ANAM RAHMAN: bro wtf there are so many british actors,,,,

ANAM RAHMAN: wait u still haven’t told me why we can’t watch stuff with british accents?? what is going onnnn

ANAM RAHMAN: fuck this let’s just watch tangled for the 50th time

ANAM RAHMAN: ...taking that as a yes?

ANAM RAHMAN: the snapchat map says you’re literally ten minutes away TEXT ME BACK

ME: sorry sorry

ME: also. uhhhhh

ME: I’m outside and forgot my keys

ANAM RAHMAN: I can’t stand you

ANAM RAHMAN: omw

The moment our family steps into Nazifa’s living room on Saturday night, my mom shoots Anam and me a look dark enough to make a lesser man shrivel. I ignore her, but Anam glares back, crossing her arms over her chest.

I don’t have to read minds to know why my mom is upset. Anam and I came to the party wearing sweaters and jeans—Nazifa and her sister are wearing beautiful fatuas. Nazifa offers me an apologetic smile and I shake my head. It’s not their fault.

“As-salaam alaikum,” I say to the room at large. Half a dozen brown aunties are sitting around—though none of them are related to me, they’re considered my aunties all the same—and they all say some variation of a cheerful “Wa-alaikum salaam” in return.

“Poppy, it’s so nice to see you,” Mishti Auntie, Nazifa’s mom, says. She’s serving jhalmuri to the guests but stops to smile at us. My mouth waters at the sight of it. The food at Bangladeshi community parties is inarguably the best, and it’s always what I look forward to most. “Anam, I heard your volleyball team won against Bronx Science last week?”

Anam grins, grabbing a puri off the coffee table in front of us. “We destroyed them.”

“Mashallah,” Mishti Auntie says, grinning back. “Nazifa said you two are playing against each other next month. Are you excited?”

“I am,” Anam says, leaning over to poke Nazifa’s shoulder with her free hand, wiggling her brows in challenge. “Are you planning to come, Mishti Auntie?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mishti Auntie says, and none of us look at my mom, who’s quietly seething with rage.

It’s common knowledge that Ma and Baba never come to Anam’s volleyball games.

“We should go upstairs,” I say, grabbing Anam’s hand, pulling her away before she can cause a scene, because I have no doubt that’s where this is heading. “Please save me some jhalmuri, Mishti Auntie! I’ll come back for it later.”

Anam sighs but follows me to Nazifa’s bedroom. Nazifa’s older sister, Syeda, closes the door behind us, but not without snatching a plastic box full of jilapi.