More to the Story: Chapters 1–11

“You’ll wrinkle your outfit,” Bisma warns.
“I don’t care,” Aleeza says, then quickly adjusts her kameez beneath her.

Mama is arranging mini samosas on a platter, while Maryam cuts the raspberry bars she made into neat squares.

Mama’s brow furrows as she eyes the simple cotton shalwar kameez I threw on for Eid prayers earlier. “Aren’t you going to change into your new clothes?”

My older sister is elegant in her silvery-gray outfit with black embroidery.

She’s wearing a high bun, with wisps of loosened hairs that frame her cheekbones.

She looks older than fifteen, and is glamorous.

“It’s fine,” I say as I bound down the stairs for the door.

Suddenly I have another vision of how disheveled I must appear, and my cheeks heat up from more than the hot sun.

But a few weeks ago, the contract he was working on for over two years at the Centers for Disease Control ended without any warning.

He obliges me and drops three heaping spoons of sugar into my teacup.

As the sugar dissolves, I feel everyone watching us, and warmth fills my cheeks. It might be the steam from the tea that’s making me flushed again.

Mama suppresses a laugh.

I write new issues to celebrate things that happen in the family, share big news, or deliver not-so- subtle messages.

She has one of those faces you want to keep looking at. People gawk at her all the time, and I’ve gotten used to it.

I’m accustomed to hearing that Aleeza is the sister whose face most resembles mine, but all I see is that we share the same scowl.

Then the rest of us started saying the most absurd phrases we could come up with, like, “The queen would like some more crumpets and a spot of tea” or “Can you kindly place the rubbish in the bin” or whatever else popped into our heads while Ali corrected us.

He doesn’t know that eighth graders never venture into the seventh-grade area.

“I’m making you features editor. You showed strong writing skills last year, and a big commitment to the paper, and I think you’ll do a great job.”

“I admire your spunk. You remind me of me when I was younger,” Ms. Levy says.

Some of his plaques are displayed on the bookshelves in our family room—gold-and-green marble slabs engraved with his name: Mohammad Mirza.

That was Maryam’s contribution to the meal—moist, dense, delicious cornbread with whole corn kernels in it.

Aleeza pulls a book off the shelf and holds it up for us to see. It’s called Would You Rather...? Radically Repulsive and must have belonged to Samir, Uncle Saeed’s youngest son, who lives in Chicago now. Uncle has stories about how he loved everything disgusting as a kid and played the best practical jokes on his older sister.

Maryam ponders the question and gets lost in thought.

“That’s not what it says.”
“Fine,” Maryam says, conceding, and she puts her phone back in her pocket.

“Are you suggesting we’re not as fun as your friends?” Ali acts indignant.

“It’s one of the United Arab Emirates. So kind of like the United States. But with royalty.”
“Arab?” Aleeza looks skeptical. “How far away is it?”

My stomach clenches like I’m bracing for a punch, and everyone sits in stunned silence as we process that information.

“Can we get a cat to keep us company while you’re away?” Aleeza turns to Baba and uses her most wheedling tone.

Aleeza clasps her hands together in excitement, but I know it’s futile to dream of a dog.

Ali is sprawled out facedown on the carpet.

She’s not wearing her headphones for a change and is apparently listening to our conversation while she works.

We’re still digesting the news of Baba being away from us, and here’s Ali, pretty much alone in a foreign country.

I’ve heard my parents talk about how some of their family members in England have faced prejudice, and I want to ask more, but Ali doesn’t seem eager to discuss it.

I want to probe him, but when he doesn’t want to talk about something, it feels like Ali puts up a wall that the best soccer defenders would only dream of—one that seems impenetrable.

I can’t help but watch him, to see if he acts weird or starts to garble his words.