Something’s happening.
My chest seizes, and I think I might have an anxiety attack. This has to do with Mama and the way she was suddenly taken from us. It has to.
Baba sees the panic in my expression and shakes his head. “No, no. It’s nothing bad. I want to talk about you.”
I blink, but my muscles don’t relax.
Baba takes in a deep breath. “This year…” He closes his eyes, steeling himself. I wonder if a time will come when words won’t feel like they’ll exhaust us to our bones. He tries again. “This past year hasn’t been easy on us. And I…I haven’t been here. But every timeI look at you, I think you’re fading away. I was thinking a fresh start would be good.”
I stare at him.
“I talked to Alexis’s parents about the school she goes to,” he says in accented English, like he’s trying to turn the language into Arabic. “They said it’s a great place. You’ll be able to get a very good education. And have a higher chance to be accepted into university here. To NYU.”
My brain feels muddled. “Baba, the tuition at Braxton Academy is thirty-five thousand dollars a year.”
I remember because I looked it up after Alexis gushed about it. My hopes were shattered when I saw the tuition rate.
He waves a hand. “I saved enough.”
“I’m staying at my public school. I don’t want you spending thirty-five grand on me.”
“That ismydecision,” he says firmly in Arabic.
“So I have no say, even though I’m the one going to attend?” I snap, and immediately regret my tone. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He massages the bridge of his nose. “You need advantages in life, yes? And with… with your mother…” His chin wobbles, and I look away.
I can’t bear seeing Baba cry. It’s an anomaly. A scratch in the fabric of my reality. I’ve seen him cry more times than I can count this past year, which has made me suppress my tears. They’re spilled only in private, onto my pillows, to water the redwoods on my walls. Maybe I cried all the colors away.
He clears his throat. “With your mother… gone, and your sister married, there is some money that can be used.”
The words are harsh like a slap against my cheek, and I feel their sting. Mama has been reduced to something materialistic. She was no longer being treated for cancer, but there was money stashed away in case it ever came back.
Now we’ll never use it.
“The cancer savings are just a little over ten thousand,” I say.
“It’s not your problem.” A hint of life sprouts in his eyes. “You are my daughter. You don’t stress about the money. Okay?”
“But still not my decision?” I say dryly.
“No, it’s not.” He sighs. “I thought you’d be happy. You’ll be with Alexis.”
We’d be in the same school for the first time since elementary school.
Braxton Academy.
I don’t know much about it beyond it being a school for rich kids. From Alexis’s Instagram, every face is a different shade of white, in Burberry and Chanel. That is when they aren’t in their school uniforms of gray trousers or skirts, white shirts, and matching gray jackets.
The uniforms aren’t baggy or poorly made but are tailored to each student’s measurements. That’s the kind of school Braxton Academy is.
“They also have art classes. I checked,” Baba says, and I ignore that, lifting the lid from the shakriyeh pot.
It doesn’t smell the way it did when Mama used to make it. But it comes close. It’s a special kind of pain to see parts of her that aren’t fully there—like looking through mist.
Satisfied with our talk, Baba retreats to the shell he’s been living in.
And I realize this is the longest conversation I’ve had with him in a year.
