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About the Author

Tashie Bhuiyan is a Bangladeshi American writer based in New York City. She recently graduated from St. John’s University with a bachelor’s degree in public relations and hopes to change the world, one book at a time. She loves writing stories about girls with wild hearts, boys who wear rings, and gaining agency through growth. When she’s not doing that, she can be found in a Chipotle or bookstore, insisting 2010 is the best year in cinematic history. (Read: Tangled and Inception.)

Visit her online at @tashiebhuiyan or tashiebhuiyan.com.

Praise

Praise for Counting Down with You

“I. Love. This. Book. I adore the emotional depth that Bhuiyan gives to Karina, and I am reminded of the power of contemporary fiction to both shine a light and uplift those of us who have been largely ignored.”

—Mark Oshiro, award-winning author of Anger is a Gift

“Steals your heart from start to finish. Only read this in public if you’re prepared to laugh out loud, blush, and occasionally cry in front of strangers.”

—Emma Lord, New York Times bestselling author of You Have a Match

“An ode to anyone who’s dreamed of a path different from the one carved out for them. A lovely, romantic debut that shimmers with hope.”

—Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of Today Tonight Tomorrow

“Tashie Bhuiyan has done an excellent job of portraying the conflicts faced by many South Asian diaspora kids in this debut. Counting Down with You is a must-have addition to any YA bookshelf.”

—Sabina Khan, author of The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali

“A buoyant romance anchored by well-drawn family dynamics and anxiety issues... I loved it!”

—Jenn Bennett, author of Alex, Approximately

Booklist

Books by Tashie Bhuiyan
available from Inkyard Press

Counting Down with You

Dedication

To Dadu and H, for teaching me to stay strong.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear reader,

We’re about to enter some big emo hours, so hold on tight. Counting Down with You is the story of my heart, and it was written as a love letter to young brown girls. It wasn’t that long ago that I was a brown teenager, not that I really feel like the spitting image of an adult at twenty-one years old. The older I am, though, the more I realize that there is no “right” way to represent all of us, since we are not a monolith. We all come from different backgrounds and have different experiences. However, when I set out to write this story, I chose to write it from a deeply personal place. The main character of this novel, Karina Ahmed, represents one experience—my experience—but she does not represent all. In this book, my goal was to always give her agency, and give her room to grow. This is undeniably a love story, but Karina is not waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from the challenges of life. At the end of the day, this is her story, and these are her decisions. Just like her, we can’t rely on other people to come save us—we must be lionhearted on our own.

When I was younger, I often felt helpless. We don’t always have the freedom we seek, and it’s hard to rise up against our circumstances when we are young and have limited means to protect ourselves. But this is me telling you right now that it gets better. I know it’s hard to believe that, especially when the future seems so bleak, but it’s true. Someone gave me this advice at sixteen years old, and I hope to now impart it on you: stay as strong as you can. That’s all we can do. We might not be able to fight back or run away, but we can continue to believe in a better future. As you follow Karina on her journey, I hope you find a sense of belonging and understanding. Being seen is the most tender form of love, and I see you. I do.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If there is only one thing you take away from this book, let it be hope.

All the love,

Tashie

Part 1

PART 1

Spark

1

T-MINUS 28 DAYS

Airports are the true chaotic evil.

There are too many things happening around me. Too many people in a hurry, too many people lazing around, too many announcements on the overhead speakers, and way too many tearful goodbyes.

Anarchy reigns in my little corner. My mom is on the phone, saying goodbye to her ten million friends, and my dad looks like he already regrets agreeing to go on a month-long trip to Bangladesh with her. Even with my earphones in, JFK Airport is too loud.

I wish I were anywhere else.

My younger brother, Samir, stands next to me as I sip the drink I forced him to buy me at Starbucks. In my other hand, I have a book flipped open to pass the time.

Dadu, my grandma on my paternal side, is busy fretting over my dad’s shirt. “Tuck it in,” she says in Bengali.

I hide my smile behind my drink when he reluctantly tucks in his shirt. Dadu isn’t someone to mess with.

“How much longer do we have to wait?” I ask Samir, taking out an earphone.

