“Wait!” I tell him. I turn back to Ammi. “Who are all these people? Why didn’t you tell me about—”

“Let me speak to Kamal.”

I thrust the phone into his hand. “Here, talk to Ammi.”

He takes the phone from me. I watch him nod and tell her about the party in his class and the chocolate cake they ate and how his teacher said his project was awesome. “When are you coming back?” he asks. He listens, grinning in a secret, happy way, then he hands back the phone and tells me, “Ammi says she is going to get me a new Transformer.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

I take the phone from him. “Ammi, you can’t tell him things like that.”

“I’m calling for something else. I don’t have much time—someone else needs to use the phone.” Her voice lowers. “In the closet, inside that big bag I told you about, there’s another little velvet one. Just look. You’ll find it.”

“What?” I roll my eyes even though she can’t see. Ammi with her zippered compartments, her secrets.

“Jewelry. You can take it to Mr. Mehta. He’s at Seeta Jewelers, on Coney Island Avenue. Near where we used to live. He knows me. He will give you a good price. He won’t cheat you.”

“I don’t understand. Ammi, I was just talking to Lidia—”

“Rania, listen to me. Get what you can for the jewelry. That will hold you over for a while.” There’s a rattling sound in the background. “I can’t call very often. My phone isn’t charging right. And it’s costly to use theirs. And they can use it against me. Write me and send me a phone card. You can get the address from Lidia.”

“But, Ammi—”

“I have to go. I love you. Hugs and kisses to Kamal.” Then she clicks off.

Great. Who do I see in front of our building, but Mrs. Flannery, sitting on a folding chair. Sometimes she puts on an outfit, maybe the kind she used to wear when she was a principal, blazers with puffy shoulders and flat shoes, and she sits there, surveying the kids walking home bowed down with backpacks, the little ones tumbling off yellow school buses, hands fluttering with construction-paper drawings, the women pushing their carts piled high with paper towels and groceries, their children trailing behind in a row, like a colorful kite tail. Kamal’s got his end-of-year art project under one arm and a Popsicle in the other.

“How old are you?” Mrs. Flannery asks him when we reach the steps.

“Eight,” he replies.

“Is that right?” Her glasses flash for a moment. Then she stares at me. “How is your mother?”

“She’s fine,” I say with a snarl in my voice. I can’t help myself; I start to lie. “She has this really important job interview. To be head of a school.”