“We—I can’t do this.” The moment I say it, I feel calmer. In control. “I can’t see you anymore.”

  Ashlee stares at me like I’m speaking another language. The office phone rings. And rings. Abu’s probably passed out. If he’s on his back, he could choke if he throws up. Abu might be depressed and he might be a drunk, but he’s still my father and I don’t want to lose him, too.

  “I have to look after my dad,” I fill the silence. “Help him run this place. A relationship, on top of all of that—”

  “I could help you.”

  “You were high this morning.”

  “You were a jerk, Sal.” She drops onto the bench, then gets up again, agitated. We haven’t been together very long, so I didn’t expect Ashlee to be this upset. “You didn’t want me to stand with you. You didn’t want your dad to see me.”

  Abu was so shattered I don’t think he’d have noticed Ashlee if she was smashing a gong in his face.

  “All I wanted was for you to not feel alone,” she says. “You’re punishing me for giving a shit.”

  The phone rings again. The Civic is in the driveway, but Abu might not be home. Maybe he got thrown into the drunk tank. Maybe he got hit by a car.

  I miss Ama with a fierceness that makes my chest hurt. How did she not go crazy from the worrying? One day in, and I want to tear out my hair.

  I’ve been quiet too long. “I have to go,” I tell Ashlee. She looks so sad that my anger at her drains away. “Will you be able to get home?”

  “Like you care.” Ashlee grabs her phone off the bench and heads for her Mustang, a dull shadow on the street. When she reaches it, she turns around.

  “I’m glad I didn’t introduce you to Kaya,” she says. “You didn’t deserve to meet her.”

  She’s right, but before I can say so she’s slamming the door.

  I wait for her to drive off and then unlock the office. A habit I picked up from Ama. You do not re-enter your home until your guest is on the way to their own.

  Inside, our apartment is dark and silent, other than Abu’s snores. I’m relieved to hear them. At least he’s alive.

  Imam Shafiq and Khadija cleaned up everything but the flowers. The fridge is stuffed with enough food to last weeks. But it’s a reminder of today, and I know I won’t eat any of it.

  Sleep’s not happening, so I flip on the light and make my way to Ama’s desk, where a stack of bills has tipped over, half covering a stapler that only works if you sacrifice a box of staples to it first.

  The fate of this place—of me and Abu—lies in that stack.

  Maybe that shouldn’t matter to me. If it wasn’t for the Clouds’ Rest, Ama wouldn’t have worked herself to the bone. Abu would have been forced to clean up his act and get a job.

  Now that she’s gone, he’s not going to run this place. He’s not even going to try. And where does that leave us? I listened to Ama stressing over bills enough to know that we don’t have savings. That we were barely hanging on every month.

  I take the bills to the kitchen and set them down on the wood counter, soft from years of use. Outside, the east wing of the motel is dimly lit. Ama planted some kind of freakishly hardy plant in the window boxes of each room, and the floodlights turn their deep green leaves blue.

  Water the flowers. A few hours from dying and that was what she was thinking. Because she adored the Clouds’ Rest. When business was good, she loved talking to the people who came through: the scientists headed to the military base, or the hikers excited about Death Valley, or the artists hunting for inspiration. She fought for years to make the Clouds’ Rest into something she was proud of.

  I can’t lose this place. Not after losing her. In the end, I didn’t make Ama rest or drag her to dialysis. I didn’t do shit to save her. I failed her. But I can save the Clouds’ Rest. I can make sure the blood, sweat, and tears she put into this place weren’t for nothing.

  I find a butter knife and start ripping open the bills. As I add everything up on my phone, the room shrinks. In addition to being three months behind on our car payment, there’s an electric bill, gas bill, water bill, hospital bills, cell phone bills, credit card bills.

  But the one that makes me break out in a sweat is only a page long.

