I point out Riaz’s study window, which faces a neighbor’s house, and the hedge next to it.

  “That’s our hiding spot,” I say. “And we have to move quick.” We need to be out of here before Khadija calls the DA.

  “Even if she got into UCLA”—Art side-eyes the hedge—“she’s going to prison. That letter is about as useful to her as a bag of broken dic—”

  “Shut up, Art.”

  “I know you love her,” Art presses. “But maybe you’re not facing reality.”

  “I’m not facing reality?” I say. “What about you? Your own cousin overdosed. And you’re still dealing.”

  Art fumbles at the radio and turns it to KRDK, a Top 40 station that I only ever put on when I am trying to annoy Noor. I slam it off.

  “I’m still talking,” I say. “Think of everyone you’ve sold to. What if one of them overdoses? Dies? That will be on you.”

  “You were in the game, too, Sal.”

  “And I’ll regret it until I’m dead,” I say. “My dad’s an alcoholic; I get how insidious addiction is. I enabled that in other people. I destroyed my own life and probably my best friend’s. But you can still get out, asshole.”

  Art shakes his head, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Yeah,” he says quietly, the most subdued I’ve ever heard him. “Maybe you’re right.”

  He turns off his car and we approach Riaz’s house in silence. It’s easy enough to get to the study window. When I try to pry it open, it won’t move.

  “That’s it, man.” Art edges away. “Can’t open it without breaking it.”

  I snatch his keys from him, wedge one below the window and jimmy it beneath the pane. After a tense minute, during which Art’s breathing so loud they can probably hear him in Alaska, the window squeals open.

  “All right,” I say. “Get in there.”

  Art sighs and wiggles his skinny frame through the window, his feet sticking out ridiculously for a moment.

  “Look for a big envelope,” I say. “Probably white. It’ll have a blue stamp—”

  “I know what a college acceptance envelope looks like, Sal.”

  I hear rustling. A thump and a curse.

  “Damn, this guy keeps everything,” Art mutters.

  I check the time and glance up and down the street. Brooke gets home before eight, usually, and it’s already 7:50.

  “I can’t see anything,” Art says. “I’m closing the curtains so I can turn on the light.”

  “Use your phone, dumbass!”

  He grumbles something unintelligible, and a dim blue light flares.

  “For a dude who drives a Nissan, this guy is super obsessed with BMWs. He has like thirty pamphlets—”

  Car headlights shine at the end of the street. I squint. But it’s too dusty to make out if it’s Brooke’s gray Ford. It looks too big to be her car. And it’s not gray. It’s blue.

  “Shit—” I call through the window. “Get out, Art. Riaz just rolled up.”

  “No, I found something—”

  “Out, dude. Now.”

  Riaz pulls his car into the drive. I hear the whining guitar of a Soundgarden song that Noor’s played for me a million times. “Black Hole Sun.” The engine cuts.

  The silence is . . . ominous. It’s a word I understand conceptually because I’ve read it in a million books. But actually ominousness feels as thick and choking as mud.

  Run, Sal. Get out of here.

  “Hello?”

  Shit. Riaz heard Art. I dive behind the hedge as quietly as I can and hope Art has the sense to turn off his flashlight. Dirt crunches as Riaz walks closer.

  Don’t come nearer. Please, God, give me a break.

  He stands there for a long moment, and I wonder what it’s like for someone like him, someone who lords over those he thinks of as weaker. I wonder how the hell he looks at himself in the mirror every morning.

  Tackling him would be so easy. My future is four walls with about eight feet between them no matter what. I’d just be stuck there for a bit longer.

  But he turns around and leaves. His keys jangle, and the front door creaks open. The study is down the hall from the front door. Far enough where Art can get out if he doesn’t dawdle.

  “Art,” I whisper. “Hurry up, man, he’s—”

  “Hello?” This time, Riaz is calling from inside the house. Too late, I realize that the inside door to the study is open.

