It All Comes Back to You

by Farah Naz Rishi

  “About three-ish years ago,” Faisal begins, “I was in a pretty bad place. I was in my last year of college. I’m sure Leah told you, but I was bullied for most of my life. It was mostly these two guys—one of whom was Leah’s older brother. Sometimes, it’d be other people. Deen once joked it’s because I had a ‘punchable face.’ Maybe because I was scrawny and brown or something. We went to a school that was pretty good as far as schools go, except I was one of maybe three brown kids in the entire school. So I’m sure that factored in, too. When I told Mom and Dad about it, they told me to talk to my teachers. Which I did, a hundred times. Except teachers wouldn’t do anything about it. That was the problem. In the end, my parents told me to just ignore the bullies.

  “At the end of the day, I think all my parents ever really cared about was my grades. Not that I blame them. It’s that old-school Asian immigrant mentality. They struggled to come here to give us opportunities they didn’t have, or they had to fight tooth and nail for. So of course they wanted me to take advantage of it.

  “And Deen . . . Deen was too young to help. Even if he was older, I don’t really know what he could have done.”

  I exhale shakily. Three years ago. Around the time Deen started to pull away.

  “Anyway, that was middle school and most of high school. Once Leah and I started to get close, we started to lean on each other, for better or worse. Honestly, she was my only friend for a while. She hated her brother, too, so. Enemy of my enemy. Apparently her family was pretty messed up. They treated her like crap, but also demanded perfection. That’s when we got introduced to focus drugs. Like Adderall.”

  I know this part. Except somehow it sounds worse hearing it directly from Faisal.

  “Focus drugs became my life raft. I wanted to keep my grades up to make sure my parents stayed happy—though looking back on it, I really should have sat them down and talked to them. But I digress.” He smiles weakly. “In the end, Adderall was just the start. And even in college, I ended up attracting the wrong crowd, except college kids are a lot more violent. The more crap that kept happening to me, the more drugs I’d take. It got so bad that one time I passed out at home in the bathroom and hit my head. Bled all over the floor. Almost gave Deen a heart attack.

  “Except I didn’t care. I didn’t see how it was affecting me or my parents or even Deen. I was being stupid. I didn’t know how to reach out to get help. Eventually my parents just gave up on me. And I think that scared the shit out of Deen. Despite it all, though, he didn’t once blame me. He blamed himself.”

  Something in my chest unfurls, aching.

  “But Deen also blamed Leah’s brother. The final straw happened when I came home to visit one weekend. My parents and I had a huge fight, so I went out and bumped into Leah’s brother in a parking lot. He beat me senseless. Broke my jaw. So later that night, while Deen was still in high school, he snuck over to their house and set his car on fire.

  “Except it was windy that night, and he lost control of the flames. He called me, screaming. I thought he was dying. But by the time I got there, the house was almost completely burned to the ground, ambulances and police cars everywhere. Everything smelled like smoke.

  “It was the wake-up call I needed. I drove him to that point. He just wanted to help. When I realized the police were going to arrest him, just a kid, I—”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Deen was class president. Perfect grades, near perfect SAT score. I couldn’t let them ruin his life when it was my fault. So I told my parents and the cops I did it. It wasn’t hard to convince them.

  “They arrested me instead. My parents spent a lot of money covering it up, paid a big-time lawyer to get the judge to lower the charge.” Faisal’s expression grows dark. “It kind of made me pretty disillusioned with lawyers. Which”—he shrugs—“I guess was a good thing, since I wasn’t able to go to law school after that.”

  “For obvious reasons, Deen and I have kept it a secret, and I don’t like talking about it. Especially because if the truth gets out, it could mess up Deen’s future. I’ve been on pretty thin ice with my parents since then, too, so. Understandably. But. Now that the wedding’s over, I hope he’ll find himself. We both could use some soul searching. My hope is that the wedding . . . that that was the wake-up call Deen needed.”

