It All Comes Back to You

by Rishi, Farah Naz

  Devynius Foxx: Oh.

  Devynius Foxx: Yeah.

  Devynius Foxx: Guess that’s a pretty popular one, huh

  Kasia Coribund: Makes sense

  Devynius Foxx: So why?

  Devynius Foxx: Why that power?

  Kasia Coribund: I want to be able to see the future

  Kasia Coribund: because . . . I want to make sure it’s safe

  Kasia Coribund: that everything I’m doing right now is right

  Kasia Coribund: that everything I’m working for means something.

  Kasia Coribund: I want to know what to expect

  Kasia Coribund: so I can do what I can to protect what I have now.

  Devynius Foxx: Heh, it’s funny

  Devynius Foxx: When someone asked me this question before, I never knew the answer

  Devynius Foxx: But I think I know now.

  Kasia Coribund: Yeah?

  Devynius Foxx: I want to be able to change the past.

  Devynius Foxx: It’s not unlike your power, in a way

  Devynius Foxx: But I want to be able to go back in time, slap my old self for the mistakes he’s made

  Devynius Foxx: and live differently.

  Devynius Foxx: I want things to be different.

  Kasia Coribund: Sounds like someone has a couple regrets

  Devynius Foxx: Yeah.

  Devynius Foxx: Yeah, I do.

  Devynius Foxx: You don’t?

  Kasia Coribund: Maybe.

  Kasia Coribund: I don’t know.

  Kasia Coribund: I’d like to think

  Kasia Coribund: The mistakes I’ve made only become regrets if I don’t use them as fuel to make me stronger.

  Kasia Coribund: Or at least strong enough to never repeat them. To do better.

  Devynius Foxx: Damn

  Devynius Foxx: Put that on a mug

  Devynius Foxx: Put that on a wooden sign for the kitchens of white women everywhere

  Kasia Coribund: Idiot

  Devynius Foxx: But yeah, it’s funny

  Devynius Foxx: Whenever I feel . . . powerless

  Devynius Foxx: I always find myself wondering about superpowers.

  Devynius Foxx: Would I feel so powerless all the time if I lived in a world where I had some badass superpower like x-ray vision or flying or superspeed?

  Devynius Foxx: Or would I just feel as pathetic as I ever did

  Devynius Foxx: because either way, I’m still human?

  Devynius Foxx: Sorry

  Devynius Foxx: I’m just tired of feeling powerless all the time, you know?

  Kasia Coribund: If it makes you feel any better

  Kasia Coribund: I’m pretty sure even superheroes have regrets

  Devynius Foxx: TRUE

  Devynius Foxx: I mean just look at the Batman comics from the 70s

  Devynius Foxx: a jockstrap over tights????

  Devynius Foxx: Who hurt you, Batman?????

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Kiran

  Saturday, July 17

  36 Days Until the Wedding

  THE MASTER BATHROOM IN THE Maliks’ house is, in a word, obscene.

  It’s colossal enough to double as a Turkish bathhouse, complete with white marble floor, pillar-flanked bathtub fitted with jets (spacious enough to fit four people, if you were into that sort of thing), and a shower with not one but two showerheads. There’s even three floor-to-ceiling dressing mirrors so you can see yourself at every conceivable angle. I’m starting to understand why desis push for their kids to be doctors; the Maliks probably have enough cash to fill an actual, literal money bath.

  But at least they’re generous enough to lend us the space for Amira to get ready before the dholki, so we can pretend that we, too, are rich and fabulous socialites getting ready for a night out. I’d be lapping it up if not for the fact that this was all in service to my sister’s accursed bridal shower. And that we’re in Deen’s house.

  I dig for my phone at the bottom of my embroidered cloth purse, an old finicky thing Mom got me a few years ago with a latch that doesn’t quite close right. No new texts. Hopefully Asher is already here. I know he’s been reluctant to help, so I even brought the copy of Cambria he asked for—well, a sixty-day time card, since I couldn’t afford the full game.

  “Can you stop your phone addiction for two secs and help me hold Amira’s dupatta?” Rizwana’s voice snaps me to attention, even though she’s got a safety pin between her lips.

