says. “Jesse’s part of the crew now.”
Chapter Nine
Alia
As I walk back toward my building, the trees sway in the light breeze, occasionally sending down a single gold leaf or a sprinkle of drops left over from last night’s rain.
I walk slowly, stepping aside to let a group of clean-cut Jehovah Witnesses pass. Unless I want to run into my mother again, I’ll have to wait until she leaves for her office. A part of me whispers, Lia wouldn’t be hiding down the road from her building. Lia would breeze in and face her mother with her head held high.
As if on cue, my mother comes out of our building. She’s talking on her cell, and she balances it against her ear with her shoulder as she stops under the green awning and fusses with her bag.
She has to pass me to get to her office, and I dive betweentwo parked cars and crouch down. I wish I had Lia’s camouflage burqa; I’d just drape the voluminous folds of the cloak around me and I’d magically fade into the car behind me.
I hold my breath as my mother gets closer and duck my head. Mama’s almost even with me, but she’s so caught up in her conversation—I wonder which auntie she decided to call to complain about me—she’s not paying attention to anything else. She almost steps in front of a cab, and then steps back onto the curb, waiting for the morning traffic to lighten up so she can cross the street.
She’s past my hiding place, so unless she turns around she won’t see me. I can hear her though, her low, musical voice agitated as she punctuates each word with a quick jab of her hand.
“That’s what I told her, Maysan, but did she listen? Of course not.”
Maysan. One of my aunties from California. She’s my mother’s best friend, with an easy smile, long brown hair, and beautiful eyes. Not actually a relative, but one of the big circle of aunties and uncles that make up my extended family.
I was fifteen when Mama landed her dream job in Brooklyn as an immigration lawyer. Dad is a computer whiz, so he can find a job anywhere, and I remember long conversations between them on our sunny porch, my mother talking fast, her hands flying, and my father nodding, saying, “Asmara, if you need this, we will go.” So it was her fault that we moved here, so far away from everybody we knew and loved.
After we moved, I began hanging around Carla Sanchez and her girls, and Mama and I went from not fighting, ever, to having these epic blowouts that blew up the walls of our apartment.
Mama glances at the traffic and looks down at her watch. “I just keep thinking of her running away last year, Maysan,” she says, and really? Really? Why does her voice suddenly sound watery, as if she’s trying not to cry?
When Mike Stanley asked me out near the end of my sophomore year, I made the big mistake of telling my parents, instead of making up some fake story like Carla told me to do. I don’t know why I thought they would say yes, maybe because they’d never made a big deal about me not dating before. It was just understood that I wouldn’t. Things spiraled out of control, and I fled to Carla’s for two nights. But I learned my lesson, I came home, and why does it sound like she’s about to cry?
My mother’s voice fades as she heads across the street. I remain crouching between the cars, knowing it’s safe to go back to the apartment to get my gym clothes but suddenly wanting to hear what else my mother has to say about me. So many of the words lately have been brutal and hard; hearing her talk about me in that soft voice felt like peering into a secret part of her that has been closed to me for a long time.
I stand and watch my mother, a short, determined woman even in heels, her head held high, disappear down the street.Part of me wants to run after her, give her a hug, tell her I’m sorry.
Sorry for what, though?
I mean, I’m sorry for running away, but I’ve apologized for that over and over again.
Now it seems like I should be
Chapter Nine
Alia
As I walk back toward my building, the trees sway in the light breeze, occasionally sending down a single gold leaf or a sprinkle of drops left over from last night’s rain.
I walk slowly, stepping aside to let a group of clean-cut Jehovah Witnesses pass. Unless I want to run into my mother again, I’ll have to wait until she leaves for her office. A part of me whispers, Lia wouldn’t be hiding down the road from her building. Lia would breeze in and face her mother with her head held high.
As if on cue, my mother comes out of our building. She’s talking on her cell, and she balances it against her ear with her shoulder as she stops under the green awning and fusses with her bag.
She has to pass me to get to her office, and I dive betweentwo parked cars and crouch down. I wish I had Lia’s camouflage burqa; I’d just drape the voluminous folds of the cloak around me and I’d magically fade into the car behind me.
I hold my breath as my mother gets closer and duck my head. Mama’s almost even with me, but she’s so caught up in her conversation—I wonder which auntie she decided to call to complain about me—she’s not paying attention to anything else. She almost steps in front of a cab, and then steps back onto the curb, waiting for the morning traffic to lighten up so she can cross the street.
She’s past my hiding place, so unless she turns around she won’t see me. I can hear her though, her low, musical voice agitated as she punctuates each word with a quick jab of her hand.
“That’s what I told her, Maysan, but did she listen? Of course not.”
Maysan. One of my aunties from California. She’s my mother’s best friend, with an easy smile, long brown hair, and beautiful eyes. Not actually a relative, but one of the big circle of aunties and uncles that make up my extended family.
I was fifteen when Mama landed her dream job in Brooklyn as an immigration lawyer. Dad is a computer whiz, so he can find a job anywhere, and I remember long conversations between them on our sunny porch, my mother talking fast, her hands flying, and my father nodding, saying, “Asmara, if you need this, we will go.” So it was her fault that we moved here, so far away from everybody we knew and loved.
After we moved, I began hanging around Carla Sanchez and her girls, and Mama and I went from not fighting, ever, to having these epic blowouts that blew up the walls of our apartment.
Mama glances at the traffic and looks down at her watch. “I just keep thinking of her running away last year, Maysan,” she says, and really? Really? Why does her voice suddenly sound watery, as if she’s trying not to cry?
When Mike Stanley asked me out near the end of my sophomore year, I made the big mistake of telling my parents, instead of making up some fake story like Carla told me to do. I don’t know why I thought they would say yes, maybe because they’d never made a big deal about me not dating before. It was just understood that I wouldn’t. Things spiraled out of control, and I fled to Carla’s for two nights. But I learned my lesson, I came home, and why does it sound like she’s about to cry?
My mother’s voice fades as she heads across the street. I remain crouching between the cars, knowing it’s safe to go back to the apartment to get my gym clothes but suddenly wanting to hear what else my mother has to say about me. So many of the words lately have been brutal and hard; hearing her talk about me in that soft voice felt like peering into a secret part of her that has been closed to me for a long time.
I stand and watch my mother, a short, determined woman even in heels, her head held high, disappear down the street.Part of me wants to run after her, give her a hug, tell her I’m sorry.
Sorry for what, though?
I mean, I’m sorry for running away, but I’ve apologized for that over and over again.
Now it seems like I should be
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