Emmitt doesn’t let go, not until I pull away. Then he releases me slowly, staring at our hands with a strange look on his face.

My hands feel the absence of his, and I curl my fingers inward to get a hold of myself.

I can’t rely on anyone else, only myself. That’s the way it always has to be. Using Emmitt as a crutch is a bad idea. Being around him always lightens the load on my shoulders, but I can’t expect this to last. This is temporary, like everything else in New York City.

Why is it my brain doesn’t seem to understand that?

39

As we start walking toward our destination, following Google Maps, my phone buzzes. I look down at my screen. Baba.

For a brief moment, I consider declining the call. I know that talking to him is only going to worsen my mood, but...

With a grimace, I slide my thumb across the screen to pick up. Emmitt watches me with mild interest, but I ignore him, walking in the same general direction as before. “What, Baba?”

Baba huffs on the other end of the line. “Is that any way to address your father? Every day, you grow more disrespectful.”

I scowl at the ground, but keep my voice even as I say, “Okay. As-salaam alaikum. There. Is that better?”

I can practically feel his glare in the silence that follows. “Poppy...” He takes a deep breath. “What time will you be home tonight?”

“Late,” I say, tugging the end of my braid. “I have a school project to work on. I told you that already.”

Baba makes a displeased noise. “You keep coming home late. It’s incredibly irresponsible. You should learn to manage your time better, or people will start to look down on us—on you.”

People, by which he means the subsection of judgmental elders in our community that have nothing better to do than gossip about children in their spare time. As if I care what they think about me.

Sometimes I feel like one of Ma’s vases. My only purpose is to sit and look pretty, empty of any depth or character.

One single crack, and the entire thing loses value.

“Yeah, well, I have a lot of schoolwork,” I say, swallowing the bitterness coating my throat. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

Another long silence, full of judgment. “Do you know what time Anam is coming home? She’s not picking up her phone.”

“No,” I say sharply. “I’m not her babysitter. Is there anything else you need?”

“That is enough, Poppy,” Baba snaps back. I flinch, unable to help myself. “Sometimes I think I could die tomorrow and you wouldn’t shed a tear.”