  Rizwana is Amira’s best friend. They met in middle school, and according to Amira, bonded over being two brown girls in a world that liked to imagine them as poor, unfortunate souls oppressed by their terrorist fathers. What most people don’t know is that you’d have a better chance having a face-off with a wild tiger than telling Riz what to do; it’s why she went to school all the way in Chicago despite her parents’ protests. She’s also the eldest of three sisters, and has the uncanny ability to take charge no matter where she is and who she’s with. Which is probably why Amira asked her to take charge of the wedding planning. Riz flew in the next day.

  I don’t argue with her. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, flouncing over to her and Amira, who’s sitting in a chair. I hold Amira’s dupatta in place over her shoulder as Rizwana carefully pins it down.

  Amira is decked in a rose-pink lehenga adorned with delicate, flowery gold-and-bronze embroidery, as was Riz’s suggestion. Riz also did Amira’s makeup, emphasizing Amira’s full lips and tracing her cheekbones with a dusting of gold glitter, letting her dark, curly hair flow untamed over her shoulders. A gold tikka—a forehead ornament—shimmers beneath the bathroom light. Amira looks like a Mughal princess.

  We finish with her dupatta, and I catch her gaze in the mirror. Her face breaks into a faint, tired smile. My breath catches in my throat. How many times have we stood in front of a bathroom mirror together, getting ready for school or dinner parties or family trips, sharing combs and lip glosses, venting about Mom and Dad or simply chatting about the first things that popped into our heads?

  This, though—this is different. We’re both quiet, like we know in our guts something between us is about to change forever. Something I can’t see. Something I can’t quite grasp. The logic in me says we’ll still always be sisters, sure, but part of me can’t help but feel she’s about to go on to some plane of existence where I’ll never be able to reach her, at least not in the same way.

  Amira once asked me if I’d ever want to get married. I shrugged, threw her some noncommittal answer: Maybe when I’m, like, twenty-five or something. I imagined I’d feel like an adult then. I’d be an adult. But Amira is twenty-six now, and the idea of her getting married . . . it suddenly feels too early. Like she couldn’t possibly be ready yet.

  Riz puts her hands on Amira’s shoulders. “How do you feel? Ready?”

  Amira lowers her face. “Just tired. Faisal and I were on the phone till late last night.”

  Riz raises a brow, concerned, but doesn’t press it. Guilt prickles in the pit of my stomach.

  I wonder if Amira and Faisal were able to resolve things. Then again, is seeing Amira with another guy, especially a very cute, very single one you grew up with, the kind of thing you can resolve overnight?

  I guess step one of my plan was a success. But that’s a good thing, right? At least, good enough for now; finding out the details of Faisal’s felony has proved impossible, so I’m at a dead end. I’m starting to suspect that the Maliks did something to keep it all buried.

  I just wish Amira had listened to me in the first place. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like such garbage right now seeing her face like this.

  There’s another knock at the door; Riz glares at it. “If it’s that Mona woman checking in again, I swear—”

  “Knock, knock,” says a soft, deep voice.

  The three of us relax. It’s Dad.

  He pokes his head in; through the open door, I can hear the steady rhythm of a dhol drum like a heartbeat.

  “Are you
—?”

  “Come in, come in,” say Riz and Amira at the same time.

  Dad hesitates, then enters. He’s in a dark blue sherwani, his gray-flecked hair carefully combed to the side. The smell of his cologne tickles my nose from across the other side of the bathroom, but it’s not bad. It’s a familiar, gentle smell, like jasmine and musk. He’s holding a single red rose in his hand.

  He pushes his glasses up the bridge of nose and smiles at Amira. “You look beautiful,” he says softly.

  The gloom on Amira’s face dissipates like sun-chased clouds.

  Riz moves to step outside. “I’ll meet you guys downstairs,” she says, winking at me, before leaving the three of us alone.

  Dad coughs. “I just wanted to see you before you went down. God knows I’ll have trouble getting any alone time with you both. It’s a madhouse down there.”

  “Are there a lot of people?” I ask.

  “It seems the Maliks decided to invite a lot more guests than we thought.”