  First Union Bank of the Desert

  607 N. Sparfield Ave.

  Juniper, CA 99999

  Dear Mrs. Malik,

  You are in arrears on your business loan payments. As of January 28, you are 60 days late on your payments. Failure to bring your account to current by paying the full amount of $5,346.29 by April 15 will result in fees and precipitate the loss of your business—the complete seizure of all assets associated with said business.

  The letter goes on, but only two things matter: We owe more than five grand to the bank. And if we don’t pay it in ten weeks, everything Ama worked for will be gone.

  chapter 12

  Noor

  I like opening the store on Sundays. Six a.m. is too late for the night revelers. Too early for everyone else.

  It’s freezing inside because Chachu is too cheap to run the heater for the five hours the store is closed. I move quickly so my hands don’t go numb. Shades opened. Fluorescent lights on. Register unlocked. Ice machine filled. Candy and sodas and groceries restocked.

  I’m myself but not myself. Like I’m watching someone else from far away. Auntie Misbah died a little more than a week ago. Shock has faded into numbness. But grief is an animal I know. It’s retreated for now. But it’ll be back.

  Chuck D raps in my ears, making the work go faster. By the time the sun’s turned the desert outside a bluish gold, I’m warm. The ancient furnace blasts. I get behind the counter and break out my laptop. The UPenn interview—which I rescheduled after canceling it last week—is at 11:30 a.m. Less than six hours from now.

  I glance over the prep questions. What is a current project you are working on unrelated to your proposed field of study?

  Surviving senior year? Trying to fall out of love with my ex-best friend? Mourning the woman who was the closest thing I had to a mom?

  My English paper, a fifteen-page monster due at the end of the year, will have to do.

  Though I can’t talk about the paper without writing some of it. Mrs. Michaels wants us to analyze a poem. I picked Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art” because I liked the first sentence.

  Well. Sort of. Mostly I picked it because it’s short.

  But it’s also weird. It’s about misplacing stuff, like keys and houses. How the hell do you misplace a house? I’m reading the poem for the tenth time when the bell over the door dings.

  I think it’s Auntie Misbah for a second. Before the Fight, she came in every Sunday morning, chai in hand, ready to watch Dilan dey Soudeh and argue over Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s music. (Verdict: I love him. She called him “the Wailer.”)

  “Slmnr, bta.” It’s Uncle Toufiq and it takes me a second to translate the mumble. Salaam, Noor beta. I pause Public Enemy and glance at the clock. Seven a.m.

  He’s starting early.

  He finds eggs, milk, and bread. When he walks past the wines and bourbons, I relax. Until something catches his eye and he slows down.

  Come on. Keep walking, Uncle.

  He stops to add a bottle of Old Crow to his basket. I almost don’t see it, he’s so fast. Like if he grabs it quick, maybe he didn’t really grab it. He piles everything on the counter, hiding the liquor in the middle.

  I did the same thing a few weeks ago when I bought foundation at CVS. I guess I was hoping if I buried what I was ashamed of, no one would see it right under their nose.

  The screen blinks when I slide his credit card. Authorizing . . . authorizing . . . authorizing . . .

  “Sorry, Uncle,” I say. “It’s slow.”

  I busy myself by bagging everything up. Outside, a gust of sand scrapes against the glass door. Uncle Toufiq taps his fingers against the counters, then his pockets.

  The credit card machine beeps. DECLINED flashes across the screen.

  The groceries are eight bucks. The alcohol another eleven. I don’t even want to sell him alcohol. Every time he drinks, life gets a little harder for Salahudin.

  But shame is hard, too. Especially when you’re already broken. I imagine Uncle walking out without the liquor. Heading to Ronnie D’s and his card getting declined there, too. Getting desperate. Stealing the liquor.

  “Is—there a problem?” Uncle Toufiq asks. “With the card?”

  “No problem,” I say. Chachu does inventory on Sunday nights, and he doesn’t pay attention to much other than the liquor. I hate lying. I’m also bad at it. But I can text him after I leave—tell him I spilled a bottle of Old Crow when I was cleaning.

