Instead, Mom mutters, “Of course, you always have it all figured out. Why do I even bother?”

“Thanks for the support,” Natasha says.

“You don’t think we are supporting you? You’re staying here, aren’t you? Do you even understand how lucky you are to have a place to live and eat and have everything taken care of for you?”

“Trust me, this is not ideal for me,” Natasha says, raising her voice.

“Ah, not ideal for you. I’m so glad we uprooted our lives and moved to America so our children could go to bars and party with their friends.” Mom says this as she faces the kitchen. She does this a lot: makes dramatic statements that seem directed to nobody on the surface but are really supposed to be a jab at Natasha. Maybe she got this habit from her career onstage.

“Wow, another guilt trip about how I’m not good enough!” Natasha says. “I’m so sorry you couldn’t be an actress because you had to move here, but if we could go, like, a week without hearing about your sacrifices, that’d be great.”

Mom looks at Anuj for support. “You’re going, too?”

Anuj shrugs his shoulders and hesitates for a second. “Don’t worry, Mom. We won’t be too late.”

Mom’s nostrils flare. “So, anyway, ho—”

“We have to go. C’mon. Now,” Natasha interrupts before Anuj can suggest they change the subject or, worse, talk things out.

Two hours later, Anuj is all set up in the front row to record Natasha’s first ever performance.

Natasha rushes backstage, where she’s directed to a cramped, dark waiting room that reeks of sweat and cheap beer. Her head is starting to pound from the four tequila shots she downed after she and Anuj ate at Bartaco. Ten other comedians are lingering in the hallway. A few seem as nervous as she feels, but some of the others have an aloof air about them that comes off as confidence in this type of situation. She’s the only woman of color back here. Typical.

“Uh, I think you spilled something on your shirt,” a thin brunette stage assistant says as she points to Natasha’s chest.

“Shit.” A streak of guacamole and salsa is across her left boob. “It’s my sister’s shirt. She’s going to freak out.”

The stage assistant nods and gives Natasha a sympathetic look as if she understands that Suhani is an uptight perfectionist.

Natasha hears the audience roaring with laughter at the current comedian. Great. Of course she’s after someone amazing. She grabs a paper towel. The food comes off, but there’s still a large wet circle outlining her boob.

“Perfect,” she says. “I look like I’m breastfeeding. Why the fuck does it have to be my sister’s shirt? And why doesn’t she ever spill anything? It just makes the rest of us look bad.”