“Did he say that?”

  Ashlee shrugs. “Ask him yourself next time you see him.”

  You mean at court in a few weeks? I keep quiet. I don’t want to ruin the mood.

  As the school band plays an off-key version of “Pomp and Circumstance,” the stupidest graduation song ever, there’s a small commotion near the stage.

  “Hey, look,” Ashlee says, and a teacher I don’t recognize scurries toward Principal Ernst, handing him a phone.

  The students near him whisper, a khoosr-khoosr sound that spreads quickly, eventually reaching Ashlee and me.

  “He just watched a video on someone’s social,” Bonnie whispers. “The video. And now he’s reading the article.”

  “What video?” I turn to Ashlee, and Bonnie grins. “What article?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Ashlee smiles and takes out her phone. “I took a video of Jamie’s little speech the other day. Sent it to Princeton’s dean of admissions. When I didn’t hear back, I figured I should send it elsewhere.” She hands me her phone, open to an article on Feedbait:

  RACIST RANT COSTS CALIFORNIA HIGH SCHOOLER HER FUTURE

  Jamie Jensen, 18, landed in hot water this week when a classmate recorded her unleashing a racist tirade at another student.

  “It’s lasted all year,” one Juniper High senior, who wished to remain anonymous, told Feedbait. “She’s racist. She tried to hide it, but it finally came out.”

  California prosecutor James Atkins said that while Jensen’s words were repugnant, strictly speaking, no crime was committed.

  Meanwhile, Princeton’s dean of admissions, Nicola Watson, released a statement: “We take the integrity of this institution very seriously, and that integrity is reflected in our students. Words and their intent matter, and are an indication of a student’s ability to contribute to the overall culture of Princeton. As Ms. Jensen’s behavior is in direct violation of our code of conduct—we have rescinded her offer of admission.”

  Other schools that offered Ms. Jensen admission are expected to follow suit. Ms. Jensen could not be reached for comment.

  Principal Ernst strides to Jamie, who’s obliviously mouthing her valedictorian speech to herself. Her face goes bright red when Ernst crouches and whispers something.

  Moments later, he takes the stage and begins calling all the A’s, skipping over Jamie’s speech entirely.

  “Guess she’s not going to Princeton after all,” Ashlee says with a grin, then nudges me with her shoulder. “And you, I hear, are going to UCLA.”

  I almost tell her no. But then I think of Auntie Misbah.

  God is like water, finding the unknowable path when we cannot.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  We throw our caps in the air, Bonnie and Ashlee kiss and whoop, and families flood the field. Khadija and Shafiq find me, jumping and cheering as if I’m their kid.

  “Do you really think I could win the case?” I don’t know how Khadija hears me. Everyone is so loud. But she does.

  She reaches up to hold my face in her hands. She’s so strong in that moment that I find myself standing taller. “I think there’s always hope.”

  I close my eyes and hear Auntie Misbah. Forgive.

  I’m sorry, Misbah Auntie, I think. I’m not ready to forgive yet.

  But I am ready to fight.

  chapter 56

  Sal

  After I find Abu sobbing and fully clothed under a shower that’s gone cold, a bottle of whiskey broken on the tiles, I call Imam Shafiq.

  “Don’t hang up, it’s not about Noor. It’s Abu, he—he—” Fear makes me talk too fast. “He needs help. We need help.”

  Imam Shafiq arrives so fast that I wonder if he has superhero powers he hasn’t mentioned. I almost tell him to never mind, it’s not worth it. But he’s left work to be here. There isn’t anything to be ashamed of, I tell myself. Imam Shafiq gets it.

  “Get—get away,” Abu says to us when we walk into the bathroom. His feet are bleeding everywhere. “I don’t need your help.”

  I shut off the water. “Abu—please—”

  “What’s the point?” he slurs. “What’s—”

  “I am the point,” I snap at him. “Ama was the point. She deserved better than this. I deserve better, too.”

