“Don’t remind me,” I say under my breath, rubbing my eyes. I want to go back to bed, and maybe stare despondently at my ceiling for a few hours. That, or carve out this God-awful feeling in my chest, this black hole that devours. It’s not always there, but when it is, it smothers everything else.

“I mean,” Anam says, “maybe you could—”

I shake my head. “Forget it, Anam. I’m pretty sure the actual reason he joined is because his dad is some big-shot film producer. Familial pressures and all that.”

“We wouldn’t know anything about that,” Anam says dryly, and I offer her a noncommittal hum. “Well, maybe you should cut him some slack, then.”

I huff a quiet breath. “Like you cut the girls’ volleyball team any slack?”

Anam shoves me, and I shove her back. “I have to show Coach that I’m capable of being captain next year,” she says, jutting out her bottom lip.

Something flashes through her eyes, and if I weren’t her sister, I don’t know if I’d catch it. But I am and I do.

I squeeze Anam’s fingers. “I’ll fight Coach myself if he gives it to anyone but you.”

When I let go of her, it’s only to open the door to our neighborhood deli. The girl behind the counter, Nazifa, smiles at both of us, and Anam offers her a brief fist bump.

The Ali family lives next door to ours. Nazifa’s parents own the deli, so we often see her behind the counter in the early mornings, before school starts. Anam is closer with her than I am, both of them obsessed with volleyball, even though they technically go to rival schools.

I give Nazifa a smile in return as we pass through, heading for the fridge in the back to grab drinks. Anam harrumphs as she picks out a bottle of Snapple, picking up our conversation where we left off. “You won’t be here to fight Coach anyway. You’ll be off in California, chasing your dreams.”

“I’ll book the first flight back, just for you,” I say and ignore the pang in my chest. I won’t know for another two months if I’m accepted into USC or not, and the cruel voice that lives in the back of my head keeps insisting on the latter.

Anam wraps her fingers around my wrist as I reach for a bottle of orange juice. “Hey. I know that look. Stop it, all right? You’re going to get in.”

Sometimes I forget she knows me as well as I know her.

“Inshallah,” I say under my breath.

“Inshallah,” Anam repeats, digging her thumb into my pulse point.