Dedication
To Kid Me, who spent most of Sunday school
daydreaming of love stories with Muslim characters . . .
and to God—sorry about that.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
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Chapter 1: Kiran
Three Years Ago
Chapter 2: Deen
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Chapter 3: Kiran
Three Years Ago
Chapter 4: Deen
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Chapter 5: Kiran
Chapter 6: Deen
Three Years Ago
Chapter 7: Kiran
Chapter 8: Deen
Three Years Ago
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Chapter 9: Kiran
Chapter 10: Deen
Three Years Ago
Chapter 11: Kiran
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Chapter 12: Deen
Chapter 13: Kiran
Three Years Ago
Chapter 14: Deen
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Chapter 15: Kiran
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Chapter 16: Deen
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Chapter 17: Kiran
Three Years Ago
Chapter 18: Deen
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Chapter 19: Kiran
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Now:
Chapter 20: Deen
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Chapter 21: Kiran
Three Years Ago
Chapter 22: Kiran
Chapter 23: Deen
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Chapter 24: Deen
Chapter 25: Deen
Three Years Ago
Chapter 26: Kiran
Chapter 27: Deen
Chapter 28: Kiran
Chapter 29: Deen
Chapter 30: Kiran
Chapter 31: Kiran
Chapter 32: Deen
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Chapter 33: Kiran
Chapter 34: Deen
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Chapter 35: Kiran
Chapter 36: Deen
Chapter 37: Kiran
Three Years Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Farah Naz Rishi
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Copyright
About the Publisher
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[CAMBRIA: THE EVOLUTION EXPANSION PACK]
[ROANA GUILD CHAT ROOM]
* * *
Devynius Foxx: totally random but
Devynius Foxx: you ever think about how being on this game, playing together here, in a virtual world
Devynius Foxx: is basically equivalent to being a parallel universe?
Kasia Coribund: lol
Kasia Coribund: and here I thought we were staying away from revealing real-world details about ourselves
Kasia Coribund: but now I know the real-life Foxx is 420 friendly
Kasia Coribund: good to know
Devynius Foxx: ha ha.
Devynius Foxx: no but seriously
Devynius Foxx: In class the other day
Devynius Foxx: we were talking about parallel universes, alternate realities
Devynius Foxx: How scientists are trying to prove the theory of the multiverse and all that BS
Devynius Foxx: I dunno, I was barely paying attention in class tbh
Kasia Coribund: wait wait wait
Kasia Coribund: now I know you’re a student!
Devynius Foxx: oh come on
Devynius Foxx: that doesn’t tell you anything about me
Devynius Foxx: I could be a third grader for all you know
Kasia Coribund: true
Kasia Coribund: You definitely act like one sometimes
Devynius Foxx: damn Ms. Kasia, that’s cold
Devynius Foxx: ANYWAY, it occurred to me
Devynius Foxx: What a waste of time, trying to prove parallel universes
Devynius Foxx: I got one right here, in Cambria
Devynius Foxx: Like, in real life, we lead vastly different lives, right
Devynius Foxx: Wholly separate from each other
Devynius Foxx: In real life, I could be a famous actor
Kasia Coribund: Or a third grader
Devynius Foxx: and in real life, you could be a hot nurse.
Kasia Coribund: or a hot doctor
Devynius Foxx: Two strangers who have no way of ever knowing who the other is, or ever meeting
Devynius Foxx: But here, we’ve made a parallel universe of our own
Devynius Foxx: Where I’m a level 50 rogue,
Devynius Foxx: who talks to you, a level 50 warrior, almost every night
Devynius Foxx: no frills, no bullshit, no weight of real-world obligations
Devynius Foxx: a place we can just throw open our trench coats and reveal the bare-naked truth of ourselves
Kasia Coribund: . . . okay but why did you have to make us sound like two flashers competing over territory
Devynius Foxx: and that, my dear Kasia
Devynius Foxx: is why I love this parallel universe so damn much.
* * *
Chapter 1
Kiran
Friday, June 4
I FIND AMIRA SITTING ALONE at a table, huddled in the back corner of a Joe Coffee on the Upper West Side. Even with her head half-buried in a book—some brick of a fantasy novel—I can tell it’s her: the familiar way her oversized glasses perch crookedly on her nose, the way her long, straight dark hair rests perfectly around her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing an impeccably stylish floral shirt dress, and there are at least two different guys checking her out, including the barista, who keeps gazing longingly at the back of her head.
“Sorry I’m late!” I splutter, nearly tripping over my feet to reach her. “Dance practice went overtime.” And I was up late playing Cambria, my favorite online role-playing game, with my friend Foxx—but I don’t tell her that part.
Amira looks up from her book, round doe eyes blinking in surprise behind her glasses. I can only imagine how horrible I look. I’m in my baggy Greenville School T-shirt and leggings (since it’s too hot for my usual sweatpants) and I’m huffing loudly, dripping sweat from every orifice imaginable, made worse by the fact that I’m wearing a backpack.
I don’t think Amira even has sweat glands.