“Who knows,” he says. “Whenever Ma finally gets off the phone.”

That was decidedly unhelpful. “So...never.”

I still think the beginning of March is too chilly to go on vacation, but knowing my parents, plane tickets were probably cheapest today.

Even though I love my parents, I’m happy to see them leave for a month to visit my mom’s side of the family. A part of me wishes I could go, since I love visiting Bangladesh and soaking in the beautiful, bustling energy of Dhaka, but the idea of spending an entire month surrounded by only my relatives is horrifying. Thankfully, high school takes priority over seeing extended family. Being sixteen is a good thing sometimes.

Only sometimes.

My mom finally gets off the phone and gestures to their suitcases. “Come help me, Samir.”

While my brother helps them check in their luggage, I sidle up beside Dadu and lean my shoulder against hers. She’s been at our house for a few days now, helping Ma and Baba pack for their trip.

“Hi Myra,” she says, calling me by my dak nam, my familial name. I prefer my legal name, Karina, the bhalo nam all my friends use, but I don’t mind when Dadu calls me Myra.

“Hey Dadu. Ready for your second Uber ride?” I ask. “Baba said we’re going to have to take another one home.”

“Another one?” she asks, squeezing my wrist. Her skin is wrinkled from old age and hours of hard work, but it’s warm and familiar. “Do you think they’ll try to kidnap us this time?”

“Inshallah,” I say jokingly. God willing.

Dadu laughs and swats me on the shoulder. “Don’t make silly jokes, Myra.”

I grin. “Sorry.”

It’s nice to have a light and easy conversation like this. We don’t have them often, because my grandma lives year-round in New Jersey. Every summer, I beg my parents to let me stay with her. They usually refuse until Dadu steps in and says she misses me, which is as good as saying Your daughter’s coming to visit me whether you like it or not.

My parents return carrying only their handbags. My mom is shaking her head at my dad as he shows her something on his phone.

“Samir, you can download things from Netflix on your phone right, right?” my dad asks, looking pointedly at my mom.

Samir nods, but Ma narrows her eyes. “I told you already, I don’t have any space.”

“That’s because you have a million prayer apps on your phone,” Baba says under his breath. “Even Allah would agree one is enough.”

My mom smacks his arm. “Don’t say that in front of the kids. You’re going to set a bad example. You know it’s because of Candy Crush and Facebook. Why don’t you download some movies for me?”

Baba snorts. “You wish. I already downloaded every episode of Breaking Bad. No room for your dramas.”

Ma pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’re all checked in. We have to leave right now if we want to make the flight,” she says to my grandma before she turns to me, her gaze expectant.

My stomach flips uncertainly. I count backward in my head, trying to push away the uncomfortable weight pressing against my heart. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

I know I’m supposed to be emotional. I’m saying goodbye to my parents for a whole month, after all. We’re going to be nearly eight thousand miles apart with a time difference of ten hours.

It’s a lot.

It’s too little.

T-28 days.

But they’re still my parents, and I can’t let them go without saying goodbye.

I lean forward to hug my mom. She smells like roses and citrus shampoo. The material of her salwar kameez scratches my cheek. I’m torn between wanting to hug her closer and wanting to be far, far away. “Bye, Ma,” I say, and then I hug my dad, who smells like some God-awful cologne, probably worn to impress my mother’s relatives. I smile and brush some lint off his shoulders as I step back. “Bye, Baba.”

“Myra, make sure to call us every day,” my mom says. “Dadu might be staying with you, but that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to do whatever you want. Make sure to behave properly and try to spend more time studying than reading these silly little books.”

My smile strains. I feel like a dog being told to roll over. I have to remind myself she’s saying it with my best interests at heart. “Of course, Ma.”

My mom turns to my brother and starts cooing, brushing back his hair. I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to scowl. Naturally she has nothing condescending to say to him. “Tell Dadu whenever you’re hungry, okay? She’ll make you whatever you want, Samir.”

“Stop it, Ma,” my brother says, batting her hands away. He’s grinning a hundred-watt smile that’s hard to look at for more than one reason. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled at my parents like that.