  There’s a flurry of movement. Riaz cries out.

  “Hey!”

  Art dives out the window, something white clutched against his chest.

  I grab him, pull him up, and we run like hell.

  chapter 53

  Noor

  Imam Shafiq comes home at seven, after Maghrib prayer. I flip off the Crown of Fates reruns I’ve been watching since getting home from school. But not before he sees. He laughs so hard I think he’s going to drop the takeout.

  “I can’t wait to tell Khadija,” he says. “I caught her doing the same thing a couple of weeks ago. We can all watch the new episode together on Sunday. Just embrace it, Noor. Embrace your inner Dunlinian.”

  Khadija comes in from the garage. “Do not embrace your inner . . . thingy—”

  “Dun-lin-i-an,” Shafiq says. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what it means, Khadija.”

  They bicker back and forth, and listening helps me ignore the fact that I have to make a decision about the plea deal tonight. I’ve already discussed it with Khadija so much that the decision should be made.

  But I keep thinking of Salahudin. His hope. I shake my head. The plea deal is the best hope I have.

  “I want to take it,” I say, cutting Shafiq off midsentence. “Sorry.” I feel bad about interrupting him. “I think it’s the best thing to do.”

  Khadija takes a deep breath. “I’m going to talk to Mike Mahoney again,” she says. “See if maybe we can’t get the probationary time decreased, the felony charge dropped. With good behavior, Noor, you could be out in eighteen months, easy.”

  The doorbell rings. Instantly, Khadija’s grabbing her phone. Shafiq pulls a kitchen knife—which I can’t actually imagine him using.

  “Noor,” he says. “Head for the back door, please. If anything happens, run to Mrs. Michaels’s house, okay? She—” Shafiq peers through the peephole. “Oh.”

  He opens the door. Even in the dim porch light and through the screen door, I recognize the tall form, the broad shoulders, the curling dark hair. Salahudin.

  “Can I—talk—to—Noor?” His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath. He’s sweating, even though it’s nice out, May being the one time of year that Juniper’s weather isn’t garbage. I move to the door, but Khadija is already there.

  “Absolutely not,” she says. “You cannot be here.”

  “Hey.” Shafiq has a hand on Salahudin’s shoulder. “Let’s walk. Come o—”

  “You got in!” Salahudin shakes a large white envelope. “Noor—UCLA. You got in.”

  I push past Khadija. Art Britman lurks down the street in his black Camaro, pretending not to watch.

  “Noor,” Khadija says. “I don’t think—”

  “Two minutes,” Salahudin says. “I know you’re mad. I know you hate me. But just give me two minutes. Then I’m gone. I’ll never so much as say your name.”

  “It’s fine,” I say to Shafiq, who finally drops his hand. Khadija gives me a look of if he so much as makes you frown, he’s dead.

  “Door stays open.” She closes the screen, but doesn’t fully retreat.

  Salahudin holds the envelope out to me. It’s white. A little creased. The stamp in the corner says UCLA in big, bold letters.

  “I’m sorry I opened it,” he says. “I figured it was a yes because the envelope was so big. But I wanted to make sure.”

  Dear Noor,

  Congratulations! We are—

  I don’t read the rest. I just set the paper down on the porch railing. Quickly. It’s fake. It has to be.

  You are better than this place. More than this place.

  “But I couldn’t get into the online portal. I tried so many times.”

  “Not because they rejected you,” Salahudin says. “Your uncle must have done something. Changed your username or your password.”

  Or canceled my account entirely. It’s exactly the type of thing Chachu would do.

  “But how did you know?” I say. “And how did you get this?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Salahudin says. “Listen, Noor. Don’t take the plea deal. Look what you did. You got into one of the best schools in the country. In the world. If you take the plea deal, you’ll be throwing that away.”

  “Even if I had the money to go—”

  “There’s a financial aid package in there,” he says. “Grants and work study. You can go, Noor. But not if you’re a felon.”