  My heart’s no longer jackhammering because it’s been caught and stifled in a wild tangle of feelings.

  I wasn’t prepared for this, at all. In just a few minutes, Faisal went from Personal Enemy Number One to . . .

  I don’t even know what.

  And Deen . . .

  I can’t believe he went through all of this alone.

  I wish I’d known.

  I don’t regret stopping the wedding. But right now, I feel like shit. This whole time, I thought I was fighting on the side of truth, when really I was just forcing Faisal to expose his own trauma to his parents—and an entire justice system, frankly—who’d completely failed him.

  “So you’re not moving to California?” I ask again. “Sounds like getting away from your parents might be a good thing.”

  Faisal shakes his head. “My parents were going to cover the cost of the move. Between you and me, I barely have enough money on my own right now. And they weren’t happy about pouring so much money into a wedding that never happened.” He laughs lightheartedly, but there’s a film of sadness over it.

  “Oh.” I look down at my cup. I was holding it so tight, there’s a seam down the middle of it.

  Faisal rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You know, when Deen said that thing, about you two dating before . . . I think I can see it. You’re both actually really similar. Both fiercely protective of your families, to a fault. Stubborn. Prideful, even.”

  I snort. “Sounds about right.”

  “Only, you’re definitely way more straightforward.”

  “And Deen’s a total desi fuckboy?”

  Faisal throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah. But I’m pretty sure that’s a mask he puts up.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

  Faisal stands up and stretches his arms behind his back.

  “Honestly, I don’t know how to be a good brother,” he tells me. “Or anything, really. All in all, I’ve been a complete and utter ass.”

  He looks at me. “But Deen . . . he can be a bit of a moron sometimes. It’s part of the genetic Malik package, I’m afraid. And I know he might have come across as a dick in his efforts to look out for me. But if there’s one thing you can trust me on, it’s that he’s one of the good ones.”

  Something about the way he says it makes my cheeks burn a little. I fight the urge to look at my phone.

  I clear my throat. “Hey, if—if my dad gets better—”

  “When,” Faisal corrects me. “Inshallah.”

  “Right. When my dad gets better . . .” I swallow. “Maybe there’s something we could do. About getting you to California. If you want.”

  “That’s kind, but . . . no, thank you. I’ll find a way. I want to find a way.” He clenches a fist. “And I will. If I can’t even do that, then I really don’t have any business being with Amira.”

  I suddenly remember what Dad said about love. That love is messy. That love is work.

  “Does that mean you’re still going to try?” I ask. “Being with her, I mean.”

  Faisal grins. It looks so much like Deen’s that it knocks the air out of my chest.

  “Well, wouldn’t you, if you could?”

  I don’t know why, but I’m hit with a familiar, stinging pressure behind my eyes.

  “Yes,” I reply. “I definitely would.”

  Chapter 36

  Deen

  Friday, August 27

  THERE’S SOMETHING WONDERFULLY CHARMING ABOUT three-step plans. Kiran had the right idea.

  And today, I’m working on steps one and two.

  “Come in.” Professor Pryce’s voice comes from inside his office.

  I sidle in. �
�Hi,” I say cheerfully. I don’t wait for him to give me permission and take a seat at the chair in front of his desk.

  Professor Pryce sets down the paper he was reading. “Deen. To what do I owe this pleasure, especially when the summer term is over,” he asks jovially, though the expression on his face finishes the sentence for him: Especially when the summer term is over, and I have literally no reason or desire to see your face ever again?

  Which, fair enough.

  I lean back in the chair. “I just want to say that I look forward to taking Intermediate Poli-Sci with you next semester.”

  Professor Pryce’s eyes narrow behind his K-pop idol wire-frame glasses. “It’s interesting that you say that, Deen, because unfortunately, you would have had to get a 2.3 or above in this class to move on to the next level. But with all your absences and incompletes, I have to give you a 2.0.”

  “Is that factoring in my final exam?”

