I hunch forward to merge carefully, making my way across Staten Island, then exiting onto I-95 through New Jersey. This is more highway driving than I’ve ever done. The route climbs up and up curving roads until I park in front of a big white brick house. There’s a hissing sound of a sprinkler, somewhere behind the big hedges. At the door I catch myself in the narrow glass—wrinkled shirt, lace-up boots, hair a mess. I feel like a bike messenger, grimy, carrying the stink of New York City streets.

When I press the bell, the ringtone sounds inside a huge space. The door opens and I’m greeted by an older woman—hawk-nosed, a streak of white in her hair, which swings at her chin. She’s wearing a blue kurta over white slacks, gold slip-on sandals. “You must be Rania!” I feel her eyes raking me up and down. “Come in, come in!” she urges.

I follow her, clicking down the polished hall floor, past the ornate furniture, just beyond huge windows that look out onto the shimmering blue of a swimming pool. In the large kitchen, a woman at the sink—the maid—is waved away. A tray of tea and sandwiches has been set out for me.

“Please, please, eat.” She laughs. “We still have so much food left over from the iftar. I have chicken cutlet? Biryani?”

My stomach scrapes hollow. In the rush to get Kamal to school I never ate breakfast. But something about Hema Auntie makes me uneasy. As if I’m a beggar, grubby with need. I grab one half sandwich and cram it down, quick.

“This is perfect, thanks,” I say.

“So tell me,” she says, pouring the tea. “You are how old?”

“Seventeen,” I reply. “I’m just about to graduate.”

“Ah.” She smiles. “My son is at UPenn. Premed. You are going where?”

I get it—time to trot out credentials. “Hunter,” I tell her. When it doesn’t register, I say, “The honors college. I got a scholarship.”

She nods absently. Clearly she’s not impressed. All those fancy schools—UPenn, Brown, Vassar—were out of the question for me. I was going to apply, and then I deleted them from my list. It would be too hard for Ammi to keep up our household without me and we could never afford those tuitions. This is what I want: to stay with Fatima. To walk the blocks I know, past men scraping spiny fruit by the curb; to stop off for noodles at Lucky Eight and sit in Sunset Park; I want to talk and dream and complain. Why can’t I do what other kids do?