Page 45 of The Love Match

Ya Rasul, you’re always putting me on the spot! I suppose it can’t be helped. The other day during the rainstorm…

Meera:

Yes? ??

Khatun:

I saw Zahra and the dishwasher boy at the falls together… but it’s probably nothing, right?

Meera:

That can’t be right. Zahra is a good girl. She wouldn’t break her mother’s heart. ??

Sharmila:

Monor khobor khew tho zanee na, Afa… Children in the West don’t have the same principles we did, growing up. Who knows what they’re thinking?

Chapter16

It’s been only a daysince the picnic, but I’ve felt like a new Zahra since.

A braver, bolder, reborn Zahra. A Zahra who isn’t afraid to dream.

It’s as if I’m Ariel fromThe Little Mermaid, and the dashing prince kissed the girl—actually,Ikissedhim—to return my stolen voice.

After walking home with Nayim tonight, I sit at my desk and type up more of my novel, ignoring Amma’s warnings about staring at screens for too long or staying up too late. Several new chapters pour from my fingertips, quieting only when Nanu comes to bed, so the clacking keys don’t bother her.

It’s a book I’ve been working on since before Baba died. Struggling with for a long time. I’m shocked how quickly the story comes now. Before long, I somehow end up with forty thousand words of a manuscript.

A whole half!

Most of it is frombeforeand probably not particularly good, but it feels so nice to be able to create anything after such a long time.

This progress, combined with my lack of sleep, persuades me to call out from work to visit Passaic County Community College during its open house on Monday. Mr. Tahir is so shocked, he doesn’t even complain about being left shorthanded. Before my friends can panic, or Nayim can think I’m avoiding him, I text them an update.

All of their encouragement keeps me from chickening out on the bus ride downtown, but I can’t help fidgeting once I reach Broadway, gripping the straps of my backpack, a pamphlet from the school crumpled in one fist, my dinosaur of a laptop inside the bag. A cheery welcome banner hangs over the glass door a few feet away, framed by bright red columns.

Nervousness makes my sneakered feet tap the sidewalk. More than once, I have to move over so another pedestrian can pass me.

I’m going in.

Iam.

I just… need a minute.

Or maybe that minute is only giving me more time to doubt myself. My imposter syndrome sounds a lot like my mother. I grimace, recalling how she asked what kind of jobs an English degree would get for me when she read my acceptance letter from Columbia in the spring.

She didn’t say no, exactly, but she didn’t have to. Theexorbitant cost to attend, the scholarship I lost since I could only study part-time, and the four years of splitting myself between school and a job… only to get a degree in a language I already spoke.

She didn’t think it was worth it. That I was worth it.

I didn’t want to worry her just to prove her right.

I’m so lost in the whirlpool of my fears that I don’t notice the tiny woman standing next to me until she says, “I suppose it is a nice building, but not so nice that I could look at it for four and a half straight minutes.”

“Wh-what?”

She frowns at the smartwatch on her wrist. “You’ve been looking at it for,ah, five minutes now.” Her dark eyes shoot up to my face. “Will you be coming inside or do you need more time to etch it into your memory? No judgment either way, dear.”

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