1
The world looks better when it’s caught on film. It’s an indisputable fact. With the right lighting, the perfect angle, and a filter or two thrown in, something ordinary can become phenomenal.
As my younger sister puts on an impromptu fashion show in my bedroom, I itch to record it, to keep this memory forever rather than just in this one moment.
But when I give in to the urge, pressing Record on my phone, I come face-to-face with a scowl.
“Stop filming me, and tell me what I should wear to school,” Anam says, shoving my shoulder and jostling my phone. My sister prefers to live in the moment, shaking her head in exasperation whenever she sees me recording, but that’s never stopped me before.
“I can multitask,” I say, making a face at her. She sticks her tongue out, and I roll my eyes, though we both know I don’t mean it. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge against her for more than a few hours.
Anam nudges me again, so I set down my phone on my bedside table, beside a stack of unfinished scripts. When I turn back to my sister, I take in her maxi dress and high heels combination with appraising eyes.
Then I shake my head. “Nice try, but it’s too fancy,” I say, waving toward the door. “Again.”
Anam sighs long-sufferingly. “Fine.”
She heads for her room across the hall, and I watch her go with a small smile on my face. Everything about her is so loud, from her voice to the way she dresses to the music she blasts every morning without fail. Even from my room, I can hear “#LoveSTAY” by Stray Kids blasting from her laptop.
The next time my sister comes back, she falters in the doorway, her nose wrinkled. I pause midway through packing my bag for school. “What happened?”
Ma’s voice carries from downstairs, making both of us flinch. “Samina, come downstairs now.”
“What happened?” I ask again, edging toward the doorway, where Anam is glaring over the hallway’s banister. “Why are they calling me Samina?”
“They opened your mail,” my sister says, looking back at me. “It’s addressed to Samina Rahman, so they’re being extra as per usual.”
“They could at least say Mina if they’re going to be dramatic,” I say, but then the rest of her sentence sinks in and I tense, my shoulders stiff. “My mail?”
“Something from USC,” Anam says, chewing absently on a lock of blue hair. I reach forward, batting it away, and she offers me a grateful half smile. “I didn’t realize the mailman would do his rounds so early, or I would’ve snagged it before Baba could.”
Again: “Poppy!”
Well. At least it’s my dak nam now.
Still, I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to stave off the headache I feel forming between my brows. “It’s too early for this.”
Anam grunts in agreement. Even though we’re a year apart, our brains are eerily in sync. “I don’t know how they’re not tired,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “Have you given any thought to my brilliant idea about stuffing me in your luggage when you move out for college?”
“I wish,” I mutter, tucking my binder into my bag before swinging it up over my shoulder. “I’m guessing they’re upset.”
“When are they not?” Anam asks, rolling her dark eyes. We’re often mistaken for twins, our facial features near identical—thick eyebrows, upturned noses, full mouths. Only Anam’s home-dyed blue ombré distinguishes us at this point.
I tie my own black strands back into a loose braid before snagging my phone off its charger, sticking it in my back pocket. “Maybe we can sneak out without them noticing.”
“As if Baba isn’t guarding the door,” Anam says with a grimace, but disappears into her room across the hall to get her own bag. “Give me a minute!”
I’m long used to mornings with my parents screeching at the top of their lungs. It’s basically tradition at this point. Their nitpicking is relentless, especially when it comes to school. It’s been this way for years and it’s only gotten worse in the last few months.
Ever since I announced I was planning to double major in business and film at the University of Southern California, I’ve been subjected to nonstop lectures about making terrible life decisions. Why pursue the arts when I could be a doctor, an engineer, a rocket scientist? Clearly I’ve lost my mind.
I almost feel bad for Anam, who has to hear them by proxy, but I’ve had to sit through our parents scolding her enough times that it evens out. Most recently, because of the debacle of the bleaching her hair at home without any supervision.
Anam comes out of her room wearing a tank top and leggings. “Ready?”
I smile despite myself. “You look cute,” I say. “But you’re going to freeze to death. Late January is still January.”
She shrugs, the strap of her top sliding down her shoulder. I lean forward, tugging it back up. “Thanks, Apu,” she says before hip-checking me. “Let’s grab breakfast from the deli?”
“Sounds good.” Sitting at the dining table long enough to scarf down a roti and egg isn’t feasible with the mood my parents are in. With that in mind, I toss a wool sweater at her. “Take this. You can take it off when we’re at school if you really want to.”
Anam grumbles half-heartedly, pouting as she tugs it over her head. “Happy?”
“Don’t give me that look,” I say, flicking her forehead. “I’ll pay for your bagel.”
Her face immediately brightens. “Okay.”