  I scowl. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” Apparently, not giving a shit about what other people want is a side effect of being filthy rich. Which, come to think of it, explains a lot about Deen.

  “Well, that’s fine,” says Amira, shrugging. The glass bangles on her wrists clink softly. “It’s a dholki, after all. The more people, the more fun it’ll be.”

  Except it’ll be all friends and family of the Maliks, I argue in my head.

  Dad steps toward Amira and hands her the rose.

  “I also wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. Both of you. You know I’m not good with words—your mom was the one . . .” He drifts off, looking past us. “I wish she could be here to see what I see.”

  Amira gets to her feet and throws her arms around him. “Me too, Dad.”

  My eyes burn. How long has it been since the three of us have been in a room together, talking? No, wait. I remember now: we haven’t held each other like this since the funeral.

  I’m brought back to the hospital one year ago, at Mom’s bedside: That’s the only thing that’s getting me through this, Kiran—knowing you’re all together.

  Yes. Mom wanted this. This, right here, this life we share, the seeming impossibility of it, despite everything. This is why I have to keep us together. At the end of the day—at the end of your life—can you say you’re a family if you weren’t together? Even in this strange bathroom, even if Mom is gone, as long as we stay together, we’ll always have a home.

  Amira looks over her shoulder at me and waves me over.

  I don’t waste a second; I jump in and squeeze the two of them, tight.

  And I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar smell that makes me remember everything.

  According to Amira, the plan for the dholki was to invite around forty or fifty people—a small event, by desi standards.

  But apparently Amira’s future mother-in-law didn’t agree with her, and there are at least a hundred people in the Maliks’ house.

  The crowd fills the entire living room, with surplus pooling in the kitchen. Upstairs, the rumble of little kids—a lot of kids, judging by the sound—shakes the ceiling, and throngs of men form their own congregation in the parlor room on the other side of the house, where Dad will no doubt be occupied for the rest of the evening. There’s even a catering staff diffused through the masses, offering trays of various sweets and pani puri, tiny fried bread cups filled with a spicy potato filling. My stomach roars, awakened by the promise of something that isn’t instant mac and cheese.

  But the main festivities are being held in the living room, where dim string lights, hung across the vast ceiling and dangling down the walls, cast a warm, gold glow. Every inch of the floor is taken by people, mostly women, swaying and clapping to the beat of the dhol drum that sits in the very center of the room. My Urdu is atrocious, but I recognize the tune to a popular folk song; the singers’ voices are slightly-less-than-harmonious, but they’re loud enough to rattle my ribs and wake every cell in my body, like the heavy bass on a stereo. I’m itching to dance, even though I shouldn’t. But I guess that’s the magic of dholkis. Originally, they were for the bride’s and groom’s families to banter at each other through song, to extol the happy couple’s virtuous qualities. A way to show off that ends in song and dance-offs. They’re fun.

  But I can’t allow myself to get caught up in it. I have more important things to do.

  Rizwana leads Amira into the fray of the dholki, with me and Dad bringing up the rear, and the energy of the room, as palpable as heat on my skin, rises in full force. Riz sets Amira onto a red velvet love seat on a makeshift platform that sits beneath a tent of colorful, twinkling scarves threaded with gold, and strings of fresh marigolds.

  The women in the room change the song: Rasool-e-paak ka saaya, Mubarak ho Mubarak ho, something that roughly means, With the blessings of the Prophet, congratulations, congratulations . . .

  I find Asher in a gray suit and thin black necktie, eyeing the buffet table. His plate is already towering with samosas. I grab a flute of thick mango juice off the table.

  “Not wearing the kurta I bought you?”

  “You got me that when I was sixteen,” he says, dabbing yogurt onto the side of his plate with a spoon. “I grew out of that thing a long time ago, thank you very much. Kind of a shame, though. Kurtas are mad comfortable. Like the barong I wore at my tita’s wedding.”

  “Aren’t those see-through?”

  “Whatever you’re imagining, I want you to stop right now.”

  I laugh, but the sound quickly withers in my throat when I catch Deen skulking on the other side of the room. For some reason, he’s decided to don a dark blue blazer and matching pants instead of traditional clothes, like a kurta or sherwani. A shame. Strictly biologically speaking, I’ve always considered him . . . acceptable. Handsome, even. But he always looked better in traditional clothes. Just another sign he’s changed.

