The Loophole Read online

  To my mom;

  thank you for letting me go.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  I don’t know where you are in the world as you’re reading this, but if coming out poses a potential danger, then please make the safest decision, and come back to this book when you’re living under safer circumstances. I promise you it’ll still be here.

  And when you do come out, just know I will be here. Waiting.

  We all will be.

  To welcome you to your new family.

  CONTENT WARNING

  Please skip the following chapters if they may open up wounds.

  Chapter 13 contains a scene where the seventeen-year-old protagonist experiences physical abuse from his dad.

  Chapter 14 sees him kicked out of the family home.

  Chapter One

  If I could make a wish, it would be for less blah in my life. Seriously, it’s been a bit much.

  My boyfriend broke up with me three months ago.

  My dad’s a tyrant I can’t wait to escape from.

  And I’ve just burned this hipster’s croissant. For the second time today.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” I say to the bearded-to-the-neckline LumberChad, while half a dozen other patrons look on with disinterest. “I’ll heat up another for you.”

  But he gives me the dirtiest look, his beard quivering with every word he spits out. “Are you serious? Do you really think I can wait five more minutes for you to burn it again?”

  Ugh. “I promise you, this time it’ll be perfect. You see, I’m by myself right now—”

  “I don’t care. You just burned it twice!”

  Ugh, ugh, ugh. Where the heck is Dzakir when I need him? “Let me throw two croissants into the oven, just in case?”

  The McJoe throws his hands in the air. “So you’re going to burn a total of four now? What’s going to happen if—”

  “Sir, I need you to back off,” comes the voice of my savior.

  And there he stands by the glass door entrance: Dzakir, D, my BFF—“Best Fighter Friend.” Two hundred pounds of brown muscle, sass, and lip gloss, coming to my defense. And a fist firmly planted on one hip. All of it squeezed into a My Little Pony T-shirt.

  The beardy hipster takes a moment to assess the situation, but before he can say another word, I pop yet another croissant into the oven and busy myself with milk for the cappuccinos, lattes, and ice-blendeds for the others huddled around the blue velvet couch of the Grounded café (where the brews are semi-modest but the prices aren’t).

  Dzakir makes his way in and around the corner, ties on his apron, all the while never taking his eyes off my antagonizer.

  When the oven dings, I hand a warm, golden-crusted, buttery croissant to the man, who leaves with one last angry look and his overbrushed beard in tow.

  “Thanks for saving me, D. Again,” I say, scanning the remaining crowd.

  Dzakir whispers, “You need to get a grip and forget you know who already. So you can actually focus. And quit looking like you’ve got a cactus up your butt.”

  I swallow a grunt while emptying a bag of Oaxacan beans into the grinder. “I’m trying, D. Like, really, really trying.”

  “It’s called breaking up. He did that when he left you a quarter of a century ago—”

  “It was three months.”

  “Like, full-on severance. But you can’t stop staring at his skinny face on that broken-ass phone of yours. I mean, sleepless nights are way cliché.”

  I twist my thumb ring, the one my ex gave to me. My cheeks feel hot even in the full blast of the AC. “I know. Can you please just stop?”

  “Can you please just stop? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  “You’re the drag-queen wannabe with the glib tongue. I’m just the emaciated sidekick with the flaccid comebacks.”

  “Us brown boys need to stick together, Sy,” Dzakir says, and then his eyes soften. “I don’t want to see this aura of hurt on you anymore.”

  “I know, D, I—”

  BANG!

  The jolt from outside seems to rattle the whole café, shoving the caffeine-starved zombies awake and nearly stopping my heart.

  Every head in here, mine included, swivels in the microsecond after that bang. The source is a ponytailed girl, right about my age, now sliding down our front door, smudging the glass I’d Windexed an hour ago with a vertical streak of makeup.

  There’s another split microsecond where everyone’s just staring at the curvy, beautiful mess as she sits back in (what looks like) a bra and miniskirt, obviously dazed, clearly figuring out what her next move should be. But she gives up and slams her upper body on hard pavement, gaze fixed on the blue sky, while just three feet away on the street behind her, cars fly past.

  And what do these people do? They snicker, crane their phones upright, and, with a few taps on their screens, immortalize the poor girl’s tragic accident.

