“You know what I mean.”

“But all this time, they knew about me. About my mom. Her hearing, what happened. How come I didn’t know they even exist?”

“I guess your mom doesn’t like them.”

Fatima’s trying to help, but inside the Elawady house, with its big, ornate furniture, she’s snug inside her family. Even with all the chaos—her noisy brothers, her father yelling in Arabic at someone from his business, relatives dropping by, poor Mrs. Elawady trying to serve the meal—I feel a burn of resentment.

“I could ask my mom if she’d sign the paper about guardianship. It’s not a big deal, right?”

“Maybe. But let me find out more first.” Since Ammi has put in my mind this idea of an uncle, I keep seeing a door opening and a soft-faced uncle welcoming us. And cousins, for me and Kamal. Was such a normal scene possible? Back in Pakistan we mostly saw my parents’ friends—from university or Abu’s newspaper colleagues. They are our family, Ammi would insist. They would sit around our living room, talking all at once, going out onto the balcony to smoke. In the morning I’d find full ashtrays on the floor, or maybe a friend of Abu’s sleeping the night off on the sofa.

“It’s so confusing. Ammi made it seem like everything was under control. Why would she lie?”

“She wasn’t lying.”

“What do you call it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she had her reasons—”

There’s a rattling noise on the window. We both turn to see her brothers, waving wildly, making faces. Fatima sighs. “They never leave me alone.”

“They’re cute.”

Smiling, she nudges her shoulder into mine. “I’ll tell you who’s cute.” Then she talks about how Jamal—the boy on the basketball court—wants her to come to a graduation party at his house—half the senior class is going. She’s got an elaborate story worked up to tell her parents: about how it’s a makeup session for graduation, for all the girls, and we’re going to do each other’s hair, and she wants me to back her up.

“Fa-Fa,” I warn, “if your dad finds out, you are really screwed. He’ll put you on the next flight to Cairo and you’ll have a husband ASAP.”

“But—”

“You remember what happened last time?”

Fatima is always getting in trouble. Once we snuck out to a party where she drank beer and danced and danced, swinging her wild hair. I dragged her back to her neighborhood, the two of us walking round the block until she could stand properly. Mr. Elawady was furious at me.

“Go!” he shouted.

“But it’s late!” Fatima cried. “She needs a ride!”