“Benji, you’ll get high and look up and it’ll be January.”

“I’ll finish it in time.”

“You already got rejected from your entire first round. Do you wanna be a flop forever?”

“Thanks, Maha. Appreciate you so much.” Benji balls up his fist and looks out the window.

Benji’s had girlfriends since the fifth grade. Mahalia’s probably the one girl who stuck because she cares for him while challenging him. And she takes no shit.

I wish I had some of that quality in me or at least enough charm to attract someone who’d break up with me and then come back again.

At home, Mahalia takes a long deep breath and looks at my brother like there are words she needs to say that she can’t say in front of me. He looks back at her, and I feel like a third wheel. When it’s time for them to say goodbye, it’s like they don’t know how to when I’m around.

“Catch you later,” Benji says, and leaps out of the car.

Then Maha and I are sitting there, just the two of us, sans the guy who’s incredibly hard to talk to but whose approval you still seek, in a weird way.

“Sorry Benji’s such an idiot,” I tell her. “I’m embarrassed by it.”

She laughs and then sighs, looking sadly at the steering wheel. “Aren’t we all embarrassed? I just want more for him, you know? Like, why can’t he be more studious, like you?”

“I’m not that studious.”

“But you make an effort, at least. He’s so smart and is just wasting it. Anyway . . . I hope you’re okay after the craziness of today.”

“I’m good. Thanks again for the ride.”

“Always. Have a good night. See you tomorrow.”

I get out of the car and find my brother in the driveway, squinting at me as she drives off.

“What were y’all talking about?” he asks.

“Just reassuring her at least one of us is a nice person so she doesn’t feel alienated from our family entirely.” I walk up the driveway, stick the key in the door, and twist. “Is Maha your number one or number three now? Kinda hard to keep track.”

He reaches between me and the door and hits me in the chest before I can finish. The knob twists in my hand, and I fall against the doorway, coughing as the door swings open.

There’s a smell. It’s coming from inside the house, but it doesn’t smell like the lavender Mom puts in the oil diffuser, or the potpourri on the entry table.

The pink-orange light of the sunset comes through the open door, capturing letters on our entryway wall.

S.A.D.