My dad steps forward, gaining my attention. His expression is only slightly easier to look at. “Keep us updated on your grades, Myra,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s junior year. You know you need all As if you want to become a doctor.”

And what if I don’t want to? What then?

“Of course, Baba,” I say, because there isn’t any other answer. “I will.”

Between one blink and the next, they’re walking toward security, leaving the three of us alone. I can still hear them bickering about Netflix.

“Come on, Myra,” Dadu says, nudging my shoulder. I look away from my parents’ retreating backs. “Let’s find an Uber.”

“I’ve got it,” Samir says, whipping out his phone and waving me off as we start to walk to the exit.

I roll my eyes, unsurprised he wants to take the lead. I can’t help but cast another glance over my shoulder at my parents, but Dadu gently tugs my ear.

“So what’s your book about?” she asks.

I turn to her in surprise. I closed the book after my mom’s rebuke, but the story is still fresh in my mind. “You want to know?”

“Of course,” Dadu says, smiling warmly at me. “You can tell me during the Uber ride.”

Something dislodges in my chest as we approach the exit. “That sounds great.”

When I look back this time, there’s no sign of my parents anywhere.

Even though I know it’s wrong, all I feel is relief.

2

T-MINUS 27 DAYS

High school isn’t as bad as television makes it out to be. I’ve never seen anyone pushed into a locker or publicly embarrassed in front of the cafeteria. I wouldn’t want to. That sounds like a literal nightmare.

Here, the worst things I have to look forward to are the purple-and-gold banners decorated with large cartoonish wolves hanging from poles in front of the building. It’s an attempt at school spirit that I think even our principal despises.

Midland High School is known for its science and math classes, which is why my parents thought it would be the best school in Long Island for my brother and me. Samir is a freshman and I’m a junior now, but during the six months he’s been here, he’s excelled more in math and science than I ever could. Especially since I hate those subjects.

Despite that, I’ve grown to love the school. With its bright yellow lockers, pastel walls, and sleek purple linoleum floors, it looks more like something out of a Dr. Seuss book than an academic institution.

When I walk into the cafeteria, my best friends are occupying a lime green table near the vending machines, and I head for them with a smile on my face. My mood is exceptionally bright today, since my grandma woke up early to make me a paratha and omelet. I’m used to being handed a granola bar, so it was a warm surprise.

“Good morning,” I say, wrapping my arms around my two favorite girls. “Isn’t it a beautiful day outside?”

Nandini rolls her eyes, running a hand through her short curls, still wet from the gloomy weather. “It’s raining, Karina.”

“Exactly,” I say, slipping my way between her and Cora, who laughs as she scoots aside to make room.

The three of us met freshman year during Italian and have been tied together since. Every year we choose classes in the hopes of landing similar schedules and, so far, it’s worked out.

This year, we have first period free every day, and all of us show up early just to spend time together.

“How’s day one without the parental figures?” Cora asks, brushing her platinum blond hair over her shoulder and handing me a warm cup of coffee. “I see you’ve broken out the crop tops and ripped jeans.”

I smile faintly, looking down at my outfit. It’s not too wild, but it’s still more skin than usual. “I’ve been hiding these in the back of my dresser for months.”

“At least they’re finally seeing the light of day,” Nandini says, poking my belly button.

I laugh and take a sip from my cup. I try not to grimace at the bitter taste. Cora has a tendency to forget how I prefer my coffee, but I never complain, because she still went out of her way to bring it for me. “Last night I went to bed at one in the morning after binging three movies, and Dadu didn’t say a word. Can you believe that? We truly love to see it.”

“Ugh, wish I could relate. Ever since my grandparents moved in, they hog the television all the time, and it’s just not the same watching on my laptop.” Nandini sighs heavily. “I’m considering spending my next paycheck on a TV for my room.”

“You should,” Cora says, her hazel eyes bright. “Imagine the movie marathons we could have.”

Nandini grins before looking back at me. “Seriously though, babe. I’m happy for you. You needed this.”

I offer her a small smile. “Yeah, I really did.”