  My father slumps and rubs his hands across his face. He’s going to speak, but I don’t let him. Because if I do, and if he tells me that he misses her or he’s broken without her, then I won’t have the heart to finish what I need to say. What he needs to hear.

  “You’ve left me alone for months, Abu. Now I might go to prison, and yeah, it’s my fault. But it’s also because I didn’t know what to do and you weren’t here to ask.” Abu looks up now, irritated. Good, I think. Be annoyed. Angry. Anything but empty.

  “I own my mistakes, but you’re the one who stopped being a father to me. I never stopped being your son. You can’t just give up because you’re in pain. You need to do better for me. We’re it, Abu. You and me. She’s not coming back.”

  Abu is silent for what feels like forever. Shafiq steps forward and holds out a hand. I hold out another. We pull Abu standing.

  After we clean him up and I bandage his feet, Shafiq and I clear the house of every drop of liquor. It won’t be the last time I do this. I know that. But it still feels good.

  The next morning at nine a.m., Shafiq shows up with Janice, Abu’s sponsor.

  “I can’t promise you anything, Sal,” she says after I tell her about Abu’s relapse. “He’s got to want to stay sober. But if he gets himself to the meetings—if he holds himself accountable—then I’ll be here to help him along.”

  When the real estate agent arrives to look at the motel a week later, Abu is sober. Seven days. His longest stretch in more than a year. Abu asks me to sit with them—and when the agent suggests a price for the motel, Abu asks me what I think.

  A sign goes out front. Our agent, Mr. Singh, puts ads in Indian newspapers and Pakistani newspapers and Chinese newspapers and Korean newspapers.

  “Fastest way to get a buyer,” he says. “Let’s hope someone bites.”

  In the end, the offer comes from a hipsterish Indian couple in their thirties, hoping to start a bed-and-breakfast. Their eyes shine when they walk through the place. They look past the peeling paint, the sagging roof, the cracked parking lot.

  “I love the name,” one of them says. “Clouds’ Rest. It’s perfect.”

  They see the place the way Ama did. For what it could be. Their excitement twists like a knife. But it gives me hope, too, and one of Noor’s old songs—“Bittersweet Symphony”—winds through my brain.

  “I won’t sell it if you don’t want me to.” Abu and I sit down to dinner after Mr. Singh calls to tell us the offer. There’s too much salt in the karahi tonight. But I don’t give a shit because my abu made it for me.

  “That couple is perfect,” I say before I change my mind. “Take the offer. The trial starts next week anyway. You can’t run this place alone.”

  “Your mother did,” Abu says.

  “Ama was Ama,” I say. “You’re you.” We’re quiet for a long time before I speak again.

  “Tell me about her, Abu,” I say. “Tell me the things I don’t know.”

  And to my surprise, he sits back and smiles. “The first time I met her,” he says, “was at a tea shop. Her brother was chaperoning her. I was so bloody nervous . . .”

  As he speaks, I think of everything my mother taught me: How to love someone unconditionally. That joy can be found in small victories. That forgiveness is a gift to the person who grants it and to the person who receives it.

  But then the anger that seems permanently lodged in my brain reminds me of everything Ama didn’t teach me. That unconditional love isn’t always the best for us. That small victories aren’t always enough.

  That some things can’t be forgiven.

  When Abu finishes his story, I ask him for another, and another. Until it’s late and he finally stands. “We should go visit Ama. Let her know we’re letting the place go.”

  The next day, with flowers and a Qur’an, and wearing a shalwar-kameez Ama always loved, Abu goes to Ama’s grave.

  I don’t go with him. Staying away is a habit. And I’m ashamed. I didn’t become what she’d hoped. I failed her. I failed Abu. I failed Noor. I failed myself.

  I don’t go to her grave because I don’t want her to know this about me. And because a part of me hopes that somehow I can still make things right.

  chapter 57

  Sal

  On the day Martin makes his opening statement, the Friarsfield courtroom is sweltering. Which I should have expected, as Noor, Khadija, Martin, and I have all been here for the last two days for jury selection.

