Page 4 of The Love Match

Dani says, “Zar, we’re going to Rutgers, not Rajpur.”

Dalia pokes my stomach. “Besides, you can still enroll, Miss Ivy League.”

I know they’re trying to console me, but the sago pearls on my tongue are suddenly too thick to swallow. The thing is, even if a djinn popped out of one of the shop’s decorative teapots and granted our family enough money for tuition, it’s too late for me to attend this semester. I’ve already deferred all my acceptances, including to my dream school, Columbia University. Although many colleges promised scholarships, most were contingent on attending full-time, and we have bills to pay at home.

Trust me, I’ve crunched the numbers. Maybe if it were just Amma and me, we could figure out how to survive without my paycheck and pay off student loans, but we’re not alone. What happens when it’s Arif’s turn? Or Resna’s? I need to consider everything. Everyone. There’s no way to keep the lights on, even if I go to school part-time and work the rest, much less if I don’t contribute at all.

I shake my head. “It’s not in the stars this year, but if I keep saving half my paychecks, I might be able to enroll at PCCC by next semester.”

The twins share another frown.

They don’t think I should give up attending a prestigious school like Columbia for Passaic County Community College, especially after working myself to the bone to get in, but PCCC is cheap, close to home, and has a less rigorous course load thatI can work around if I need to keep my job. After two years there, perhaps I can transfer to a four-year university. By then, Arif should be old enough to chip in.

But for now, things are what they are.

The bells above the door jangle to announce the arrival of our first customer. We hurry to reprise our respective roles. Dalia joins her father in the kitchen, Dani brews the drinks, and I wait tables. It’s easy to become Chai Ho Zahra.

The day ticks by in a busy but blissful monotony. I pour tea, clean up after a string of customers, and make small talk whenever possible with our regulars: elderly aunties and uncles who enjoy reminiscing about the good old days over a cup of masala chai and a plate of somosas.

The city is full of characters who frequent the shop.

I move on automatic, but my brain buzzes with activity as it runs through a brand-new round of the People-Watching Game. It’s something I started playing with my friends when I first got hired at Chai Ho, where we made up increasingly hilarious backstories for customers.

Baba had just died, so Dani’s girlfriend, Ximena Mondesir-Martínez, suggested the game to distract me, promising it would spark my creativity like it did hers. It hasn’t helped me write a single word, but itisfun to let my imagination run wild.

Ximena drops by over lunch and seems to be having better luck with her art, her curly head bowed over a sketch pad, a smudge of charcoal on her brown cheek and one strap of her overalls.

Before I can pour her a drink, someone else enters the tea shop. Clearly not a local, the red-haired woman points at the screen of her phone to show me a photo of a cup of creamy pink tea sprinkled with chopped pistachios and almonds.

“I want this chai tea,” she enunciates slowly, squinting at me over designer sunglasses.

Ximena catches Dani’s eye over my shoulder and mouths the word,Gringa.

Without turning, I know Dani is smirking and whispering, “Gora,” right back.

Paterson isn’t exactly a gentrifier hotspot like Newark or New York City, but hipsters like Ginger Lady sometimes wander in to switch up their Starbucks orders, thanks to the scrumptious pictures Dalia posts online under the hashtagChaiHoes.

Smothering a snort, I start to explain to the gringora in question that Kashmiri chai, although very Instagrammable, is deceptively bitter—in fact, in Bengali, we call it noon saa, which means “salty tea”—when the bells over the door tinkle for the umpteenth time. I turn to greet the new arrival and almost drop the teapot in my hands.

In the past two years that I’ve worked at Chai Ho, my mother has never once come to the shop, though she’s never kept me from the twins or acted anything short of civil to them the entire time they’ve been my friends. When I told her and Nanu that Mr. Tahir gave me a job, even my usually mild-mannered grandmother ranted for weeks about theBangladeshi Liberation War, when Bangladesh was East Pakistan and Pakistan—then West Pakistan—placed us under martial law, forbidding us from speaking our language. Fifty years later, there’s still bad blood.

“Why do you have to work at all? I can take care of us somehow,” my mother pleaded, and when it became apparent both of us knew that wasn’t true, “Couldn’t it at least have been a Bangladeshi restaurant? It’s a slap to the face that they don’t use Bangla in our own neighborhood.”

“All that matters is that their money is in USD,” I replied.

She couldn’t argue with that, not with a nagging landlord and mounting debt. But knowing that Chai Ho is such a big part of my life hasn’t stopped her or Nanu from pretending it doesn’t exist. Needing Mr. Tahir’s money to survive was a step too far for their pride, my personal relationship with the twins aside.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Amma?” I whisper, after hurriedly handing the redhead her Kashmiri chai.

She scans the bustling shop before returning her focus to me, exaggerated innocence on her face. “I was in the area, picking up groceries. Can’t you take a break now?”

“Assalamualaikum, Mrs. Khan.” Dalia materializes beside me and flashes Amma a disarming grin before I can turn my mother down, holding a tray of confections, teacups, and a fresh pot of chai. “Can I offer you some of our best tea and desserts?”

“Oh, how kind!” Amma is already setting down her grocery bags so she can sit. “Zahra, join me.”

Left without a choice, I lower myself into a chair. “Why are you really here?”

Amma takes a bite of spongy gulab jamun, pink at its heart and drizzled in rose syrup, but rather than complain that it’s not as big as kalajam, the Bengali equivalent, she pulls out her phone from her purse. The WhatsApp icon opens as soon as she inputs her PIN. I groan.

---