Today, my bone-deep weariness is winning over my blood-boiling anger.

Baba calls my name again, and I don’t bother to raise my voice when I say, “Maybe later. We’re going to be late for school.”

Behind me, Anam stifles a giggle, and I give her an exasperated look. If anything, we’re going to be early, even with our stop at the deli, but that’s neither here nor there.

Anam raises her hands above her head in a general gesture of surrender, but not without smirking. I flip her off after making sure neither of my parents are approaching from down the hall.

“Anam, you too!” Ma says from across the house. The smell of fresh suji halwa wafts through the house, making my stomach rumble. I ignore it, grabbing a puffy jacket off the coatrack. “And bring your sister!”

“As if,” Anam mutters, on her knees digging through the closet as she looks for a pair of shoes that aren’t my mother’s.

It doesn’t take a genius to know what awaits me in the kitchen. Another lecture about how I’m setting myself up for disappointment because I’m never going to get into USC. Another lecture about how I should be reasonable and focus entirely on business, since a degree in the arts will never pan out.

I’ve heard it all before and I’m not eager to hear it again at seven in the morning. They can run me a check if they want to waste my time.

“Hurry, before she starts yelling about how we should’ve made our own breakfast this morning,” I say, slipping my feet into a pair of black boots.

“Poppy,” a voice says over my shoulder, making me jump half a foot into the air. My mother is standing behind me, her lips curled in disapproval. In her hand is a postcard with VISIT USC and SAMINA RAHMAN printed across the top. “Both of you need to start waking up earlier. You’re old enough that you should be making us breakfast instead of the other way around. These are skills you will need in the future. You know, your cousins all wake up—”

“No, they don’t,” Anam says, her eyes narrowed on my mother. “Bristi is always late to school. I’m supposed to believe he wakes up early to cook Chachi breakfast?”

Ma turns to look at Anam, her teeth grinding. “I’ll deal with you later,” she says, before looking back at me, grabbing my wrist with her free hand. “How many times have we told you, Poppy, that you need to stop with this USC nonsense? We’re just trying to look out for you. You know it’s never going to—”