  Uncle Toufiq mutters a salaam and leaves. I watch him until he disappears behind the low-rent apartments next door. There was always something sad about him. Even before he started drinking so much. As Salahudin might say, he’s seen some shit.

  I wonder what he’s seen.

  Less than five hours until my interview, but my concentration is broken. I stare at “One Art.” Read it out loud even though it makes me feel stupid. As I’m finally making sense of it, the front doorbell chimes again.

  This time, my stomach flutters. It’s Salahudin, idiotically clad only in a T-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylors with cracks at the toe, despite the fact that it is eighteen degrees outside. His eyes are red. Shadowed, like they’ve been all week. I guess he’s not sleeping, either.

  “I didn’t know brown people could turn blue.” I reach for my coat, but it would fit one of his arms. So I throw him a shawl I’ve got stuffed in my backpack instead. “You looking for your dad?”

  “Nah.” Salahudin drapes the shawl over me. “I know Ama used to visit you on Sundays. Thought you might want company.”

  I pull off my headphones, where “Holler If Ya Hear Me” is blasting.

  “I have 2Pac for company.” God. What is wrong with me? “I’m glad you’re here,” I add quickly. We haven’t talked much since the funeral. He only came back to school on Friday.

  Salahudin cocks his head. He tries to smile. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to. That if he never wants to smile again, I get it, because I was six when my parents died and I still feel that ache.

  “What are you working on?”

  “That stupid poetry paper. You’re probably already finished.” English is the only class Salahudin even bothers putting effort into.

  “Yeah,” he admits. “But Mrs. Michaels wants me to enter some writing contest. A five-thousand-word story inspired by real life.” He laughs without smiling. “Let me see what you got.”

  He comes around the counter. Leans over my shoulder. “ ‘In “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop, loss is presented as—’ Noor, that’s passive voice.”

  I don’t need your help. I almost say it. You took it away and I was just fine.

  When I turn, his face is close to mine. Very close. Brown skin. Unfairly smooth. Dark curls falling into his eyes. Something warm unfurls inside. He hasn’t been this close to me in ages. I miss it.

  “I don’t understand poetry,” I say.

  “Everything you listen to is poetry. Here. I need a distraction.” He takes the laptop from me and types. Passive voice becomes active. He litters the page with notes, suggestions.

  I used to love watching Salahudin write. He gets this focused look, like he’s dancing a tango with the words in his head. It calms him. Helps him bring order to his world.

  His big hands move over the keyboard and I think of how I won’t hold those hands. They’ll never caress my face or any other part of me, and that makes me sad.

  But I don’t look away. They are my favorite part of him.

  He moves to the next paragraph and shakes his head. He looks . . . shocked, but that’s not the right word. The word I’m looking for is an SAT word, a Salahudin word.

  Aghast.

  “Noor, how are you surviving this class?”

  “How are you surviving Trig,” I say, “without me explaining quadratic equations?”

  “I drank unicorn blood.” He taps through a couple of paragraphs, leaving more notes. “Worked, too. Unlike this sentence. Do we need to discuss commas again—”

  “It worked because you’re too smart to be in that class,” I say. “Your ama—” I stop. Auntie Misbah’s ghost hangs in the air. Salahudin looks suddenly exhausted.

  “Come on, Noor.” I can barely hear him. “What’s the harm if my classes are easy? School’s the last thing I can focus on.”

  “Oh, boo-freaking-hoo,” I say. “My parents are dead, too. Both of them. Remember? You don’t see me slacking off.”

  He shakes his head. There’s that word again. Aghast. I cross my arms, unwilling to bend, and he fixes his dark eyes on me. His expression is warm but in a way I’ve never seen. My face feels hotter than it should.

  He cracks a smile. “I missed you, Noor.”

  “I missed you, too.” I stare down at the duct-taped toes of my Doc Martens. “Though I don’t miss your nerd humor. Unicorn blood? Seriously?”

  * * *

  Salahudin sticks around for my interview, and I’m grateful because by 11:27, my palms sweat and my head aches. Chachu isn’t due until 12:30, but I check outside every ten seconds to make sure he hasn’t showed up early.

