She’s right. I know she’s right, but after my last conversation with my parents, I don’t know if I have the strength to see this through, even in secret.

And I don’t know if I can ask that of Ace, either.

“I’m doing nothing,” I say again, staring up at the ceiling.

Cora does some kind of weird full body wiggle, poking my nose. “We’ll see about that. I don’t know a lot about Ace, but I think it’s pretty clear—he’s used to getting what he wants.”

I huff. “Well, not this time.”

“Famous last words,” Cora croons, not for the first time. I have a disturbing feeling she’s right.

35

T-MINUS 12 DAYS

The next day, my relatives unexpectedly stop by. I’m in the shower when Samir knocks on the door and says, “Fatima and Labani are here with their parents.”

Hearing Samir’s voice is jarring in and of itself. We haven’t spoken since yesterday afternoon, when he opened the door for Ace. But then the words register, and I’m even more confused. “Huh?” Since Fatima’s family lives in New Jersey, they rarely visit us. Parties are one thing, but Long Island is a lengthy venture for a casual visit. “Why?”

“To see Dadu, so hurry up!”

I groan and start rinsing my hair.

After slipping into my room undetected, I change into a salwar kameez and dry my hair as fast as possible. By the time I come out, my relatives have settled in and are eating samosas and fuchkas.

“As-salaam alaikum,” I say, bowing my head.

“Wa-alaikum salaam,” they say back. My aunt and uncle are busy fussing over Dadu. They treat her like she’s a fragile old lady ready to break her hip, and it’s all too reminiscent of the conversation I had with Dadu about her brothers treating her like a precious jewel. I have difficulty hiding my grimace.

I wish I could help her, but I doubt anything I say will convince my aunt and uncle to stop hovering.

I sit down beside Fatima with a half smile. Labani is only ten years old, so we don’t really talk to each other much. Samir is keeping her occupied, showing her his collection of robotic toys. I barely hold back a snide comment about him showing off in front of our uncle and aunt.

What would I ever show them? My poetry? Yeah, right.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask Fatima, trying to veer off that bitter road. It doesn’t lead anywhere good.

“I’m okay.” Fatima offers me a thin smile. That’s hardly a good sign.

Now that I’m paying attention, there’s a clear tension in the air.

“I like your salwar kameez,” I say instead of prying. Whatever’s bothering her is probably better discussed out of earshot of her parents.