On that day we were wearing matching FREEDOM T-shirts that Fatima designed, showing a silhouette of two girls before a sunset. Our little reward to ourselves for four years of manic work and pushing for grades, while taking care of our siblings and remembering to pull the meat out of the freezer for dinner—so what if we declared ourselves free a little early? We deserve it.

Self-care, Fatima calls it. She’s always posting pics on Instagram on how to give yourself a spa day or light scented candles to soothe your spirit. Blissful pictures of windows looking out on the Mediterranean Sea or of us lounging in Sunset Park, showing off our pedis. Fatima’s something fierce about fashion and self-love. I’m sure it’s because of her mother, who got married at sixteen. Mrs. Elawady is always in the same long housedress, day in, day out, too busy with taking care of Fatima and her three brothers. Fatima gets furious at her mother for letting her roots grow out; now and then she drags her into the bathroom, packs her hair with her grandmother’s recipe of henna and yogurt. I think Mrs. Elawady likes it, actually. “My daughter, the bossy general. I always obey.”

That’s the biggest thing we have in common: our moms. Young-old, we say. We’ll never be like them. We’ll fly fast before life tugs us by the ankles. Isn’t that the whole reason they came to America? Fatima’s mother thought she was going to go to university in Cairo to be a nurse, until her parents told her about a great match: a young man who already owned a business in the US. After many cups of mint tea, talking about the two young people, the matter was settled between the families. “No way that’s how my life’s decided!” Fatima often declares.

Now, on this warm spring morning, I found Fatima waiting by the subway entrance. She had on a denim jacket to hide how tight her T-shirt pulled across her chest. I’m sure her mom wasn’t too thrilled about that. “I got the afternoon off,” she told me.

“Me too. Kamal is going to a friend’s place.”

“Wanna go downtown after school?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Freedom!” We laughed, bumped fists. She hooked her arm through mine, and we raced onto the platform, ignoring the people who frowned at us. We grabbed a couple of seats while the train rumbled underground for a few stops and then suddenly we were up, aboveground, sunlight shooting through the glass. We stared out at the blinding morning light, slashing across the Brooklyn rooftops. Everyone else was lost in their phones or staring down at their shoes. They didn’t even notice the view! That’s what me and Fatima wanted: to live full on, taking in everything.