  “If anyone comes in while I’m on the phone,” I tell Salahudin, “just stall.”

  “I could scare them away,” he says. “Or scream that there’s a rat. No one likes rats.”

  “No—no, Salahudin, don’t do that. Tell them stories. Tell them about how the Clouds’ Rest got its name. And if Chachu gets here early—”

  “Don’t worry.” Salahudin waves me off. “I got you. I’ll text.”

  Five seconds later, at 11:30 exactly, my phone rings.

  “Good luck,” Salahudin calls as I run for the bathroom. I shove my headphones in my ears, slam the door shut, and answer.

  “Is this Miss Noor Riaz?”

  The UPenn interviewer sounds so calm. Almost bored.

  I clear my throat. “She is me. I am her. I mean—” Really, Noor? “Hello. Yes. This is Noor Riaz.”

  “Miss Riaz. I’m glad we’re finally getting a chance to connect. You’re a hard woman to pin down.” She chuckles. An “I am not amused” laugh. I wipe my palms on my jeans.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I work at the family business. The hours are unpredictable.”

  “What’s the family business? I don’t see it mentioned—” Papers rustle, a pen clicks.

  “Um. I work at my uncle’s liquor store.”

  The pause that follows is long enough that I think she’s hung up. “H-hello?”

  “Is it legal to work at a liquor store if you’re not twenty-one?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’m yanking nervously on a braid and make myself stop. “The legal age is fifteen as long as it’s not a tavern.”

  “I see. This is the same uncle who’s listed as your guardian?”

  “Yes, he’s my guardian. Is that relevant?” I don’t mean to snap. But why does she care who raised me? It’s none of her business.

  “I’m sorry.” I make myself calm down. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I should think its relevance is clear, Ms. Riaz,” the interviewer says. “Especially to someone seeking to become a doctor. Nature versus nurture? How you were raised and why you were raised that way impacts your personality. Your personality is one of the primary things I’m interrogating in this call.”

  “Of course.” Did she just say interrogating?

  “To be frank, Ms. Riaz, we were a bit baffled by your application. Many UPenn hopefuls are excellent at studying and regurgitating facts. Good grades. Good test scores. But we’re looking for students who can contribute to the intellectual landscape of our school. We want the spark of creativity, of curiosity. Since writing helps us get a sense of that, the essay is the most important part of the application. But your essays were . . . vague. So. Back to your uncle . . . ?”

  “My parents died when I was young.” I hope she can’t hear me grinding my teeth. “My uncle took me in.”

  “Well, your transcript shows the hard work your uncle put into you. Why don’t you tell me about—”

  “My uncle didn’t put any work into me,” I say. “He doesn’t want me to go to college, even.” Why am I telling her this? I should shut up.

  But I don’t know how. First she pried. Now she’s making assumptions.

  “Everything good on the transcript happened because I was disciplined.” Calm, Noor. Professional. “Because I want the best future for myself. My uncle wants me to work at this liquor store for the rest of my life. He doesn’t want me to become a doctor, or anything, really—”

  “You mentioned your faith in your essay, Ms. Riaz. You are Muslim?”

  Muzz-lem, she says. “I am,” I say. “My uncle’s not. Even if he was, Islam’s not about oppression. Lots of Muslim women—”

  YOUR UNCLE PULLED UP. ABORT MISSION. ABORT MISSION.

  I drop the phone when Salahudin’s message flashes. Shit!

  “Ms. Riaz, I would never make that assumption,” the interviewer is saying. “In your personal statement, you mention faith as a key component of your life. I’m trying to get to know you better.”

  TOLD HIM U HAVE STOMACH ACHE. HE’S HEADED FOR BATHROOM. HANG UP!

  Frantically, I delete Salahudin’s messages, my thumbs hitting every button but the trash can.

  “Noor?” Chachu is at the bathroom door.

  In my headphones, the interviewer calls my name, too. “Miss Riaz. Are you there?”