  Worry stabs my chest. I want to scream at them, but nope, can’t do that. I need this job bad. So I huff a tiny “Eff this shit” under my breath and scrabble behind the counter past Dzakir, littering a dozen excuse-mes on the Unhelpful Ursulas as I scramble out the door.

  “Hey, how’re you feeling?” I ask, lowering myself to my knees next to her right arm.

  The girl’s deep, dark eyes are a perfect complement to her only-believes-in-SPF-4 kind of tan, which pairs with a ruby-red lip color that now scars up her right cheek. Her black ponytail has fanned out on the floor, forming a crown. And both her hands float like wild tentacles, trying to grab on to something. “What. Where. Who. Huh?” are the only words she can muster as she appears to swim up to an imaginary surface for air.

  Poor thing must’ve fractured her skull—although, from my vantage
, the door glass doesn’t look like it’s suffered the tiniest crack. But that lipstick-colored smudge will require a few hundred calories to rub out. “Can I help you up?” I ask.

  Her right hand grasps my shoulder with definite triumph, latching on. “Do forgive me, young lad,” she says, “but I must’ve suffered an obtuse concussion. Or is it an acute obtrusion? Now, where is my purse?”

  She kinda looks like if Rebel Wilson and Mindy Kaling had a biological teen together, although she sounds like that old dame from … that PBS show? Downton Abbey? What’s her name … Maggie Smith! Which is kinda odd, because she doesn’t look much older than I do.

  I prop her upright the best I can and scan the ground all around. The gawking crowd on the other side of the glass retreats behind their cell phones the moment they catch my questioning glare.

  There it is, next to the ficus plant by the door: an angry yellow rectangular thing with … foam spikes? “Is this it?”

  She balances herself to a seated position, legs flat out on the sidewalk. When her eyes narrow in on it, she brightens up, her ponytail dancing a merry jig. “That’s it, love. That’s the one.”

  And then the sour smell slams into me. “Is that tequila?” I ask. Damn. That explains the accident, although how rough must her morning have been for her to indulge this early? “Are you hurt? Is there anything I can get you?”

  She stuffs the angry purse under a bare armpit. “Oh, no need for that. My head’s sturdier than Hugh Jackman’s arse.” She smiles as if contemplating the image, and suddenly the smile becomes a devilish grin.

  “Um, I really have to get back to work.”

  The girl shakes her head, her ponytail swinging wildly. “Oh, right. Where were we? Ah, Grounded.” She cranes her neck, stares at the signage, puckers her lips. “I have to say, that’s not a clever name, is it? Anyway.” She holds out her left hand as if waiting for it to be kissed. “Well, help me up, then, my dear.”

  I help her scramble to her feet, and once up, she dusts herself so hard, I fear she may accidentally peel off her tight black skirt, even though it looks painted on.

  She checks her reflection in the window, licks her front teeth, then pats away the bright spat of lipstick on her right cheek, ignoring curious eyes staring at her beyond the glass. “I’ve lost my need for coffee, thanks to my make-out session with the door.” She holds out her hand. “Thank you, Sayyed.”

  “No worries. Wait, what? How do you …?” I glance at my name tag, which has always read “Sy.” No one but my family calls me by my actual name.

  She grabs my hand, and as her thumb brushes my ring, her dark-brown irises get even darker. “Who’s Farouk?”

  What the …? How does she know my ex’s name or that he has anything to do with the ring? A ring I shouldn’t even be wearing, since he gave it to me as a symbol of undying and eternal and never-ending love.

  But before I can get even one question out, she departs with a strange wave and a hop, skip, and more skips down Santa Monica Boulevard.

  I could run after her. I want to, just to ask my questions. But I’ll be in trouble with Dzakir if I don’t get back to pumping out lattes.

  Suddenly, I wonder if I was the one who bonked my head on the glass door, because now it’s pounding real bad.

  I stumble back inside, my whole world a little askew, while the customers glare at me for making them wait two and a half minutes longer than they’re used to. All I can do is slink behind the counter, back to work.

  Dzakir raises his hands to the high heavens and mumbles, “Thank you, God, for bringing my sister back from his hiatus so he can help me help all these other sufferers.”

  “Okay, Ariana. Mellow your drama.”

  “Watch it, you. I can claw you to death with these manicured hooves,” he says, motioning at me with a hiss.

  “So shall we?” I rub my temples before getting back to the crowd, satisfying their desires for this strangely legal drug.

