When dinner was over and the family had relocated to the living room, Hanan stayed in the kitchen with Mama to help prepare the tea. She infused the boiling tea with peppermint leaves, wiped down her mother’s best silver-plated tray, then arranged the short tea glasses on it. Her mother was busy putting the leftover food into Tupperware containers and didn’t pay her any attention. Through the door to the living room, Hanan heard Uncle Ibrahim telling a joke in Arabic and then a burst of laughter from the family. She thought to herself that she’d never felt so alone in the midst of so many people.

The aroma of the tea surged up at her and she poured it into the cups, one by one. “I’ll take this in, Mama.”

Just then, Rola strolled into the kitchen, her face a rosy red and her black eyes bright. “Need any help, Auntie? Hanan?”

“No,” Hanan responded. “I’m just going to take this tea in.”

“Rola,” her mother interjected quickly, “why don’t you serve the tea? Last time Hanan did it, she served the little kids before the guests!”

“I went around the room from right to left,” Hanan exclaimed in her own defense, but the knowing smile that her mother and Rola shared was enough. “Fine, go ahead. I actually have to be somewhere anyway.” She walked out of the kitchen, out of the house, though before the door closed, she heard her mother say, “That’s how she is, my American daughter—if she doesn’t like something, she leaves. Too busy for us stupid Arabs. She thinks she hurts us by doing that.”

“It’s not you I’m thinking about!” she wanted to scream, but closed her lips and walked the six blocks to the used bookstore on South Street where she usually went to hang out. She flipped open her cell phone and called her friend John, who agreed to meet her in a few minutes. Hanan realized that the tone of her voice had probably freaked him out, because John never went anywhere at the last minute. She grabbed a paperback off the shelf and settled into a chair to read.

Peter, the burly, red-haired owner, nodded at her from behind the counter. “Just want to tell you the boys are on the prowl.” He owned three cats that often roamed the bookstore, including a fat Persian that had made the store semi-famous in this part of the city. Once Hanan had pulled a heavy book off the shelf and found the cat curled up in the small, cozy space between the volumes, protected by a fortress of pages and words.