  Still, it’s worse than yesterday. The court reporter, the court clerk, the little plant sitting on Judge Manuel Ortega’s bench all seem wilted.

  Even in crime shows where everything is supposed to be gritty, courtrooms have that movie patina. But this one is gritty in a mundane, everyday sort of way. Unglamorous and kind of sad.

  Judge Ortega himself is unaffected. He’s a big man, and the fluorescent lights shine dully on his brown, bald head. When he walks into the chambers, everyone goes quiet, and when he’s about to speak, everyone holds their breath.

  Which just makes me more antsy. The judge’s bench is only two steps higher than where Martin and I sit. But from down here he’s like some sort of demigod, prepared to mete out merciless justice.

  I sit, itching miserably in this suit, staring at the huge gold seal of California on the back wall, trying to look calm and responsible as the prosecutor, Mr. Mahoney, lays out the case against Noor and me in scathing, humiliating detail. Mahoney always walks into court wearing a trench coat over a rumpled suit, no matter what the weather is, and today is no different. It makes him look harmless and scatterbrained. He’s anything but.

  Abu sits behind me in the gallery. I’ve never been happier not to be able to see his face.

  Sister Khadija’s opening argument—which is mostly about how I’m an unrepentant perp who screwed Noor over—passes in a blur.

  Then Martin stands up and talks about my history, Ama’s death, my friendship with Noor. The jury watches Martin as attentively as they did Khadija and Mr. Mahoney. I try not to stare at them. If I were up there deciding someone’s future, I wouldn’t want that person making me sweat.

  “My client has a drug problem.” Martin’s black suit and dark blue tie make him look almost somber as he speaks. “For which he should receive treatment. But the bulk of the drugs found in his vehicle were under Ms. Riaz’s seat. Beneath Ms. Riaz’s backpack.”

  What the hell?

  Noor’s back stiffens. Khadija puts a calming hand on her wrist, but she stares straight ahead, expressionless.

  “The state will make the case that my client confessed to his alleged crimes while speaking to the police,” Martin says to the jury. “But I submit that Ms. Riaz took advantage of her long years of friendship in an attempt to get Salahudin Malik to take the blame. That she manipulated a boy who had just lost his mother into being part of her money-making scheme.”

  Noor turns to me and her anger is pure and white-hot.

  “Martin,” I hiss at him. “You said you wouldn’t pin it on her—”

  “My job is to defend you, Salahudin,” he whispers as the judge riffles through a stack of papers. “Even if that means defending you from yourself. Let me do my job.”

  Ortega says something to Mr. Mahoney now, and I’ve watched enough Judge Judy to know that causing a ruckus while the judge is speaking is a stupid idea.

  I glance at Noor, swallowing at the sight of the fury in her eyes.

  I don’t look away. You think I can’t fix this, I think, but I can. I will. I swear it.

  * * *

  The day after opening arguments, evidence is presented and witnesses are called. It goes on forever, it feels like, because Mr. Mahoney, Khadija, and Martin all have a billion questions.

  Oluchi, Noor’s boss at the hospital, appears as a character witness. Mr. Mahoney tries to get her to say that it’s possible Noor could have stolen medicine without anyone the wiser. Oluchi doesn’t fall for it, though.

  “How many times do I have to tell you ‘no’?” she finally says. “Noor Riaz had no access to any pharmaceuticals. She is a great hospital aide. One day, she’ll make a great doctor.”

  Officer Ortiz, who searched Noor, testifies, along with Officer Marks. Ortiz is pretty straightforward, but Marks gets on my—and Khadija’s—last nerve.

  “How would you describe Ms. Riaz when you first pulled her out of the car?” Mahoney asks Marks.

  “Evasive,” Marks says. The microphone whines unpleasantly as he speaks. “She was definitely hiding something.”

  Khadija sighs, and even Martin rolls his eyes.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Khadija says. “Speculation—”

  “Sustained. The facts, officer.”

  Soon enough, the only two people left to testify are Noor and me—and she’s first. I didn’t expect her to take the witness stand. She likes public speaking as much as I like the laundry room.