I move to shove my damp bangs off my face when she leaps off her chair and envelops me in a hug. “I’m glad you made it,” she says. I can barely hear her over the upbeat jazz in the background, and the clatter of forks and ceramic mugs. But I don’t need to. Her hug says it all.
As much as I’m excited to see her—it’s been weeks since we last saw each other—I always dread coming to visit my sister in New York. I hate leaving Philadelphia, for one thing. And the Chinatown Bus, the only method of transportation I can afford without a summer job, is a mobile metal monstrosity designed to torture its passengers for the entire three-hour trip with a two-pronged attack of mediocre leg room and fart inhalation. Then there’s the city itself, currently swallowed by a shroud of sticky rain, all stony browns and metal grays and muted disinterest. Sometimes I imagine New York as a person: one who smokes lime-flavored vape, who wears an easy, shit-eating grin even though their coffee-and-sweat-stained shirt is on backward with the tag showing. As soon as the bus pokes its head out from the Lincoln Tunnel, I can feel this threatening energy humming beneath the streets, wild movement around me like erratic breathing. The city looking at me with a dare in its eyes. I took your sister and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I hug Amira back tightly. Screw you, New York. Just a few more months, and I’ll get her back.
“I think this is probably
the first time I’ve ever seen you late for something,” Amira asks, once we settle at the table. “How was the trip in?”
“Good. Great,” I lie. I wave my arms a little to let my armpits breathe and gesture toward the spare cup of coffee in front of me. “This mine?”
Amira grins. “Yep. Latte, one sugar.”
I hide my smile with my cup, and sip. It’s lukewarm. “The subway system here is so bad. Did you know how bad it is?”
She snorts. “Yes. We all know. That’s why whenever I have an appointment I have to give myself an extra half hour of travel time. And then another, to account for desi time.”
I make a face. “More reason to hate it here, I guess.”
I sound bitter, but three years without her hasn’t been easy. Of course, I know it’s not like she wanted to leave me alone with my parents. It was just that her idol, Dr. Margaret Kline—the foremost expert on teen incarceration—happened to teach at Columbia Law, and ran a superinfluential clinic there that worked directly with teens. Amira had always dreamed of working with her, ever since she turned fourteen and decided to become a lawyer. Between the two of us, Amira was always the sweeter, quieter one—but when Amira decides to do something, there’s no stopping her. You’re better off trying to wrangle gale-force winds with your bare fists.
But it’s not like she could’ve known what would happen after she left.
Just a few more months.
Amira glances at the window, distracted.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Oh. Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, waving dismissively. “So? Did you get what I asked?”
I sigh and pull out my phone. A couple of sweaty finger taps. I pull up a photo my best friend, Asher Santos, took of me and Dad, about a week ago, on graduation day. Dad is in a wrinkled button-down shirt that’s two sizes too big, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. I’m standing next to him, grinning, and my wavy brown bobbed hair has the reddish hue of henna. Amira couldn’t come because she was finishing her law school exams.
I pass her the screen. I can see the reflection on her glasses.
“So let me get this straight,” she says, after a beat. “You wore pajamas at your own graduation?”
“They’re not pajamas!” I reply, indignant. “They’re joggers. They’re trendy.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure those are pj’s,” she says, shaking her head solemnly. “Where did you get them?”
“Found them. In Mom’s closet.”
“Oh no, Kiran. Those are literally pajamas. Mom got them at Gap, like, two years ago.” Before I can argue, she hands me back my phone, where the picture remains open. My black graduation robes do little to hide the offending outfit, and I realize she might just be right: even with the floral, silky top, my pants do look an awful lot like pajamas.
“. . . Oh.”
I feel my cheeks warm as I try not to think about the implications of the fact that I walked across the stage in front of the entire graduating class to receive my diploma in my mom’s old pajamas. How did Dad not notice? Then again, he has virtually zero observation skills and probably doesn’t even realize I wear the same sweatpants three times a week.
This is precisely why I need Amira to move back home.
Just as I’m yelling at Dad in my head, Amira laughs, a sound like the jangle of a tiny bell, or soft morning birdcalls before dawn. It’s the sound of better times. Like when she lived at home with me and Dad in Philly, before she left for law school. Or before Mom died.
Sometimes when Dad isn’t home, I stand in Mom’s closet and take in the familiar scent of antibacterial Softsoap and jasmine oil, just to remember, just to reassure myself I still can remember. With Dad working his clinical research job all the time—trying not to remember, probably—and Amira living in New York, the silence gets unbearable, and I get scared that my memories of Mom will just keep scattering, beyond recognition, until the day they fade away for good.
But when Amira laughs, I swear I can feel a warmth between my broken memories, a sort of pulling-back-together.
“Well, speaking of you saving me from myself . . .” I shove my phone into my backpack, pull out a thick red folder, and drop it on the table with a dramatic splat. This folder represents the one thing I’ve been waiting for, the one thing I’d been holding on to for the past three years: the day Amira says goodbye to New York and we get our own place in Philly, together. The folder is stuffed with packets of paper. Some are wish lists of different household items I thought would be useful, like a Crock-Pot or a weighted blanket. Others are lists of our old favorite hangouts and restaurants that I know Amira misses, like Saad’s Halal Restaurant and NuNu Sushi.