I hasten down the stairs, even as my father says, “Poppy! Come here!”
I stay silent, maneuvering around my mother’s extensive vase collection littering the foyer. The wall is covered in family photos, and with every step I take, it’s almost like I can see the progression of me shifting from loving my parents to tolerating them.
Then again, it’s not exactly one-sided.
At four years old, I offer the camera a toothy smile. At eight years, my mother’s hand grips my shoulder tightly, wrinkling my shirt. At twelve years old, my eyes are bright, but my jaw is clenched. At sixteen years old, Anam and I stand stiffly to one side, our expressions blank, as our parents try not to glare at us.
And on and on it goes.
Some days, it feels like Ma’s love for home decor outweighs whatever affection she holds for her daughters. Those days, I consider smashing each and every single piece of furniture in this house, then striking a match, letting it all go up in flames. The rest of the time, I’m just tired.
Today, my bone-deep weariness is winning over my blood-boiling anger.
Baba calls my name again, and I don’t bother to raise my voice when I say, “Maybe later. We’re going to be late for school.”
Behind me, Anam stifles a giggle, and I give her an exasperated look. If anything, we’re going to be early, even with our stop at the deli, but that’s neither here nor there.
Anam raises her hands above her head in a general gesture of surrender, but not without smirking. I flip her off after making sure neither of my parents are approaching from down the hall.
“Anam, you too!” Ma says from across the house. The smell of fresh suji halwa wafts through the house, making my stomach rumble. I ignore it, grabbing a puffy jacket off the coatrack. “And bring your sister!”
“As if,” Anam mutters, on her knees digging through the closet as she looks for a pair of shoes that aren’t my mother’s.
It doesn’t take a genius to know what awaits me in the kitchen. Another lecture about how I’m setting myself up for disappointment because I’m never going to get into USC. Another lecture about how I should be reasonable and focus entirely on business, since a degree in the arts will never pan out.
I’ve heard it all before and I’m not eager to hear it again at seven in the morning. They can run me a check if they want to waste my time.
“Hurry, before she starts yelling about how we should’ve made our own breakfast this morning,” I say, slipping my feet into a pair of black boots.
“Poppy,” a voice says over my shoulder, making me jump half a foot into the air. My mother is standing behind me, her lips curled in disapproval. In her hand is a postcard with VISIT USC and SAMINA RAHMAN printed across the top. “Both of you need to start waking up earlier. You’re old enough that you should be making us breakfast instead of the other way around. These are skills you will need in the future. You know, your cousins all wake up—”
“No, they don’t,” Anam says, her eyes narrowed on my mother. “Bristi is always late to school. I’m supposed to believe he wakes up early to cook Chachi breakfast?”
Ma turns to look at Anam, her teeth grinding. “I’ll deal with you later,” she says, before looking back at me, grabbing my wrist with her free hand. “How many times have we told you, Poppy, that you need to stop with this USC nonsense? We’re just trying to look out for you. You know it’s never going to—”
“We have to go,” I say, refusing to meet her gaze. An anchor ties itself to my heart, weighing it down to the pit of my stomach. Is it too much to ask for one single day without this? “We’re going to be late.”
“You can make time for this,” Ma says, tightening her grip until my bones feel brittle, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. “This is some stupid fantasy you’ve built up in your head, and you need to wake up—”
I pull away from my mom roughly, then tug open the front door and hop down the steps leading up to our porch without another word.
“Poppy, you’re being childish,” Baba says, appearing over Ma’s shoulder. He looks vaguely distressed as he scratches his beard, but that doesn’t garner any sympathy from me. Not when my wrist is red. “You say you want us to treat you like an adult, but then you continue to run from your problems.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice cold. I don’t know how they’re not tired of repeating themselves. I’m certainly tired of hearing it.
Silently, I hold my hand out for Anam to take as she slips out in the space between my parents, hurrying down the steps after me.
I’m halfway down the driveway when she interlaces our fingers, grinning at me. My mom glares from the doorway and my dad sighs, but neither calls after us, not for the fear of shame riding them too hard if our neighbors happened to overhear.
It’s always what will people say?
It’s never what will make you happy?
It’s not until we’re a few blocks down that I breathe easy, pulling my phone out of my pocket to check my notifications.
There’s two from my best friend, Rosie, complaining about the lack of snow, despite the forecast last night, and one from the film club’s technical director, Grant, asking about competition dates for the upcoming Golden Ivy Film Festival.
I grimace, wondering why that’s even a question, and Anam peers down at the screen, reading over my shoulder.
“You’re too hard on him,” she says, tugging on my hand once the traffic light turns red and we can walk across the street. Our neighborhood is relatively quiet, but as we move closer to the subway, the loud bustle of the city increases. “Not everyone is as anal about film club as you are.”
