“Yeah, and will bowling with him look good on college applications, too?” Ma asks. “What were you thinking, Myra? How could you be so irresponsible?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, but I know it’s a futile attempt.

“Oh, is that so? You don’t think you did anything wrong?” My mom looks at my dad, clear disappointment written in her gaze, causing my blood to curdle. In response, my dad’s own expression darkens. It’s always like this. As soon as she’s upset, he follows suit. I hate it so much. “This is the daughter we’ve raised. Imagine what people will say once they find out. Astaghfirullah.”

Why does anyone care? I want to scream. Why do people care how I spend my time? Why do my parents care what those people think? What does it matter?

“It was just one time,” I say, and my voice cracks, making me wince. They’ll see it as another sign of weakness. “It’s not a big deal, Ma.”

“You have no respect,” my mom says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No respect for Allah or for us. That’s why you’re acting like this. No one else’s daughter behaves the way you do. I thought we raised you better.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six—

“Say something, Myra,” Ma says. “Don’t just sit there silently. Why would you go bowling with this boy? And why would you take Samir with you? You know he should be focusing on his robotic competition next week, but you’re distracting him. You can’t even focus on your own grades, and now you’re dragging your brother down with you? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Sorry,” I croak. I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know what to say. I hate disappointing them. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough, Myra,” Baba says, his gaze heavy. “This boy is a bad influence on you. Staying out late...dragging your brother into your foolish acts...prioritizing English over your more important subjects. It’s a shame.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, not knowing how else to fix this. My mind blanks out as they continue to berate me, berate my actions, berate all I’ve done in the past. I keep repeating a different variation of my apology, but it doesn’t seem to do the trick.

Twenty minutes later, my dad puts an end to the conversation. “We will discuss this further upon our return, Myra. You will stop tutoring this boy at once. If there’s a problem, we will speak to your teacher ourselves.”

“And I better not hear anything else about you hanging out with him, much less dragging Samir with you,” my mom says. “Now go to sleep. You’ll have to get up early to make up for the studying time you lost today.”