I hand her the first section, the fattest one by far. It’s tabbed with my favorite cat stickers.
“What’s this?” Amira begins flipping through the pages.
“Apartments,” I reply proudly. “I’ve put them in order from closest to farthest from my campus. The ones with the orange tabby paw sticker are slightly above budget, but I think we can make it work if I get a part-time job.” I could live in one of the dorms at Penn—staying on campus freshman year is encouraged, not required—but I’d far prefer living with my sister, while still being close enough to visit Dad at home.
“Wow, Kiran. This is . . .”
I beam.
“A lot.” She puts down the packet on the table. Condensation from her iced coffee begins to soak through the pages.
“Well, yeah,” I reply, deflating a little. “We gotta have options, right?”
“Of course, but . . . it’s just really early to start looking. We still have three months before you start school.”
“Less than three months, actually.” Eleven weeks, to be more precise.
“Right . . . ,” Amira says slowly, “but a lot can happen from now till then.”
“Sure, but it’s still good to start looking into it. . . . Right?”
She bites her lip. Her eyes slide to the window again. I don’t see anything beyond a couple of passersby walking their dog against the darkening sky, but she’s focused, like she can see something I can’t.
“What is it?” I ask her.
Amira quickly throws on a stiff, plastic smile. “Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then why do you look like you have something to tell me?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head. “Just tired. Exams were killer.”
I’m pretty sure that in addition to a lack of sweat glands, Amira also lacks the ability to lie. The girl is an open book with a worn, bent spine that won’t even let it close properly. “Amira?” I press.
“I promise, there’s nothing.” She stirs her iced coffee again, though it’s mostly just ice now. “But I am really happy. Happy to see you, happy to be done with school. Fulfilled, I guess.”
“Okay . . .” I trail off, watching her.
“I really appreciate you doing all this research, though,” she continues. “It’s sweet and thoughtful. You’re always so sweet and—”
“Stop,” I say, slapping my hand on the folder. “Seriously, just tell me what’s going on.”
She takes a deep breath, then another. “Imetsomeone,” she finally blurts, as if it’s all one word.
“Wait, what?” I lean forward to better hear over the background noise.
“I met someone!” she says, louder. Almost too loud, because now the barista is looking forlorn.
“What the hell do you mean, you met someone?”
She glances at the window again. Then she looks right at me.
Her eyes are watering.
And it’s not just that. Everything about her is coated in a sickly syrup-sweet happiness that’s stickier than the humidity. Flushed cheeks. Warm glow. All the telltale signs of a person in love. Which means she’s not messing with me.
Oh God.
My sister has actually met someone.
I blink. Swallow. “Wait. When? How?” The connection between my br
ain and my body has short-circuited, and I can feel the frantic pump of blood vessels coursing through me, can feel every cell of my being vibrating with confusion.
“I’ve been seeing him for the past three months. You know how I did my final paper with Professor Kline, at her clinic?” I nod. “I met him through the clinic. He’s trying to start this nonprofit to help kids released from juvenile detention get life skills. It’s amazing. The work he’s doing”—she blows a puff of air—“he’s amazing. I interviewed him for my paper, and then we kind of got to working together, and . . . I really, really like him, Kiran.”
Amira closes her eyes, sinks deeper into her chair, and I shit you not, she hugs herself. Wraps her arms around herself like a lovesick Disney princess. I’ve never seen her like this before and it’s like I can barely recognize her.
“God, it’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, but I really like him. Really, really, really, really—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. But three months? Why haven’t you said anything?”
“It was never a formal thing”—she starts blushing—“I mean, not that informal, either, until . . . recently. It just kind of happened. Plus, if I’d told you, you’d have told Dad. And you know what he’s like—we can’t talk about boys unless it’s serious.”
I bite my lip. It’s true; dating in the casual sense is still frowned upon in many Muslim communities, and it’s not something you can openly talk about unless you’ve practically made a formal Jane Austen–style declaration that you’re in pursuit of a life partner.
It’s partially why I never told Amira about my first and only boyfriend, either. But still.
My skull’s buzzing like the inside of a hive. Amira meeting someone is . . . big. She’s always been so focused on school and her career. I don’t think she’s ever even had the time to fall in love before, until now.
Silence settles in the space between us, and there’s a sickening weight in my stomach that wasn’t there before. In a matter of minutes, something has irrevocably changed between us—had already changed, without me even knowing. A change in the status quo where I might not be the first person Amira calls to rant about stuff at the office or update me on the latest books she’s read. Or tell me her secrets.
Slowly, Amira pulls herself up. “Nothing is set in stone yet, but . . . he might be moving to California soon, so we’re still trying to figure things out for us. There’s an organization there that works with legal nonprofits and they’re going to help fund him, get him up and running. Again, nothing’s set. We just need to discuss our future a bit more. Make plans, maybe.”
It All Comes Back to You Page 1