“Then he shouldn’t have joined in the first place,” I say, although I don’t really mean it. As co-president of the film club alongside Rosie, I’m grateful for every single club member. Even Grant.
Anam can tell, judging by the way she looks at me, but she humors me anyway. “Didn’t he have a crush on you freshman year? Maybe that’s why he joined.”
“Don’t remind me,” I say under my breath, rubbing my eyes. I want to go back to bed, and maybe stare despondently at my ceiling for a few hours. That, or carve out this God-awful feeling in my chest, this black hole that devours. It’s not always there, but when it is, it smothers everything else.
“I mean,” Anam says, “maybe you could—”
I shake my head. “Forget it, Anam. I’m pretty sure the actual reason he joined is because his dad is some big-shot film producer. Familial pressures and all that.”
“We wouldn’t know anything about that,” Anam says dryly, and I offer her a noncommittal hum. “Well, maybe you should cut him some slack, then.”
I huff a quiet breath. “Like you cut the girls’ volleyball team any slack?”
Anam shoves me, and I shove her back. “I have to show Coach that I’m capable of being captain next year,” she says, jutting out her bottom lip.
Something flashes through her eyes, and if I weren’t her sister, I don’t know if I’d catch it. But I am and I do.
I squeeze Anam’s fingers. “I’ll fight Coach myself if he gives it to anyone but you.”
When I let go of her, it’s only to open the door to our neighborhood deli. The girl behind the counter, Nazifa, smiles at both of us, and Anam offers her a brief fist bump.
The Ali family lives next door to ours. Nazifa’s parents own the deli, so we often see her behind the counter in the early mornings, before school starts. Anam is closer with her than I am, both of them obsessed with volleyball, even though they technically go to rival schools.
I give Nazifa a smile in return as we pass through, heading for the fridge in the back to grab drinks. Anam harrumphs as she picks out a bottle of Snapple, picking up our conversation where we left off. “You won’t be here to fight Coach anyway. You’ll be off in California, chasing your dreams.”
“I’ll book the first flight back, just for you,” I say and ignore the pang in my chest. I won’t know for another two months if I’m accepted into USC or not, and the cruel voice that lives in the back of my head keeps insisting on the latter.
Anam wraps her fingers around my wrist as I reach for a bottle of orange juice. “Hey. I know that look. Stop it, all right? You’re going to get in.”
Sometimes I forget she knows me as well as I know her.
“Inshallah,” I say under my breath.
“Inshallah,” Anam repeats, digging her thumb into my pulse point.
Both of us are more on the non-practicing side when it comes to being Muslim, even though we both firmly believe in Allah. It’s natural for us to say words like inshallah and hold true to the meaning behind it—to believe that Allah is the one who wills things into existence—even if we aren’t as religious when it comes to other things.
I know a lot of it has to do with my specific experience growing up as a child of diaspora and my fraying relationship with my parents. I have the utmost respect for those who have a better and healthier relationship with their religion and culture, but I’m not there yet. Maybe I never will be.
But I hope that isn’t the case.
When I leave this city behind, there will be infinite room for me to figure myself out. I just have to wait until then.
By the time we get back to the counter, Nazifa has already prepared both our breakfast orders. I slide her the money and pass Anam her bagel, which she takes eagerly.
“I’ll see you guys this weekend at my mom’s party, right?” Nazifa asks, absently playing with a loose thread in her hijab.
I salute her with my croissant, some of the heaviness in my chest easing. “Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Can’t wait!” Anam says, waving cheerfully as the door shuts behind us.
When we get to the subway station, there are two other kids from our school waiting there already. I don’t know either of them that well since they’re freshmen, but I nod anyway before turning back to Anam.
“Are we still on for our movie marathon tonight?” I ask, mentally working out what time I need to be home by. Some days I test my parents’ patience more than others, but considering this morning’s events, it might not be worth pushing my luck today. “Or do you have too much homework?”
“Bold of you to assume I’m going to do my homework before Sunday night,” Anam says, biting off a piece of her bagel. Through a mouthful of mush, she adds, “Yes, we’re still on.”
For one painful, heart-stopping moment, I remember I’m going to leave this behind if I go to California. Mornings with my sister will be a thing of the past.
Then I shove that thought away. My future is at stake—I can handle a sacrifice or two.
“I’ll come home straight after film club,” I say, smiling thinly as I wipe some cream cheese off Anam’s chin.
She offers me a thumbs-up. “Sounds like a plan. Don’t be late.”
I give her a sidelong look as the R train pulls up. “When have I ever been late?”
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