Counting Down with You

by Tashie Bhuiyan

  Or if we have, we don’t talk about it. It’s almost taboo to bring up her name.

  It’s frustrating not being able to do more for Nabila. I’ve seen support groups for Bangladeshi queer youth on social media before, so it’s comforting to know that there is a safe space within our community, but it sucks that we can’t always count on our parents to be a part of it.

  I just wish we could all live our lives in peace, without these expectations that seem to dictate our every breath.

  When everything went down with Nabila, I reached out over Instagram almost immediately afterward. She told me not to worry and that she’d moved in with her best friend. From her posts on her private social media accounts, she seems almost happier nowadays. But I don’t know if I can rely on social media for the whole truth. She’s definitely safer, but I can only hope she’s happier.

  I don’t know if I would be.

  The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I wish everything didn’t have to be so... I wish a lot of things. I know my parents aren’t bad people, and I know they want the best for me, but I’m almost certain their definition of best isn’t the same as mine.

  My dad leans too much into my mother. I think it’s easier for him that way. But it certainly isn’t easy for me—I have to bear the consequences of having two parents who look down on me whenever I take one wrong step.

  It’s hard, because I know they love me somewhere deep down. I know they’re not acting maliciously. And yet it doesn’t change the fact that their beliefs don’t always align with my own. It doesn’t change the fact that I have to often sit here and pretend to be someone I’m not. I wish they were more like Dadu or my other relatives, who accept and support their kids no matter what. I know it doesn’t have to be like this, so why is it?

  I glance across the restaurant to where Sana is sitting on a fake throne, smiling brightly as an auntie talks to her. I wonder if she regrets what she did to Nabila. I can’t imagine living with that weight.

  Maybe it’s not even a weight to her. Maybe she genuinely thinks she did the right thing.

  That’s somehow even more horrifying.

  “We got her a gift card in the end. What did you get Sana?” Fatima asks, poking my arm, bringing me back to the conversation.

  I shrug, trying to push away any remaining dark thoughts. “Dadu and I picked out some perfume. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “That’s a safe present,” Fatima says. “Where is Dadu anyway?”

  I glance around and catch Samir’s gaze briefly as he goofs around with some of our cousins. He wiggles his brows, and I roll my eyes, ignoring him in favor of seeking out a white saree. I finally spot Dadu near the drinks. “Over there,” I say, inclining my head with a fond smile.

  Dadu has been making her rounds, and my youngest cousins follow her around like little ducklings. Any time she sits down, people trip over themselves to grab the seat next to her.

  “Oh.” Fatima’s shoulders slump. “I needed to talk to her about...never mind.”

  My brows knit. Fatima is usually my polar opposite—outspoken and confident. Seeing her despondent feels wrong.

  “Can I help?” I ask.

  Fatima’s mouth quirks. “I don’t think so, Myra. But thank you.”

  “Let me know, though,” I say, playing with the gold churi on my wrists. “Even if it’s just to talk about whatever’s bothering you, I’m here.”

  “I know,” Fatima says, smiling before her expression shifts. “Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh God, that’s not a good sign,” I say, grimacing. “All right, hit me with it. What did I do wrong?”

  Fatima shakes her head and bumps shoulders with mine. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Relax. I was just curious—there was a boy on your Instagram the other day...are you finally breaking away from your goody-two-shoes reputation?”

  “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 fl
oor 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.

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

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

  Dadu is still staring at me, so I shrug helplessly. I have no idea why he’s here.

  Ace holds the flowers toward Dadu. “I brought these to say thank you for hosting me the other day.”

  I’ve never seen Dadu shocked before, but I’m pretty sure I’m seeing it now, her eyes wide and lips parted. I don’t think she understands what he said or why he’s offering her flowers. To be fair, I barely understand. I glance at Samir, but he doesn’t seem to find any of this strange, which is the only source of relief among all the screaming white noise in my head.

  “Myra, what’s going on?” Dadu asks me.

  I hold my hands out defensively. “He wants to thank you for feeding him.”

  “Oh.” My grandma softens and takes the flowers. “You’re welcome.”

  Ace looks over at me and my brother hopefully. “I was wondering if you both would like to join my sister and me. We’re going bowling, and we’d love some company.”

  “Both?” Samir and I say at the same time. His tone excited, mine horrified. Of all things, why did it have to be bowling?

  “Yeah,” Ace says, nodding. “My sister is waiting in the car, if you want to join.” He glances at my grandma. “If it’s okay with you, Mrs. Ahmed.”

  There’s a moment of stark silence after I nervously translate. Ace probably doesn’t notice, but I’m hyperaware of it. There’s no way Dadu will say yes, which is definitely for the best. I don’t want my brother and Ace anywhere near each other, because it’ll inevitably get back to my parents.

  But missing out will still suck.

  I hold my breath, waiting and waiting and waiting for the blow.

  Finally, Dadu looks away from Ace and glances at me. “Okay. If Myra says yes.”

  Wait, what?

  “Really?” I say in disbelief. Dadu has always had my back, but this isn’t something I thought she’d budge on.

  Dadu considers me for another moment before nodding. “Yeah, Myra. He brought me flowers. You can go bowling with him.” She pauses. “Your Dada would always bring me flowers, too.”

  Oh my God, only Ace would unwittingly charm my grandmother.

  Samir looks at me hopefully. He might love bowling, but the risk of going with him and Ace...

