She didn’t take it down until she finished high school, when Rob Lowe became as passé as hoop earrings to the shoulder and ultra-feathered hair. But the tape was still stuck to the ceiling—and it struck Hanan that she was a twenty-six-year-old still living with her parents. Should she think about moving out, getting her own place? Maybe that was the jumpstart she needed, to become independent; maybe a small apartment in University City, across the Schuylkill River, like the one John had.

But what about Baba? Hanan imagined him living alone with her mother for the first time in twenty-six years, growing more and more quiet until one day Mama would make a comment about why the garbage disposal was always stopped up and Baba would implode and disappear into a pile of hot ashes.

The sounds in the kitchen quieted when Hanan entered. Her father broke it by glancing up from CNN and saying, “Sabah al-khair, habibti.”

“Good morning, Baba,” she replied, walking over and kissing his forehead. He smiled absently and raised the volume on the television. Hanan glanced at Rola and her mother as she took a seat at the table. Rola was wearing one of her mother’s housedresses, the kind with little, metallic snaps on the bodice sold at K-Mart. She stood by the stove, dropping falafel balls into hot oil, then scooping them out when they were crispy and brown.

“Hanan,” her mother said, “we were wondering when you’d wake up.” Her unspoken words also registered with Hanan as well: “We were talking and wondering why you left yesterday and where you went.” Mama laid plates on the table and a bowl of flat, Arabic bread, two shallow bowls of olive oil and za’atar for dipping, as well as a salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, and tahini. Then Rola placed a dish of fresh falafel as the centerpiece of the meal, each one perfectly round and flat, evenly shaped.

“Rola, a friend of mine and I are going to a dance club tonight in the city. Maybe you’d like to come with us?”

“No,” Mama said quickly, “Rola has better things to do. She doesn’t go to those places.”

“’Those places?’ Mama, it’s not a crackhouse—it’s a dance club.” She turned her attention back to her cousin. “Want to come? It’s a lot of fun.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Mama!”

“Yes, I will go.”

“Rola!”

“Great!”

“Rola, why do you want to go?” Mama sounded stricken. “You were sick this morning, remember? You are still tired from your trip. These places, they no good! They not for us.”

“Mama, you have no idea what you’re saying.”

“No, you don’t!” Her mother’s words exploded from her lips. “Michel, say something.” But her father simply shrugged and returned to the debate on CNN about the foot-and-mouth disease outbreak in England. “Hanan, you are not taking your cousin out tonight. She’s from back home—she is not used to these places like you and your friends.”

Hanan stood up and took out a Pop-Tart from a box in the cabinet. “I’ll skip breakfast—I have to work the noon to eight shift at the store. Besides, I’ve caused enough trouble in five minutes for the entire day. We’ll go around nine o’clock, OK Rola?”