“She’s not up there?” the librarian asked as I headed toward the front doors.
“No. She must have gone home.” I pushed back the glass doors, stepping into the hot dry night. I stood on the front steps, clutching my books to my chest. Maybe she did go home. She must be at home. I tried to picture her in our room, but all I could see was Uhmma standing there, one hand on her hip, questioning Suna as she stepped into the house by herself. A film of sickness coated my mouth. Where was she?
A car with a broken headlight turned into the parking lot and stopped before the steps. Ysrael quickly got out of the driver’s seat. Suna stepped out of the passenger’s side more slowly.
“Hey,” Ysrael called as he bounded up the steps. “Sorry we’re so late,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “There was an accident on 805 and—”
Suna smiled and waved as she walked up the steps. “Yeah, sorry we were late, Uhn-nee.”
I pressed my lips together, took a deep breath and ignored them both as I walked down the steps and got into my car. Suna jumped in just as I pressed on the gas and screeched out of the parking lot.
I refused to speak to her. At night I felt Suna’s eyes on my back, her plaintive questions aimed at my still figure in the dark.
“Why are you so mad at me? What did I do?”
Her questions went unanswered until they sank into deep sighs. And even when my anger had passed, I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her. How could I explain the feeling of being the one left behind? That he had chosen to take her over me? It was a role that Suna knew too well. I was ashamed to find myself pouting like a child.
• • •
Uhmma continued to ignore Ysrael, yet monitored every piece of clothing he touched. He never said anything when she suddenly barged into his space to check on a shirt or a dress that he was pressing. He simply stepped out of the way until she left satisfied, or he stood quietly nodding his head as she ranted at the piece of clothing in her hand. He seemed not to mind her flares of temper, her angry silences, and moody stances by the back door, smoking her cigarette. And maybe this was why he got along so well with Apa. The two of them, one straight back, one slightly crooked, heading to lunch at the fried chicken place at the end of the strip mall.
I didn’t want to think about whether Ysrael would be at the library again. Yet, as I scanned the clothes in my closet that night, I worried about what looked good. Suna sat on the edge of her bed, silently watching me move around the room.
“He’s going to be there,” she whispered.
I whirled around, holding a shirt in my hand. “What are you talking about? How do you know that?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Then you shouldn’t talk about things you don’t know,” I said and angrily pulled the shirt over my head.
Suna hugged her dog to her chest. “He’ll be there.”
I ignored her comment and picked up my prep books. “Come on,” I said, walking out of the room. “Hurry up or you’re gonna make me late.”
Ysrael sat on the steps of the library a few feet from the usual gang that hung out in front. He stood up and walked over as soon as he saw our car pull into the parking lot. I slowed down and stopped beside him.
“Hey,” he said, leaning into the open window. “Prep class, right?”
I nodded.
I stared stone-faced, forward, speaking to the windshield. “She didn’t have permission to go. You should have asked me first.”
Ysrael nodded. “I know.”
A car behind us honked. I motioned for him to meet us along the side of the library and pulled forward.
“Uhn-nee.” Suna touched my arm.
I jerked back my arm. “Well, you should have told me. You should have asked.”
Ysrael appeared at my window again. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just thought it would be nicer for Suna to hang at the beach instead of at the library.”
I ignored them. Took the keys out of the ignition. I reached for my books on the backseat.
“Mina,” Ysrael said. “Mina.”
The sound of my name. His voice scratchy and crackling of old records.
Ask me, I thought fiercely. Ask me.
He turned away, his eyes resting on the distant brick wall of the library. “I wish you could come with me,” he said.
I sat back in my seat, let the weight of his words settle in my body. “I can.”
Ysrael frowned. “Hold on. What about class? What are you going to tell your mom? SATs aren’t something you can just take over whenever you want.”
I laughed. “Jesus, you sound like my mom. The class sucks, by the way. And”—I waved my prep books—“I have all this Princeton Review stuff from this guy I know.”
Ysrael rubbed the side of his jaw with his knuckles. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. You sure?”
I had never been more. “Yes!”
He slowly grinned. “My car or yours?”
• • •
We drove in the Sentra. Old as it was, Sally was still looking better than Ysrael’s cousin’s beat-up Ford. Suna sat in the back but kept leaning forward to hear what we were saying.
“How long have you had this car?” Ysrael asked, checking out the mileage as we sped down the freeway.
I grinned. “Pretty old, huh. I can’t believe it still runs.”
“Sally just needs to be loved. If you rub her dash, she really gets going,” Suna added.
“Sally?” Ysrael said.
“That’s her name,” Suna said. “Sally Sentra, the lean, mean fightin’ machine.”
Ysrael laughed. “You’ll have to name the Ford so it’ll run better.”
We spilled out of Sally and onto the beach with various rhythms popping from our lips. “Frankie Ford farts all over his doors.” “Frances Ford can