  My brother keeps pouting at me and my resolve finally breaks. “Fine. I’ll get dressed.” Still, I have to figure out a way to make sure Samir doesn’t slip up and tell our parents something he’s not supposed to. I can’t risk it. I won’t risk it.

  Both Ace and Samir cheer obnoxiously. I open my mouth to tell my brother to come upstairs with me but, before I can, Samir rushes toward the foyer and puts on his shoes. “Wait, before you leave—” I say, but he waves me off.

  “Tell me in the car,” he says, far too eager, and slips through the door.

  I stare after him woefully. Mia and Ace will be in the car. I definitely can’t talk to him with them around.

  I sigh and head upstairs, hoping I’ll have a moment alone with Samir once we’re at the bowling alley.

  In my room, I stare at my wardrobe in distress before plucking something from the back, where the clothes I hide from my mother reside. I slip on a tank top and skinny jeans with holes in the knees. The jeans aren’t that bad, but wearing something without sleeves feels too bold. I’m already testing my luck by agreeing to this outing. After a moment’s hesitation, I throw on a cardigan, covering my bare arms.

  I hurry down the steps and nearly run straight into Ace, who’s standing in the doorway. “Hi, Karina.”

  A swarm of butterflies rushes through me. “Hi,” I say back, and force myself to turn around and shout, “Bye, Dadu!”

  “Bye, Myra. Have fun!” Dadu says, which is strange to hear.

  I turn to Ace, trying to get rid of the nervous jitters. God, I wish I could light a candle. “So...bowling?”

  “Yeah,” he says, smiling at me. Something loosens in my chest. “I’m letting Mia practice driving.”

  “So you’re looping me into dying with you.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” he says, laughing and offering me his hand. “Come on.”

  I almost slip my fingers through his but falter, staring past him.

  Samir is already in the car, peering over Mia’s shoulder. The windows are down, so I can hear when he says, “How far is it?”

  “Like ten minutes, Rafiq. Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “Not now,” I say to Ace, my throat tight. Samir isn’t looking at us, but if he does, I’ll be caught out before I can explain. “I can’t—my family...”

  Ace gives me a curious look, but doesn’t press, lowering his hand. “Let’s go, then.”

  I give him a small smile. “Okay.”

  Daniela is sitting in the front beside Mia, so Ace and I slide in the back beside Samir. His eyes are bright, his body vibrating with excitement.

  My brother hasn’t had the chance to go bowling in a few weeks. My dad usually takes Samir every weekend, some kind of father-son bonding thing I’m not privy to. All my mom and I ever do is listen to dreamy Bengali folk music together. She knits and I make origami—more for my anxiety than anything else—and after a few albums, we go our separate ways.

  Samir looks forward to his outings with Baba, though, so it’s no surprise he’s eager now.

  Mia turns the radio to a pop station and starts singing outrageously along as she shifts the car into Drive.

  “Pay attention to the road,” Ace says, exasperated. “I invited Santos specifically so you wouldn’t attempt to murder us.”

  “Daniela and I will happily die together,” Mia says without missing a beat. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

  Daniela’s expression is uneasy, her fingers gripping the upholstery tightly. “I would die for you but maybe...maybe we could postpone the dying part until we’re like twenty-two and drowning in debt.”

  Mia looks thoughtful. “Fair enough.”

  Samir looks between them, eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t know you guys were dating.”

  “Is that a problem?” Mia asks, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

  Samir smirks and opens his mouth to say something undeniably obnoxious, so I elbow him roughly. I know he doesn’t have a p
roblem with it—he was also one of the first people to reach out to Nabila—but he’s still a teenage boy with the proclivity to joke around in favor of being serious.

  Samir grunts and gives me a betrayed look. I narrow my eyes in warning, and he huffs, rubbing his side. “Not for me,” he says after a moment. “But one of my friends has a crush on Daniela. At least now I can tell him it’s a lost cause.”

  Mia sits up straighter. “Which friend?” she asks almost too pleasantly.

  “Don’t tell her,” Ace says from my side, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s not above homicide.”

  Samir turns to Ace, and a far worse smile spreads across his face. “Speaking of dating—” he starts to say, and I pinch his wrist, my heart already racing. He yelps in surprise, clutching his arm. “Jesus Christ. Never mind. My sister is a tyrant.”

  “I’ll make Mia turn this car around right now,” I warn him.

  Samir sighs, leaning his head against the back of Mia’s seat. “All right, Darth Vader.”

  “Darth Vader isn’t that bad,” Ace says, nudging my shoulder, a comforting warmth at my side. Some of my nerves settle. “But your sister is Rey Skywalker.”

  Samir’s eyes light up, and he launches into a Star Wars rant about Rey’s lineage. I shake my head, leaning back in my seat as Ace indulges him.

  Thankfully, the rest of the ride is uneventful, and we don’t die miserably in a car crash.

  When we arrive, Ace gestures for Mia to get out. “I’m not letting you parallel park my car.”

  Mia scowls. “I can do it.”

  Ace snorts and looks at Daniela.

  Daniela’s eyes widen and she hastily exits the car. “Don’t bring me into this.”

  Mia gapes after her girlfriend. “The betrayal,” she says, clutching her chest. “You win this time, Alistair.”

  “Thanks, Cosmia,” Ace says, rolling his eyes as his sister leaves. “Karina, Rafiq? Do you want to go with them?”

  Samir pushes open the door. “I can’t sit in the same car as an Anakin Skywalker apologist.”

  “I’m not an apologist. I just think that the Jedi Council alienated Anakin—”