  Next to him is Haris, killing it in a in a deep purple velvet blazer, and Faisal, who, unlike his brother, at least had enough sense to opt for the traditional route and deck himself in a cream-colored sherwani, even though it’s barely containing his beefy arms. He’s staring at Amira like a lost fawn—if a fawn was built like a tank. A baby rhino?

  “So? What are you scheming for tonight?” comes Asher’s voice at my ear.

  “Me? Scheme?” I slap my hand on my chest. “Heaven forbid. I’m just a good little sister who’s helping Amira prep for her wedding. Like you said.”

  “Uh-huh. See, I have trouble buying that when you very adamantly demanded this morning I ‘look nice’ and ‘jealousy-inducing’ for the dholki.”

  I mouth a polite salaam at a white-haired aunty who’s smiling at us, though I have no idea who she is. “Sir! Whatever could you be implying?”

  “That you’re terrible.” He takes an angry bite of a samosa. “Whatever you’re planning, can you at least keep me in the loop?”

  “Well, since you’re asking . . .” I fish out my phone from my purse and open my Notes app:

  PLAN TO SAVE AMIRA:

  STEP ONE: Sow the seeds of jealousy & insecurity

  —Dinner with Asher

  STEP TWO: Build distrust between Amira and Faisal

  —Catch Faisal in a lie! Something that makes Amira question his integrity!

  STEP THREE: Bring out the Dark Horse

  —Find Leah’s phone number/contact info!!!!

  Asher runs his hand down his face. “Is this your grand plan? Catch Faisal in a lie? How the hell are you going to do that?”

  “I’m still working on that.” I have an idea, but Asher’s definitely not going to like it. I’ll have to brief him later.

  “Can we not just, I dunno, have fun? I had to drive all the way to New Jersey for this. Jersey!”

  “I’ll have fun once I save my family.”

  Suddenly, Deen catches my gaze, and his eyes narrow. He says something to Haris and Faisal, and saunters over to us.

  My
heart bangs nervously. Step two, go.

  I down my mango juice, grit my teeth, shove my phone back in my purse. “Look sharp,” I tell Asher, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “What—?” he starts.

  But Deen’s already here.

  “You seem very focused on your phone instead of your sister’s dholki,” he says, his dark eyes sharp on mine. “Checking your Minder account?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Why, are you hoping we’ll match?”

  Asher frowns. “What’s Minder?”

  “Muslim Tinder, though I heard they changed their name recently. Shame.” Deen’s gaze slides to Asher. “I don’t think we’ve met.” But the look in his eyes says he knows exactly who Asher is. At least, he should; I’m pretty sure I mentioned him, back when we dated.

  “Deen, this is Asher,” I say. “Asher, Deen.”

  “Ah yes, your, uh, friend, right?” Deen barely restrains his sarcasm.

  Asher wipes his hand on his pants and shakes Deen’s hand with a smile. “Nice finally meeting you. I’ve heard a lot about you from this one,” he says, tipping his head at me.

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but it almost seems Deen’s grip is a little too tight.

  “Oh?” Deen replies coolly. He’s smiling back, but his eyes are glinting with something unfriendly. “Well, we can’t believe everything we hear, can we?”

  Asher rips his hand away with a nervous laugh.

  Before I’m ethered by whatever the hell tension this is, Faisal sidles his way from behind Deen, Haris following close behind. “Sorry, sorry—oh, Kiran! Assalamu alaikum.” Faisal’s forehead is damp with sweat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes match Amira’s.

  “Salaam, Kiran,” Haris greets me. He notices Asher. “Oh! And you’re . . . ?”

  “The guy who caused a big misunderstanding the other night, apparently,” Asher replies.

  “Oh. That guy. Gotta say, it’s, uh, nicer meeting you this way,” says Haris.

  “Yeah, about that.” Faisal’s ears redden. “I’m sorry, Kiran, for leaving you high and dry the other night. I kind of . . . misunderstood the situation a little and panicked. But Amira explained you’re childhood friends.” He looks away, genuinely remorseful.