I’m not ready to tell her about my father. The past few nights, old memories of Pakistan have been bumping into my mind. I remember how my brand-new leather book bag squeaked when I ran down the street to school. I had a best friend then too—Asma—and she liked coming to my home because Ammi let us play nomads in a desert, making a tent, draping a quilt over the chairs in the middle of the living room, using brass goblets and plates for our meals. I miss that Ammi—the one who taught me how to dream and imagine with so little.

“Fatima, about my idea. What do you think?”

She sighs. “There are…limits. On what we can do.”

“What does that mean?”

She’s quiet—so unlike Fatima.

“Fa-Fa,” I say. “Is something going on?”

I can hear her sucking in wet breaths. “My father says I have to go out with the boys they choose. Especially if I want to go to college. They want things settled.”

“Bullshit! You have to stand up to him. Remember, freedom—”

“What do you know!”

“Whoa, Fa-Fa—”

“I can’t be like you! Doing whatever you like! Coming up with all kinds of fantastic stuff!”

There’s a gulf opening up between us. Maybe it was there all along. I don’t get why she doesn’t stand up to her father. Fatima doesn’t understand how my parents fought those old conservative ideas. Or the spike of fear I feel every time I see a local police car. That one day I’ll turn on my phone and learn Ammi is gone. Deported. This is the first time I’ve kept something from Fatima.

I spot Carlos bringing Kamal back. His dyed streak is lighter from the sun and falls over his face as he leans toward Kamal, whispering some kind of joke. Every part of me wants to be next to him.

“I gotta go.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We hang up.

After, we drive to the ocean-side beach. I’m still upset with Fatima, and upset with myself. Why do I keep banging into conversations, hurting people? Dark falls swiftly as we clamber down the steep dunes. We walk and walk, passing clusters of bonfires, flames blowing thinly in the dark. Wind rubs our faces. The ocean looks like a midnight-blue sheet being shaken out, again and again, unfurling a few feet away.

Carlos and I sit down on the sand while Kamal keeps tossing flat stones in the water. He pushes my hair out of my eyes again, as it whips around. “Don’t bother,” I say, and laugh.

“I like doing it.”

We fall quiet.

“Tell me about your aunt,” I finally say.