  But Noor is calm when the judge calls her up. She looks comfortable in the black suit jacket she’s wearing over a pale pink shirt. Through Khadija’s questions about school, grades, and her home life, Noor is beautifully composed.

  “How long have you known Salahudin Malik?”

  “Since I was six,” Noor says. “We met in first grade. I didn’t speak any English and he was the only kid who didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Would you say you were best friends?”

  “Your Honor.” Mr. Mahoney stands—probably because he hasn’t said anything in at least thirty seconds and misses the sound of his own voice. “Relevance of this line of questioning?”

  “I’m establishing the relationship between my client and the defendant, Your Honor,” Khadija says smoothly.

  “I’ll allow it,” Ortega says.

  “We were best friends.” Noor goes on to tell the story of the arrest from her point of view. Mahoney picks at her—asking about the bruises and cuts on her face the night of the arrest. Asking if I was abusive. Asking who her abuser is.

  Noor says again that it wasn’t me who hurt her. But she doesn’t elaborate. Judge Ortega doesn’t make her. It’s the only time during the questioning that she’s visibly nervous.

  It makes me hate Riaz all over again.

  When Noor finally sits down, she exhales, long and slow.

  “You were perfect,” Khadija murmurs.

  Noor’s attention drifts to me, a car slipping over the double line to a place it shouldn’t go. She faces front again quickly, but not before I see her eyes.

  I didn’t spot it when she was up there. But I do now. Her rage, her defiance—it isn’t chained anymore. Now it’s free and channeled into pure intention. She’s angry. And she’s not going down without fighting.

  If I had any right, I’d be proud of her.

  “You’re up, Salahudin,” Martin whispers. “Are you ready?”

  I don’t look him in the eye when I nod. If he knew what I was going to do, he’d never let me testify.

  But he said it himself: Short of drastic intervention? Noor Riaz is going to prison. This is my drastic intervention.

  Be brave. I find my courage in the memory of Noor raging at me, spilling her anger like venom. I deserved it. And it doesn’t change that I love her. Nothing she could do would change that.

  What has changed is that I don’t expect forgiveness. Not anymore.

  The judge calls my name. It sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel. I take deep breaths. Five seconds in. Seven seconds out. A memory ambles to the forefront of my mind: A white room with stickers of orange fish on the walls, the crunch of paper on the chair beneath me. Dr. Ellis on a stool, and Ama with one warm hand on my chest, the other on my back.

  “Like this?” she asked Dr. Ellis, who nodded.

  “Okay, Putar.” Ama smiled at me so that I knew something was right with the world, even if everything in my head was a mess.

  “Breathe. Five seconds in, Salahudin. Seven seconds out.”

  The little boy in me wonders about her as I make my way up to the witness stand. Wonders if she’s watching from somewhere. If she’s with me. Or if I’m alone.

  “Do you swear under penalty of perjury that the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  They don’t say “so help you God” like I think they will. But I say it in my head, for Ama.

  “I do.”

  The judge nods. “Then let’s begin.”

  chapter 58

  Noor

  Sister Khadija was confident the whole trial. Shoulders straight. Voice clear. But where she seemed to wear her mood most obviously was with her hijabs.

  “Dark red for when it’s time to fight,” she told me this morning on the way to court. “Purple for when I need to command. And red, white, and blue—”

  “For ’Murica?”

  “For victory,” Khadija said.

  She wears it today. The colors melt into each other, the blue matching her dark eyeliner.

  But when Salahudin gets up to the witness stand, Khadija doesn’t look victorious. She looks worried. Shafiq, behind us in the gallery, reaches forward. A touch on her shoulder, as if to say I’m here.

  As Salahudin states his basic information, I think about my family. I make up things about them in my head: My father had kind eyes that were round like mine. He sang me old Punjabi songs when I couldn’t sleep. My mother had long hair that hung down to her waist in a thick braid. She taught me how to play Ludo, and Snakes and Ladders.