The last few months have been difficult, and both Nandini and Cora know it. We’ve never had a reason to keep secrets from each other. When Nandini decided during sophomore year that she didn’t want to grow out her hair anymore, Sikh or not, we were the first people she told. We took her to the hair salon ourselves and held her hand the entire time. When Cora realized last year that she’s bisexual, our group chat blew up my phone the entire night. We all showed up the next morning with matching dark circles underneath our eyes and smiled tiredly at each other in solidarity.

At the beginning of the year, I realized I didn’t want to be a doctor or an engineer or anything relating to STEM. It was the most terrifying realization of my life. It still is.

When I hypothetically brought up pursuing something other than medicine to my parents—I didn’t even mention being an English major—I received the worst lecture of my life. It went on for weeks upon weeks and stopped only when they began preparing their travel plans.

Their reaction was a horror story brought to life. Until then, I’d never realized I had anxiety. It was undeniable, though, when I found myself sitting alone in my room, struggling to breathe through my tears with an unknown pressure building in my chest.

In retrospect, I think I’ve always had it. It’s just never been as bad as it is now, with the future looming over my head, so impossibly far away and yet closer than ever.

Nandini and Cora still think I should push for an English degree. I think my parents might actually disown me if I try.

But this next month means I don’t have to worry about it. I’m free from the constant weight of their disapproving glares.

T-27 days. I’m going to try to make every single one of them count.

“How were your weekends?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the table.

Cora grins. “Okay, so I found the cutest pair of shoes at the mall. I’ll Snapchat you a picture when I get home, but they’re literally gorgeous. Perfect for junior prom.”

“Not the junior prom thing again,” Nandini says, leaning her chin on my shoulder. “Cora, that’s for losers.”

“You guys are so boring,” Cora whines. “Come on, it’ll be fun! We don’t need to go with anyone. It can just be the three of us. It’ll be like practice for real prom.”

“Good luck convincing my parents to let me go to any kind of prom,” I say. It comes out light, but both Nandini and Cora sober at the words.

Nandini is fully Indian and Cora is half-Chinese, yet my parents tend to be more strict than both of theirs combined. I’m rarely allowed to do things without guaranteed parental supervision. When I do break the rules, the hellish screaming that comes afterward is hardly ever worth it. I know it’s because they’re protective of me, but it’s still a hindrance on my social life. The situation is complex.

And as of right now, prom is out of the question.

“I’m going to start a petition,” Cora says, already taking out her planner to make a note. “I’d like to see your mom argue against five hundred signatures.”

I choke back a laugh. “Where the hell do you think you’re going to get five hundred signatures? I don’t think five hundred people even know who I am.”

“Listen, they don’t need to know you. This is a matter of social justice. Your parents are taking away your right to go to prom, and that should be illegal!” She raises her voice even louder. “This is your space. This is your area. They can’t do that to you.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, giggling. “Do you know how you sound right now? Is this because your dad is white?”

Nandini snorts. “That’s exactly why,” she says. “Cora, you silly, silly girl. I love you.”

“Don’t be condescending,” Cora says, pointing a lead pencil at Nandini in warning. She hesitates and adds, “but I love you, too.”

I snort. “You’re both such clowns.”

“Shut up.” Nandini bumps her shoulder into mine. “If we have to kidnap you ourselves for junior prom, we’ll do it. I could probably fit you in a duffel bag. It would take a little squeezing but between the three of us, we can make it work.”

“Oh my God, does that mean we’re doing it?” Cora says, nearly screeching in my ear. Some of the people at the end of the table give us dark looks, and I smile apologetically. “It’s official! NCK is going to junior prom!”

“Why don’t I ever think before I speak?” Nandini whispers, casting a glance skyward.

I lean my head against Nandini’s shoulder, still smiling. My best friends might be clowns, but they’re mine and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Nandini slumps to accommodate me and on my other side, Cora interlaces our fingers. “I really wish we could all go to prom together,” I say. “But with my parents... I don’t know.”

Cora squeezes my hand. “Karina, you know what the poets say. If you want something badly enough, nothing can stop you or whatever. Right, Nandini?”

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