Page 5 of The Love Match

WhatsApp can only mean one thing: the Auntie Network.

That’s what I call my mother’s group chats. Her hotline blings so often, even Drake would get jealous. A group for customers of her business, one for relatives in Bangladesh, another for acquaintances in Paterson, more for friends and family in New York, Michigan, Texas, and London—anywhere and everywhere a Bengali may have settled.

If there’s juicy gossip to be shared, the Auntie Network will know it.

Already, a thrum of activity simmers in the tea shop as the aunties inside it take note of my mother’s rare appearance and prick their ears in our direction.

“Do you remember the Emons?”

“Who?”

Amma frowns at my inability to name every single Bangladeshi person on the planet. She slides the phone over to me, and on the screen I see a grainy photo of a glum teenage boy with a serious case of Batman Jaw in a black graduation gown standing behind a podium. Between his glasses and cap, I can hardly make out any other distinguishing features.

I look from the image to her blankly. She gusts a vexed sigh. “That’sHarun. We sat with his mother during the wedding Friday, mono nai? It’s hardly been three days!”

I snap my fingers. “Oh, right! The lady with all the rings.”

“Yes! Well, I’ve been doing some research”—when Amma leans in, I inch close enough that no one else can overhear—“and do you know what your Meera Khala told me?” She pauses expectantly. I offer a dutiful shake of my head. “They don’t come from much status back in Bangladesh, but theyarerich, Zahra! So rich, they own not only that grand restaurant, butthreeconvenience stores in Paterson alone. And didn’t you hear his mother say they plan to open a second restaurant here?”

“Okaaay.”

Amma’s frown deepens at my lackluster reaction. Her gaze follows mine as it strays to the glaring chai tea lady, who’s clearly dissatisfied about something. Before I can bow out using Kashmiri Karen as an excuse, she clicks her tongue, her doe-brown eyes suddenly big and imploring. “You’ve been working so hard lately, shuna. We never even had a chance to celebrate your graduation. Come home early tonight, accha? I’ll have a special dinner ready.”

“Really?”

The abrupt subject change gives me whiplash.

She stands and kisses the top of my head. “Yes, really. Don’t be late.”

Round-eyed, I watch her shuffle out of Chai Ho intothe bright afternoon light. Not a minute later, the woman in sunglasses marches past me, barking a parting complaint loud enough for the entire shop to hear: “That tea was disgusting. Yelpwillbe hearing about this.”

Although Mr. Tahir’s palpable ire radiates from the kitchen, and I predict dreadful bathroom duty in my not-so-distant future, my eyes are riveted to Amma’s retreating figure.

What in God’s ninety-nine names is she up to?

Chapter3

A cool breeze blows throughthe window cracked over my head, carrying a medley of smells through the city. Sea salt from the Passaic River, the cloying odor of beer tingeing the parking lots of the bars on either side of the road, the mouthwatering aroma of food from restaurants getting ready for the five o’clock dinner rush.

Riding the bus is one of the few times I can daydream about the book I haven’t written since Baba called me to his bedside and asked me to look after everyone. He got diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer so suddenly that Amma completely came apart at the seams. His words still haunt me to this day.

I wish you could be a child, Zahra, but I need you to be strong if your mother can’t.

Giving up writing is something I have to do for him. For Amma.

At least for now.

Even if I could afford starting college in September, writingdoesn’t fall into the trifecta of Asian-Parent-Approved careers every kid I know strives for: doctor, lawyer, or engineer. It’s not even a second-tier “respectable enough” career like accountant, teacher, or nurse.

Once upon a time, I had Amma to thank for my love of storytelling, but now she’s become the reason I guard my hopes so deep inside my chest, where a callous comment can’t blow them away like a stolen wish on dandelion fluff.

If she dismisses them—dismisses me—I don’t think I can piece together the broken shards of my heart this time. It’s much easier to play the role she wants, of the obedient daughter who dreams in secret, rather than risking that the only parent I have left will think less of me, after everything I’ve done for her.

But maybe tonight, since I don’t have to help with dinner, I can scribble a few ideas in my notebook.

The screech of tires calls me back to reality at my stop. I exit the bus and hurry to my rickety old building. Champa Khala, the landlady, doesn’t pester me about our overdue rent for once, busy sweeping the porch, so I salaam her and climb the steps to our second-floor apartment.

On the welcome mat, I freeze. Excitable chatter and the thump of my sister’s footsteps float through the door. No one sounds irate or upset, but when I sniff the air, I don’t smell anything cooking. Trepidation fills my belly, replacing any hunger. My sneaking suspicion that Amma has been cooking up something other than the special dinner she promised is allbut confirmed. If I don’t tread carefully, I might end up on the menu myself.

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