I mull that over for a moment.
“Why the oboe, then?” I’ve never heard an oboe without one of those old, classical composers.
“Because the oboe is awesome.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
On overcast Fourths, all you can see of the fireworks is their pulsing glow behind the scrim of clouds with undersides gone briefly red, blue, green, and yellow in staccato bursts. But this is a clear night, and we have perfect seats to a panoply of rings and fish and spiders and peonies and all the rest, the whole gamut of fireworks in scarlet and sapphire and brilliant silver and dazzling gold. With Tchaikovsky pulsating from Aneesa’s phone, we don’t even notice the mismatched cannon blasts from a mile away. It’s a private concert, a private light show, and my hand is achingly close to hers, resting on the arm of the chair, a gap of inches separating us.
It’s the sort of time when a boy kisses a girl, I suppose. Not that Independence Day is a romantic holiday, but there is something about a warm night, a clear sky, a full belly, and the sweet burnt smell of sugar. And maybe it’s cool to touch her hand now, at least. She helped me up; she bandaged my knee. Maybe that much is all right.
And it might be. I don’t know, but it might be.
But with the night sky alight with pop and crimson, I can only swallow hard, the taste of charred marshmallow skin still on my tongue, and the overture builds to the part where the cannons come in.
Bang, they say.
Bang. And bang. And bang.
I pull my hand into my lap, lest my acid touch sear her.
Bang.
Guns. Big guns.
Yes, I’ve fired one once.
Yes, I’ll do it again.
But maybe.
I look over at Aneesa.
Maybe not just yet.
Maybe not right away.
I don’t touch her. Not until it’s time for me to leave and we fist-bump our farewell, she lightly tapping my knuckles with hers after a moment’s pause.
On the walk home, I think, I can do this. I think I can do this. I think I can make it through the summer. One last summer. That’s not so bad, right?
In bed, the voice says nothing, but its silence tells me everything.
By the next time I pass Aneesa’s house, her father has bolted a sturdy bracket to the outer wall; an American flag flies from it. I bike by, managing not to spill myself. Third time’s the charm.
The day after that, I bike by again, as though I have something to prove. I should just go up to the front door. I should just ring the bell. I should just go say hello. She invited me to the barbecue. We watched fireworks together. I should just go up and knock on the damn door.
Instead, I pedal furiously as I pass by, watching the windows for movement without seeming like I’m watching the windows.
When the time comes that I again gain entrance into the Fahim house, it comes not at Aneesa’s invitation, but rather her mother’s. Biking home, I pass by their house as Mrs. Fahim gets the mail. I make a mental note to myself to do this chore as soon as I am home, knowing that I will forget, and Mrs. Fahim raises her hand and smiles and says, “Hi, Sebastian!”
It’s a casual wave, a polite hello to a neighbor, and certainly no excuse to stop riding, which is exactly what I do, hitting my brakes and coasting to a halt at the end of the Fahims’ driveway.
“Hello, Mrs. Fahim.”
“Sara.”
“Right. Sara. Sorry.”
I huff a little from my pedaling, and her smile falters for a moment.
“Is Aneesa expecting you?” She glances back at the house. “Because she and her father won’t be back for a little while.”
“Oh. Okay.” As though I had plans with her.
“Would you like to come in and wait for them?”
That would be ridiculous, since Aneesa has no idea I’m here, so of course I accept.
Inside, Mrs. Fahim guides me to the kitchen. The living room, which we passed on our way, is completely unpacked, but the kitchen still has boxes on the counters and in a corner on the floor. I sit at a small table.
“Kitchens take the longest,” she says, rummaging in the fridge. “Longest to pack and longest to unpack. Such a pain. I told Joe—no more moves. I’m sick of wrapping the good plates and then worrying myself sick that they don’t break on the truck. Lemonade?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I thank her again when she hands me a sweating glass of it. There are actual bits of lemon floating in it, unlike the powdered stuff I make at home. It tastes clear and cool and just tart enough. I didn’t realize I was thirsty until it hits my tongue. I tell myself not to gulp it and fail.
Mrs. Fahim’s eyebrows arch in a way that is peculiarly and almost disturbingly Aneesa-like. It shouldn’t surprise me, and yet it does, this facial tic that I have already assigned unique Aneesa status showing up on another face, albeit her mother’s.
“More?” she asks.
I nod.
Turning back to the refrigerator, she says, “You’re a very quiet young man. Why is that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, here’s what I’ve noticed over the years: People—men, especially—are quiet for one of four reasons.” She hands me the newly full glass and proceeds to tick them off on her fingers: “They’re hiding something. They’re afraid of something. They have nothing to say. They have too much to say. Which is it for you?”
“Maybe all four?” It’s honest and it’s a cop-out at the same time.
She nods. “I believe you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She shrugs. “Neither. It just is. When I met Yusuf, he was very, very quiet. Hardly ever spoke. My brother called him ‘the Mute.’” She grins at the memory, so it’s okay for me to do so as well. “And it turned out Yusuf had so much to say that he was always in turmoil, never certain which words to use, which ideas to advance. But even from the beginning, I could tell there was fierce emotion and intellect and passion locked up in there. So I had to marry him. I had no choice. I had to find out all of it. I had to know what was in there.”
“And did you?”
She tsks and shakes her head, disappointed in me for the first time. “That takes a lifetime.”
“That sort of sucks.”
“Not really. Why do you think we each get a lifetime?”
I suppose the thought of it should be comforting to me, the idea that a lifetime is measured not in time, but in understanding. But how much understanding does a four-month-old have? How much did my sister comprehend? Did she know what was happening, what was about to happen, when I raised the gun?
How much did she understand in her lifetime? How much am I supposed to understand in mine?
“You’re quiet again,” she says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for it. It’s nothing to apologize for.” And she favors me with a sensational smile that makes me want to confess everything, and maybe that would have happened, but at that moment, the front door opens and from the vestibule Mr. Fahim calls out, “We’re home!”