  “The deadline to accept—”

  “Screw the deadline!” he says. “Call them! Have Khadija call them. Tell them the truth. You will figure something out. Noor, these kids—” He grabs the offer letter and points to a photo of a group of students laughing on a green lawn in front of a tower that, strangely, makes me think of the Badshahi Mosque. “You should be one of them.”

  The rage noise in my head goes quiet. Salahudin believed in me. He’s always believed in me. He’s giving me a reason to fight.

  But if it wasn’t for him, I’d never have needed that reason to begin with.

  I want to close the distance between us. To look into his eyes, the safest place I’ve ever been. To feel his fingers on my waist. His body against mine.

  He is suddenly uncertain, those graceful hands fiddling with the letter. He can feel it between us, I know. That spark. That want.

  He steps forward, hopeful. We teeter on the edge of forgiveness.

  But at the light in his eyes, I remember how much we have to lose. Especially now that I have a future to fight for. I realize how unlikely it is that I’ll see that future.

  My anger surges back. Stronger than before, like it’s been working out, building muscle, waiting to deliver a knock-out punch. I’m Fiona Apple dripping poison in “Get Gone.” Julian Casablancas and the Voidz shredding guitars in “Where No Eagles Fly.”

  “This doesn’t fix anything,” I say. “You know that, right? I could still get years in prison.”

  His face falls. “I know,” he says. “I thought—”

  “I told you a lot of what your ama said the night she died,” I say. “But I didn’t tell you the last thing she said.” The memory is fresh and painful. Salahudin goes quiet.

  “She said ‘Forgive.’ I guess she knew you were a shit friend who’d need forgiveness. But you don’t deserve it. You weren’t there for her. I held her hand as she died. I knew she was sick when you didn’t notice. I told her to go to the doctor. You said I didn’t know her, but I did. And she deserved better than you. You can’t even do fucking laundry, Salahudin. You can’t even handle this.”

  I shove him. He flinches, and my face is hot, like I’ve just been slapped—even though I’m the one who pushed him.

  My hand burns. Stop, Noor. This is wrong. But I can’t control myself.

  “You better get used to that.” Now my eyes stream. My voice shakes. “Because you’re going to prison, and in there, no one will care what hurts you.”

  I turn my back on him. I try not to see the shock on Khadija’s and Shafiq’s faces.

  Forgive, Auntie Misbah told me. Forgive.

  But I guess I’m not the forgiving type.

  chapter 54

  Misbah

  January, then

  The days slipped away, water through my fingers. Until one Sunday, Noor texted me, asking me not to come to the liquor store for chai and Dilan dey Soudeh, saying she had too much homework.

  Then she began ignoring my messages.

  When I asked Salahudin about it, he shrugged and sloped off into his room. He had been quieter of late. Silent at dinner or gone for hours after school, returning long after soccer practice was over.

  “He argued with Noor.” Toufiq had sobered up for a few days, after a bout of exhaustion left me bedridden. “A month ago, when we went to the mountains.”

  “What did they argue about?” And how could I have missed it?

  But I might as well have asked Toufiq how Salahudin did at his last soccer match.

  What to do? I loved Noor like she was mine, but I had no claim over her. If she was a niece of my blood, I could have visited her house, spoken to her uncle.

  But in eleven years, Shaukat Riaz never stopped judging me. After realizing that I spoke Punjabi with Noor and fed her Pakistani food, he stopped leaving her with me. He hated my presence in her life. Going to her home would have only created trouble for her.

  Weeks passed. I texted Noor. She never responded. I could not stop thinking about her. I pestered Salahudin so much that even his patience, which was more like his father’s than mine, ran out.

  “She’s fine, Ama, okay?” he snapped. “She’s mad at me over something stupid.”

  So I went to see her the following Sunday, about fifteen minutes after she opened the store. I said my salaam, found bread and milk, and placed it on the counter.

