“Look what I got today!” she said, handing him a university course calendar. “McGill.” She was in an ivory ruffled blouse that billowed out over her painter jeans and a red plaid tie that hung loose around the collar.

“Cool!”

They had decided to keep their plans a secret. For now. Their families didn’t have the money to send them away, and if they heard the subjects they wanted to study or the careers they were considering, they would have never approved. His mother would never have said anything. She was proud of his education no matter how well or how poorly he did. It was his father who would be the problem. “Who goes to university to get a job that pays nothing? What kind of investment is that? Utter waste of time and money, son.” Ashif understood. He didn’t want to live below the poverty line, either. But he also didn’t need to make a lot of money. He had another aim: a life centred on beauty and meaning. Moderation, too. But how could he explain an idea like that to a man like his father? So, he decided to bide his time, tell his father only when he and Shafina were ready to make their getaway.

They could take out student loans, but they were both strong students and hoped to win scholarships to fund their way. For the Aga Khan Foundation, they decided to play it safe. They’d mark down business as their major. Although the foundation was open to any major, they weren’t sure who was on the scholarship committee. What if someone on it knew one of their parents? They didn’t want to risk word leaking out.

Shafina slipped off her glasses and leaned in to him. Her tongue was warm and wet. He pulled her closer and let his mouth sink into hers. She wiggled a hand up between their bodies, unbuttoned her blouse for him. Her breasts were small and shapely, her nipples pale pink. As he moved to touch her, he saw his mother’s breasts, the dark coins of her nipples as she buttoned her nightgown on her way out of his father’s room. He yanked Shafina’s hands down from his neck.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He slumped into the car seat and turned to the window to see the dense and dark forest of trees. “I don’t think we should…”

Shafina tugged playfully at his T-shirt. “Don’t feel shy, mon chéri.” She took his hands and guided them to her breasts. “It’s my first time, too.”

“He needs us, bheta,” his mother had said to Ashif, pulling her hair forward to cover her healing bruises. He looked at Shafina, now, half-naked in front of him, and felt the same hot ember of rage ignite inside him. How many times has she done this before? Whore! He felt a sudden urge to spit at her. He pushed her away and rushed out of the car, slamming the door shut.

He stood gripping the lamppost, beating his head lightly but insistently against the metal. All he could see was his mother in her nightgown, her face swollen and bruised, her pendulous, submissive breasts.