  Professor Pryce sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Honestly? You somehow managed a 3.6 on the final. But that’s not enough to bring up your final grade.”

  I had a feeling that would be the case. But still. I have to try.

  I lick my lips. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. What if—and stick with me now—what if you made an exception?”

  Professor Pryce practically does a full-on double take, blinking hard like a freaking meme. “And why would I do that?”

  I take a breath. “Because I want to take your class next semester. I apologize for not taking the class seriously sooner. But I’m going to now. You obviously have no reason to let me take another one of your classes, especially when you could give that slot to another student who has actually shown interest since the beginning. But it’s like you said before. If I applied myself, I could go places. I’m ready to apply myself.”

  Professor Pryce’s breath stops. He regains himself quickly. “Who are you and what have you done with Deen?” he asks, seemingly 100 percent serious.

  “Someone who wants to prove that they’re not wasting their potential,” I respond, equally serious.

  He stares at me for a while, like he’s trying to read me. Or determine if I’m actually a robot clone.

  Finally, he steeples his fingers on his desk and closes his eyes, like it pains him to say it. “I want you to write me a three-page paper on exactly what you hope to gain by taking Intermediate Poli-Sci with me. Email it to me tomorrow. Show me you’re truly serious. Then we’ll talk.”

  I grin, widely. It’s a small win. But it’s a win.

  I’ll take it.

  “Yes. Yes! I’m so serious. Positively serious.” I clap my hands together and stand up. “Consider it done.”

  “Okay, well.” Professor Pryce picks up the paper he was reading. “We’ll see.”

  I back away, beaming. “Seriously. Thanks, Professor. You won’t regret it.”

  “Close the door behind you.”

  “Got it, Professor Pryce.” I throw him a pair of finger guns. “My man.”

  And I close the door.

  I’m lugging my backpack and two giant Bluetooth speakers (formerly Faisal’s) down Fifth Avenue to my next destination and my biceps are burning. But I persevere, breathless and sweaty in places no human should ever be sweaty, until I reach the familiar redbrick building.

  Rubin Hall.

  I shoulder my way through the gold spinning doors and make my way up the stairs. Finally, I reach room 303.

  With a groan, I set the speakers and my backpack down on the floor, give myself a few minutes to catch my breath, and whip out my phone from my pocket. A couple of taps later, I’m on my Spotify playlist.

  My heart flutters nervously as I wipe my palms down my pants. Technically, I’m supposed to be holding one of the speakers over my head, like in the movies, but I’m pretty sure if I tried that now, my biceps would give in and the speaker would squash me like a bug.

  I close my eyes. Hell, even dancing with Kiran at the wedding didn’t make me this nervous. Maybe because she was with me, but here, I’m alone.

  All this time you’ve been talking and giving me excuses, but not once have you even said you’re sorry, Vinny’s words echo through my head.

  Well, Vinny, how’s this for a sorry?

  I press play.

  The song starts, upbeat and bubbly, and soon, the bass line kicks in, vibrating through the hallway, making the floor shake beneath me. The vocalist sings, her voice a significantly higher pitch than mine, but that doesn’t matter.

  I clear my throat. And when she sings the chorus, I sing with her:

  Love me, love me, say that you love me;

  Fool me, fool me, go on and fool me;

  I’m completely off tune and my voice keeps cracking trying to keep up with the singer’s soprano and I feel as ridiculous as I probably look, but it’s New York and weirder things have happened. Plus, as the song goes on, I remember how much I actually like the song. Can’t go wrong with the classics.

  Around me, doors open and I feel the stares, both curious and annoyed. I glance over my shoulder; someone’s recording me on their phone.

  I’m almost halfway through the song when Vinny’s door opens.

  We make eye contact and I look away, trying not to think about the fact that this is absolutely humiliating, even if that’s the point.

  It’s okay if you feel ridiculous. Dance is about letting yourself be—I don’t know—vulnerable.

