Page 3 of The Love Match

“Resu, please just get dressed! I’m going to be late for work!” I shout, leaping over a bolt of beaded velvet. A teetering stack of library books almost topples as I attempt to catch my sister’s giggling, half-naked form. She ducks under the woodencoffee table that holds Amma’s sewing machine, but I’m not so quick. “Ow! Shit!”

Amma’s tired eyes narrow as she undoes a skewed stitch.“Zahra.”

My sister blows a raspberry from the other side of the table.

I throw my hands into the air. “She refuses to wear any pants, Amma.”

Now our mother’s stern gaze veers to Resna, who scurries to hide her pantsless form behind the torso of a mannequin. Whenever Amma’s busy with a particularly involved job, Arif and I take turns making sure Resna looks presentable while Nanu cooks. My brother conveniently claimed kitchen duty before I even woke up this morning, giving me the sneaking suspicion he’d bribed her into bed with too much sugar last night.

“Besides,” I add more urgently, “my shift at Chai Ho starts at nine. Ijustconvinced Mr. Tahir to give me overtime. If I’m late again, he’ll change his mind.”

Maybe even fire me,I don’t have to clarify.

Amma already knows, if her weary sigh is anything to go by. Rising creakily to her feet, she crooks a finger at Resna. Immediately, my sister hastens to stand at attention in front of her, chubby hands bunched in the hem of her baby blue Queen Elsa nightie. A pout darkens her pudgy face as our mother dresses her.

“Now, go eat,” Amma orders us both.

Chai Ho isn’t far, but we don’t have a car anymore. When Baba died, I was only sixteen and Amma never got her license, so we used the thousand dollars from selling our beat-up old Toyota Camry as the security deposit for a cheaper apartment.

Paterson, New Jersey, rushes by as I sprint to the other end of Union Avenue, having left too late for the bus. Two- and three-family homes much like ours flank bodegas, bars, laundromats, and homey restaurants serving up a hundred different kinds of cultural cuisines. Beyond them, old brickwork factory buildings ascend to meet the smoke-kissed blue sky, some boarded up, others repurposed to host charter schools and apartment complexes.

Over the beeping of cars and the disgruntled complaints of the pedestrians I swerve around, the low burble of the Great Falls drifts toward my ears. It probably never comes up in the musical, but Alexander Hamilton himself saw the falls in the late 1700s and proposed building a city around them. It’s a wonder they didn’t call it Hamiltonville.

Amma, Nanu, and I applied for naturalization together when I turned eighteen a few months ago. Though I doubt the proctor will ask any questions about Paterson, we all memorized these facts by heart, because the city is special to us Bengalis. It contains one of the largest Bangladeshi diaspora populations in the entire United States.

Even someone who doesn’t know its history can guess that the instant they enter Union Avenue. Five times a day, the call to prayer echoes from the local mosque, pulsing throughthe boulevard like a heartbeat. All along the block are Bengali restaurants, grocers, and garment stores.

Then there’s Chai Ho, the only Pakistani establishment in Little Bangladesh.

A stenciled window displays the name of the shop—a pun on Jai Ho, roughly translated to meanlet tearather thanvictory prevail. It wisps out of a painted teapot like steam. Behind the image, I spot my two best friends, Dalia and Daniya Tahir. Dani spots me and drags a thumb across her neck, the universal gesture foryou’re dead, while her twin sister directs an uneasy glance at the clock over the counter.

9:07.

Shit, shit, shit.

I skulk into the shop, wincing at the bells that chime overhead like a death knell. Mr. Tahir stomps out from the kitchen on cue, stocky arms crossed over an apron too lacy to be as intimidating as it is on him. For a second, it looks like smoke billows out of his hairy ears, but I know it’s just my imagination.

“I’m really, really, really sorry, Mr. Tahir. I was helping my mother get my sister dressed this morning, but she wouldn’t cooperate and—”

“And nothing! You were late twice last week. Is this your grandfather’s shop, for you to come and go as you please?”

His voice pitches louder with each word, as if he’s a teapot growing hotter and hotter, the lid about to burst right off. I recoil,please don’t fire merunning through my head on a loop,but before he can progress to proper shouting, Dalia says, “Abbu, stop!”

“Zahra’s only a couple of minutes late,” Dani adds. “We haven’t had a single customer yet. Do your blood pressure a favor and chill out.”

As always, he deflates at his daughters’ reprimand, but still wags a thick finger in my face. “Weren’t you the one asking for more hours?” I mumble an affirmative without meeting his gaze. “You’re lucky Daniya and Dalia are starting full-time classes in the fall. I need help, but I won’t be so generous if you’re late again. Understand?”

It’s the millionth time he’s mentioned that my best friends will soon be going to collegewithout me. The reminder fills my mouth with such a bitter taste that I’m afraid I’ll throw up on his shiny leather loafers if I try to answer.

I manage a nod.

He orders me behind the counter, where his daughters flock to cheer me up. Since the three of us moved to Paterson in the second grade, we’ve all been joined at the hip, bonded by our shared new-kid status. I was there when Dalia began veiling and when Dani admitted to liking girls. They helped me through my grief after Baba died.

Dalia wraps an arm around me. I drop my head onto her shoulder, the tassels of her pastel pink hijab tickling my cheek. Dani, meanwhile, hands me a cool glass of falooda.

“What’ll I do without you two?” I ask with a watery smile.

They exchange an apprehensive glance.

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