Definitely not spicy. Still, I almost wish I could have seen the look on Ace’s face if my grandma had made shutki.
I move to help Dadu in the kitchen, but Ace waves me away. “I’ve got this.”
I raise my eyebrows but stay silent as he goes to help my grandma carry the food to the dining table. I can already hear her praising him for his manners. Being polite always wins points with Dadu.
As I sit down, my phone starts ringing with a FaceTime call from Nandini. I glance at the top of my screen and realize it’s almost 4:00 p.m., which means they’re out of school.
I hesitate but ultimately pick up. Nandini and Cora’s faces come into view on the screen and they’re grinning at me. “Hey babe, how are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say honestly. Being at home and watching feel-good movies is always helpful and relieving for my anxiety.
“Mrs. Ahmed, this smells incredible,” Ace says to my grandma as they come into the dining room together, her holding a plate of tuna kebabs and him holding the entire pot of pulao.
“Thank you, Alistair,” Dadu says, using her limited English.
“What did your Dadu just say?” Cora asks, her voice raising several octaves. “Did she just say thank you to someone named Alistair?”
I sigh and turn the camera around, giving them a perfect view of Dadu and Ace maneuvering around each other as they set out table mats.
Ace notices the camera and raises his eyebrows at me. Before I can protest, he comes around the other side to lean his chin on my chair, right behind my shoulder. He flips the camera and waves at Nandini and Cora. “I brought Karina soup.”
“I could have made you soup,” my grandma says under her breath, making me giggle.
She shoots me a fond look and disappears into the kitchen.
Ace nudges me. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, trying to keep my expression straight. I don’t think I manage, because Ace shakes his head at me, and he’s so close his nose brushes my cheek. I hold my breath, my gaze darting to Dadu, but she’s too busy washing dishes to pay attention to us. Still, I shift minutely away, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Ace blinks at me, before his eyes lighten with understanding. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say quietly, offering him a small smile. “She didn’t notice.”
“If you two are quite finished,” Nandini says, drawing my attention back to my phone. “Ace, why didn’t you say something? We would’ve come with you.”
I roll my eyes. “He cut class to be here. Please don’t follow his example.”
Cora whispers something unintelligible to Nandini and then looks dead at the camera. “Ace, can we speak to you privately?”
Ace shrugs. “Sure.”
“Wait, what—?”
He grabs the phone out of my hand and walks away. I blink after him in bemusement, but don’t protest. I think if I did, they’d just call Ace instead and repeat this all over again.
“I’ll see you in five minutes!” Ace says and disappears into the foyer. I hear the sound of the front door opening and shake my head in exasperation.
I start carefully piling food on my plate when something lights up in the corner of my vision. I realize it’s Ace’s phone, left unattended. I glance at it and freeze, staring at the screen.
He has ten unread texts and three missed calls from his father, twenty unread texts and one missed call from Xander, and one unread text from Mia.
I flip the phone over out of respect for his privacy, but I’m flabbergasted. Why doesn’t he call back his family? Has he been ignoring them the whole time he’s been here?
Ace returns a few minutes later, a sparkle in his eye as he sits next to me. I frown uncertainly, sliding him his phone. “I think your family is trying to get in touch with you.”
He shakes his head, waving dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Here’s your phone.” He hands it to me. “Damn, Ahmed. Your friends can be terrifying when they want to be.”
I stiffen, glancing between my phone and him. No. I have to believe they wouldn’t embarrass me like that. “Did they threaten you?”
“Just a little,” he says, scooping food onto his plate. Dadu comes in halfway and takes over, piling on immense servings from each dish while Ace watches with wide eyes.
“He’s a growing boy, he needs to eat,” Dadu says to me, pouring us both water.
I laugh, reaching over to squeeze her wrist. “You can let him starve, Dadu. I don’t mind.”
“Myra, stop,” Dadu admonishes in English, whacking the top of my head with a dish towel, making me laugh harder. She switches back to Bengali. “He brought you soup.”
“You just said you could have made me soup!” I say in protest.
