More to the Story: Chapters 12–23

“Let’s get these loaded,” Baba calls from the foyer.

I hear the exasperation in Bisma’s voice despite her whispering.

“You’re supposed to share,” Aleeza retorts.

“Your default reaction in many situations—like when you’re frustrated or embarrassed or hurt—is anger. But you need to rein it in. For your sake, and for others.”

“Your default reaction in many situations—like when you’re frustrated or embarrassed or hurt—is anger. But you need to rein it in. For your sake, and for others.”

It’s weird to see him sitting alone in an apartment that’s furnished like a hotel room, with high ceilings and marble floors that make his voice echo.

I’m staring at Travis, who’s returned to school this year with longer hair and stubble on his upper lip.

I stifle a groan.

“You all right?” I hear an unmistakable British accent behind me. It’s Ali, watching me act flustered with teasing eyes.

Then I watch a frazzled mom yell at her son for spilling a blob of the yogurt on the floor.

Maryam told me that she didn’t want to have to ask for things like clothes she wanted or makeup when she knew our family didn’t have money to spare.

It was extra meaningful because she said my family had inspired her story, although none of my sisters or I have ever been harassed like that, and none of us wear the hijab.

“I started a story based on kids who have autism. Something about how music brings different people together and helps them understand each other.”

I head up to our room, and Bisma emerges from the bathroom, bleary eyed.

“My neck hurts. See this bump?” She juts out her chin.

“Remember when you thought you had tuberculosis?”
“I was coughing a lot.”

“What about my neck?” Bisma gingerly touches it again.

“You probably slept funny. I get cricks in my neck once in a while.”

I stare at my father’s face, and a pang of missing him strikes at my heart.

But he used to say that you can’t go into a story with your own agenda. Respect people enough to tell you the story they want to tell after they are comfortable with you, and it’ll turn out better that way.

“And he presented you, someone he’s never spoken to before, with...this elaborate gift? It makes no sense. When I was in high school, no one did anything like this.”

“But you can’t keep them.” Mama falters. “It wouldn’t be right. They must have been expensive.”

Maryam is on the phone in the kitchen with her best friend Saira, and I can hear snippets of them dissecting every moment of her encounter with Seth as she does the dishes.

“Is she going to go with him?” He sounds casual, but he’s looking at me so intently that I realize he’s jealous.

He sounds casual, but he’s looking at me so intently that I realize he’s jealous.

“I’m not waiting around for anyone for anything. And I have years before I need to think about that,” I say as dismissively as I can, trying to hide how irritated I am.

My grandmother wanted my father to marry someone else she had picked for him, and she was never nice to my mum. And then my mum’s family resented my dad.

“She said that?” Ali is incredulous.

I stayed up late last night doing research and finalizing the draft.

I peer at my mother’s face and notice telltale signs that she’s been crying.

I gasp as I see photos of people with giant lumps growing out of their necks next to the text. Each image is scarier than the last, and I instinctively put a hand on my own neck.

“You edit your submission from Callie yet?”

Travis crushes the notion that I have any real say over my section, or that he’s changed.

I try to keep my voice down, but it’s shrill.

“I can have opinions too,” Travis scoffs. “Maybe your suggestions aren’t as brilliant as you think.”