Then I shake my head. “Nice try, but it’s too fancy,” I say, waving toward the door. “Again.”

Anam sighs long-sufferingly. “Fine.”

She heads for her room across the hall, and I watch her go with a small smile on my face. Everything about her is so loud, from her voice to the way she dresses to the music she blasts every morning without fail. Even from my room, I can hear “#LoveSTAY” by Stray Kids blasting from her laptop.

The next time my sister comes back, she falters in the doorway, her nose wrinkled. I pause midway through packing my bag for school. “What happened?”

Ma’s voice carries from downstairs, making both of us flinch. “Samina, come downstairs now.”

“What happened?” I ask again, edging toward the doorway, where Anam is glaring over the hallway’s banister. “Why are they calling me Samina?”

“They opened your mail,” my sister says, looking back at me. “It’s addressed to Samina Rahman, so they’re being extra as per usual.”

“They could at least say Mina if they’re going to be dramatic,” I say, but then the rest of her sentence sinks in and I tense, my shoulders stiff. “My mail?”

“Something from USC,” Anam says, chewing absently on a lock of blue hair. I reach forward, batting it away, and she offers me a grateful half smile. “I didn’t realize the mailman would do his rounds so early, or I would’ve snagged it before Baba could.”

Again: “Poppy!”

Well. At least it’s my dak nam now.

Still, I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to stave off the headache I feel forming between my brows. “It’s too early for this.”

Anam grunts in agreement. Even though we’re a year apart, our brains are eerily in sync. “I don’t know how they’re not tired,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “Have you given any thought to my brilliant idea about stuffing me in your luggage when you move out for college?”

“I wish,” I mutter, tucking my binder into my bag before swinging it up over my shoulder. “I’m guessing they’re upset.”

“When are they not?” Anam asks, rolling her dark eyes. We’re often mistaken for twins, our facial features near identical—thick eyebrows, upturned noses, full mouths. Only Anam’s home-dyed blue ombré distinguishes us at this point.

I tie my own black strands back into a loose braid before snagging my phone off its charger, sticking it in my back pocket. “Maybe we can sneak out without them noticing.”

“As if Baba isn’t guarding the door,” Anam says with a grimace, but disappears into her room across the hall to get her own bag. “Give me a minute!”