She harrumphs and leaves the dining room after flicking me gently on the ear. I grin after her as she heads upstairs to pray Asr. When I turn back to Ace, he’s still staring at the mountain of food on his plate.
“Am I supposed to eat all of this?”
“Hey, you’re the one that wanted to impress my grandma,” I say, shrugging a shoulder. “Back to my friends threatening you. What exactly was said?”
“I was told if I revealed anything about our conversation, my balls would be stapled to a tree,” he says, poking his tuna kebab. “Ahmed, this is so much food. What am I going to do with all of this?”
I sigh. “As Dadu said, you’re a growing boy, you need to eat.”
“Did she actually say that?” There’s a pained expression on his face. “I guess I have to eat it all, then.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, clapping him on the back. “If it helps, it tastes delicious.”
He sighs but takes a spoonful of food.
Unsurprisingly, after he takes the first bite, the rest go by much faster. I wasn’t exaggerating. Dadu is a great cook, and pulao is her specialty.
Halfway done, he turns to me, his head tilted. “Why did your grandma call you Myra?”
“In Bengali, we have two names,” I say, forking a piece of chicken. “One is our official name that’s on legal documents. Mine is Karina, obviously. But we have another nickname of sorts that we call each other within the community, and mine is Myra. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of my younger brother, but he’s in the same year as Mia. His name is Rafiq Ahmed, but I call him Samir, because that’s his community nickname.”
“That’s cool,” Ace says. “So only other Bengali people can call you Myra?”
“No, I guess anyone can, but most people don’t know it’s an option.”
“It’s a pretty name,” he says and reaches forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my skin, and a wave of heat descends over me, but I manage to retain eye contact. “But I like Karina better.”
“And yet you only ever refer to me as Ahmed,” I say, teasing. “Perhaps I should start calling you Clyde.”
Ace makes a face, his spoon halfway to his mouth, and I burst into giggles.
“Let’s stick with Ace,” he says, but there’s laughter hidden in the twist of his mouth. “And I’ll call you by your name, too. What do you think, Karina?”
My smile nearly splits my face in half. “I think I’d like that, Ace.”
* * *
I’m heading to bed when Dadu calls me back from her own doorway. “Myra, can I talk to you for a second?”
I pause halfway to my room and look back at her. “Of course. What’s going on?”
>
Dadu grimaces. “That Alistair boy...is he your friend?”
My chest collapses. Why don’t I ever think? I shouldn’t have humored Ace. Of course Dadu wouldn’t embarrass me in front of him, but that doesn’t mean she approves, no matter how careful we were to keep our distance. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. “He’s—no, no. I have to tutor him. We’re just classmates.”
My grandma’s frown deepens. “You two seemed very close. I’m unsure if you should...continue in this manner. I don’t know if your parents would approve.”
Oh God. There’s never been a situation where Dadu hasn’t supported me. This is the first one and of course, of course, it’s because of Ace.
In the back of my head, I knew I was pushing it. I’m not dating Ace, but whatever it is that’s between us is forbidden, and I know that. My parents would have a conniption if they knew I was spending this much time with any kind of boy, regardless of race or religion.
This friendship—this fake romance—all of it breaks unspoken rules. Spending time with him alone, flirting when no one is looking, accepting his invitation to prom; none of it is allowed. Even three weeks is too many.
I thought if I kept it secret, it would all be okay. But in doing that, I’m asking the universe of my grandma, when she’s already given me the world.
Dadu is a saint, but even she has to have limits. In this case, I don’t even think they’re her limits, so much as the limits of my parents she feels obligated to uphold.
I have a feeling if it were up to Dadu, she’d let me do whatever makes me happy. That’s the kind of person her experiences have shaped her into—from Dada, to the expectations put in place by her older brothers and parents, to the young girl she never had a chance to raise.
But my parents are still a part of this, even when they’re not here. No matter what, they always will be.
My mouth is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “It’s just for school. He’s just a study buddy. It’s nothing serious.”
Dadu sighs and takes my hand. “Just be careful, Myra. I don’t want to see this end poorly for you.”
I nod. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. “Don’t worry about it, Dadu. I doubt you’ll ever see him again.”
Counting Down with You Page 17
