From a rumpled stack of clothes in the corner of her closet, Natasha pulls out a pair of ripped jeans and one of Suhani’s black shirts. One of the only perks of being home is that she can steal her sister’s clothes the same way she used to when they were younger.

Mom’s sitting at the dining table when Natasha and Anuj come downstairs. She’s wearing her thick black reading glasses and flipping through an issue of Vogue India: Bridal Edition. An old episode of Seinfeld is on TV. Mom and Dad watched that show all the time when the kids were little. Once, on a family trip to New York City, Mom saw the actor who played George and ran across the street to tell him how much she loved him.

“We’re going out to eat dinner,” Natasha says. “Be back later.”

“Natasha, so nice of you to finally come out of your room. You’re going out again?” Mom looks up from her magazine. A giant photograph of a way-too-thin Indian model wearing a red wedding lehenga and heavy gold jewelry is on the page.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta see my friend in a show.”

“How great that your friends are so important.” Mom raises her eyebrows and mutters some Sanskrit mumbo jumbo about evil spirits and omens. It’s the same stuff she lights incense and does hour-long prayer ceremonies for. “And what’s so wrong with eating dinner with your parents?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Natasha mutters, even though they both know that’s the last thing she wants to do. She won’t admit now (or maybe ever) that a lot of people would love to have dinner with Mom. But they got a different person. They got a funny, charismatic, lighthearted Indian auntie who listens to rap and seems so progressive in her thinking. Natasha’s the only one who gets a critical, moody woman whose words are blades, ready to slice up any self-confidence Natasha has.

“Right,” Mom says. “Just reminding you that this isn’t a hotel, okay? Anyway, Chand called an hour ago and asked that you get in touch with him.”

“For what?”

Chand Uncle, one of their close family friends, always brings his karaoke machine to parties and then belts way too loudly to Bollywood songs from the eighties.

“He might have a temp job in billing for you at his office.”

“I don’t need a job from him!”

“Why? Do you already have one in the works?” Mom asks. “And I mean a real job. Something that gives you money.”

“Not yet. But I’m figuring it out.” Natasha feels like such a loser when she says stuff like that out loud.

She and Mom frown at each other as Anuj clears his throat. She wishes Mom would just say, Okay, I trust you. I understand you’re doing the best you can.