  “I don’t know what happened with Salahudin, Dhi,” I said to her in Punjabi, “but I need to watch Dilan dey Soudeh. Either you watch it with me or I do it alone, but I’m not waiting anymore.”

  Another customer entered and I moved aside.

  “I’m sorry, Auntie. You should watch it without me.” Noor sounded so subdued. Not at all like the girl who argued with me about Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. She reached overhead to the cigarette rack when the customer asked for Marlboro 100s.

  Which is when I saw the bruise. Yellow and purple on her brown skin.

  “Noor,” I said when the customer had left. “What happened to your arm, meri dhi?”

  She flinched and I knew. I knew it in my bones.

  Riaz played the urbane mathematician to his customers. The enlightened immigrant cruelly destined to run a liquor shop though his mind was meant for something greater.

  But he disdained women. Worse, he had a bitterness seething within. A rage-toothed tiger, caged and rabid.

  “Auntie Misbah? Are you okay?”

  Noor called to me and I wondered how long I’d been staring off. I glanced at her arm, but the bruise was hidden now.

  I didn’t know what to say, because I needed to think. Once before, I’d suspected that something was wrong and called the police. They did nothing.

  But Noor was older now. Perhaps the police would believe her if she told them Riaz was hurting her. She would be eighteen in two weeks. She could leave Riaz. Come live with me and Salahudin and Toufiq.

  I needed to talk to Dr. Ellis. She had been such a gift over the years. She understood young people. Perhaps she would know what was best.

  “I—I must go.” I shuffled away quickly. “I’m not—not feeling well.”

  “Should I—”

  “I’m okay,” I called out so she wouldn’t follow. I forgot the milk. The bread. No matter. I made my way to the car and navigated home.

  But in the driveway of the motel, my luck ran out. I sat in the Civic, my muscles so heavy that I felt as if I were melting into the hot fabric of the seat. My bones wouldn’t work. I couldn’t lift my arms. I couldn’t even turn off the car.

  “Ama?”

  Salahudin stood at the window. His brow furrowed, the dent in his forehead just like my mother’s.

  “Did you know,” I said to my son, “that it rained the day your grandmother told me I’d be married? Buckets and buckets of rain. I saw a fortune teller after—”

  “Ama.” I heard Salahudin’s fear as he helped me into the house. “Do you need your medicine?”

  “Time,” I whispered. “I need time, Putar.”

  But he could not give me time. No one could.

  chapter 55

  Noor

  June, now

  We reject the plea deal. Khadija wants me to testify.

  “If you get up on the witness stand and tell the courtroom what really happened, it will be a powerful image for the jury.” Khadija makes the same argument nightly, pacing her living room as Shafiq and I listen. “You’d show that you’re prepared to fight for your future.”

  But I don’t want to fight. I’m too afraid to lose.

  The night before graduation, Khadija finally throws her hands up at the dinner table. “I can’t make you testify,” she says. “If you don’t want to be up there, the prosecutor will figure it out and he’ll hammer you. But do one thing for me, at least?”

  I eye her suspiciously. Beside her, Shafiq tries to hide a smile.

  “Go to graduation.” Khadija disappears to her room and returns with a dark green cap and gown, which I distinctly do not remember ordering. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

  When I take them from her, she claps.

  * * *

  Now, out on the football field and surrounded by my classmates, I’m happy I came. I worked hard for this. Since the arrest, I’ve hated every minute of school. But Ashlee was right when she said the routine would help. And all the way up to the last day, Khadija was on my case about doing my best on every assignment.

  “I didn’t spend an entire week tracking down UCLA’s dean of admissions so you could slack off,” she’d said.

  I find myself glancing around—wondering if Salahudin came. After he told me about UCLA, he stopped trying to talk to me. He graduated—his name is on the program. But he’s not here.

  “He was probably worried that he’d ruin it for you if he came.” Ashlee ignores Principal Ernst’s alphabetical seating arrangement and sits next to me, her girlfriend, Bonnie, on her other side.