  I put my hands on my hips and do an exaggerated sway. I don’t even know what I’m doing at this point—it’s not exactly a Kiran-choregraphed dance—but I’m rolling with it. I point at Vinny, lip-synching to the rest of the song.

  The corner of Vinny’s mouth twitches.

  Someone lets out a whistle while another person laughs loudly behind us; I half expect it to be Kiran. The thought makes me laugh, too.

  I end the song with a twirl and take a bow.

  The entire hallway erupts with laughter and clapping.

  I turn around and bow once more. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here never again.”

  The excitement and curiosity of my little audience finally dies down and everyone retreats to their rooms. Everyone but Vinny.

  I turn off the song and put away my phone. “God, I’m sweaty.” I waft my arms a little. “I tried doing it outside the building, but then a cop looked at me like he was going to deport me back to hell.”

  “Hell, huh?” says Vinny.

  I nod emphatically. “Right where I belong.”

  “Perhaps.” Vinny folds his arms across his chest.

  “Oh, I got something for you.” I dig through my backpack and pull out a small box tied with blue ribbon I snagged from the Duane Reade down the street.

  Vinny eyes it suspiciously before taking it from my hands. He opens it and his eyes go wide.

  “You—you got me chicken tenders?” His voice cracks. “From the cafeteria?”

  “I asked them to make me a fresh batch.”

  Vinny stares at them, his mouth pressed in a thin line. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I think his eyes water.

  “What you said before . . . you were right,” I say. “I am a tool. Only a tool would do you dirty like that.”

  Vinny’s expression remains unchanged, so I continue. “I got blindsided by my own . . . selfishness. I didn’t see who or what was in front of me, and I’m sorry. I should have done more to help you with Amy.”

  Vinny wipes his nose with his sleeve. “Idiot.”

  I stare at my shoes.

  “No. You’re an idiot because you should know it’s not just about Amy,” he says. “I wanted you to have my back, man. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  I lift my head. “Of course I have your back. I suck at showing it, I’ll admit, but—I do.” I take a step forward. “Whatever you want, you got. I owe you,” I add, mumbling.

  Vinny laughs at that and slaps my back. “You don’t owe me a thing. Nothing but love, D-Money.”

/>   I smile.

  Vinny closes his box of chicken tenders. “But let me kick your ass in pool and we’ll call it even.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  I let out a shaky, relieved sigh. And I drape an arm around Vinny’s shoulder.

  “You got it, Vin.”

  Chapter 37

  Kiran

  Friday, August 27

  “DAD, YOU HAVE TO RELAX for at least five minutes,” I argue.

  After an overnight stay at the hospital with an IV drip and some TLC, he was well enough to get discharged. Faisal helped me get him back home first thing in the morning, and Dad proceeded to take a very long, very well-deserved nap.

  Which is why keeping him in bed is proving impossible now.

  “I’ve rested enough,” he retorts, gently hitting my hand away. “The movers are coming tomorrow.”

  I try not to think about it. But it’s hard when the house is practically empty, walls barren and all our stuff in boxes.

  “Which is exactly why you need to rest. If you’re flying to Houston tomorrow, you’re going to need to be at one hundred percent.” And I need him to rest so I can get to work; I’m supposed to be moving to campus dorms this weekend, and I still have last minute supplies I need to grab.

  Dad grumbles. But he sits back against the headboard.

  I pat his blanket. “I’m going to finish packing kitchen stuff. Call me if you need me?”

  Dad says nothing; instead, he reaches for a book off his bedside table and begins to read.

  I close the door behind me and sigh.

  Amira pops her head out from the hallway bathroom and looks at me, concerned.

  She’d meant to come later this evening to help with any last-minute packing but took a morning train in after I told her about Dad.

  Of course, I told her about Faisal, too. Amira didn’t really say anything about it, at first; she just looked . . . pensive.

  “I should thank him,” she said finally, her voice almost a whisper.

  “I don’t think he did it for your thanks,” I replied honestly. Faisal isn’t the kind of guy to have ulterior motives. I think I get it now.