  Meanwhile, the mystery of the ponytailed girl widens. Who is she, and how did she know about Farouk?

  Chapter Two

  The scent of lentils and sounds of a Bollywood movie soundtrack stew in the air as I step in the front door. “Umi?”

  There’s a clang in the kitchen. “Sayyed?” the voice calls out.

  More bangs this time—maybe the wooden stirrer against the pot—and then she appears in the doorway to the kitchen. “Let me see your face.”

  Welcome to the ritual. The obligatory greet-your-son-from-his-extended-presence-away-from-the-safety-of-home dance.

  Umi stands before me, face lined with wrinkles from a son who tries her patience simply by existing. “I’m fine. Nothing happened,” I say.

  “It’s my job to worry.”

  “You say that every day.”

  “That’s what mothers do.” She wipes sweat off her brow.

  “And sons just want our freedom.”

  Umi does so much: in the kitchen, in the laundry room, in the living room. She won’t let me raise a hand to help. She’s “given” me the freedom to do well in school and to concentrate on doing well in life. But every time I try to wash a plate, she grabs it and tosses it in the sink and tells me to sit on the couch and just relax and watch TV.

  I wish I could do more.

  She balks, ties her hair up in a bun. “You’re free when you find a wife. That’s the rule.”

  My eyes roll themselves, I swear. “Where’s Sofia?”

  Umi finally ambles away, back to the kitchen. “In her bedroom. Doing homework, what else? Even though it’s summer and she’s on vacation.”

  I head to my room first to set my backpack down and decompress for a minute. It’s small, with the twin bed, and the desk, and the tiniest of bookcases, but it’s mine. Although the door’s not allowed to be locked, which makes for some awkward attempts at privacy. Getting walked in on while staring at another boy’s face is … kinda cringe-making.

  Eventually, I make my way to my sister’s room and creep up behind her. “You suck so hard at trig,” I say.

  Without even turning around, Sofia lashes out a fist behind her, striking me square in the stomach.

  “Ouch!”

  “That’s what you get for insulting me,” she says while delivering a face of utter satisfaction. “And don’t try to get violent with me. Remember who’s better at pinning the other down in a wrestling match?”

  “Boys aren’t supposed to wrestle girls anymore in this house.”

  “That’s so sexist, brother. What next? I can’t be an astronaut?”

  “Not when your math sucks that bad.”

  I leap back before she has the chance to launch both fists at me, which leads to her growling and whipping her braid at me instead.

  “Calm down, sister. Maybe I’m just faster than you.”

  Sofia is a tinier version of me. Her nose is slightly stumpier, and my eyebrows are a lot bushier, but we both have the trademarked Nizam family straight white teeth.

  She turns back to her homework. “Oh god. What are you here for anyway? Trying to bait me into talking about Farouk again? Either stay and help me with my problems or get lost, brother.”

  “Have I been talking too much about him? Damn.”

  “Don’t say damn.”

  “Fine. Why’re you studying so hard?”

  “Gotta get a head start before the new school year. Surprised you haven’t done a thing, since you start college in what … a month?”

  I sit on her bed, trying to avoid the idea of life in college without Farouk, while almost drowning in a hundred Hello Kitty pillows, until Umi calls out that dinner is ready.

  We both rise like two obedient little children to head to the table.

  The front door swings open just as we take our seats. Suddenly, it feels like winter in our tiny house in sunny Los Angeles.

  Baba.

  This mustached man with dark eyes is my father. And this is his domain. Everything goes according to his rule of law.

  So
fia and I watch as he swings the door shut and drops his keys in the ceramic bowl on the stand next to the door. He marches around like a general, full of purpose: to the living room to turn on the TV, setting it to the same sports channel for the latest in soccer news, then to the bathroom for a quick washup, then to join us at the head of the table, waiting for his food to be served. My umi has timed its presentation perfectly for his arrival.

  And then, right on schedule, come the barking words that fall out from that waggling mustache: “Sayyed. You need to start coming home early.”

  I can’t help but quake in my shorts. “Yes, Baba. But sometimes I have to work late.”

  “I go to Mumbai in two weeks, and you cannot leave your mother and sister by themselves.”

  Two plates of rice materialize in front of Sofia and me.

  “Okay, Baba. I’ll tell my boss at work.”

  Sofia leans into me and starts meowing.

  I plant a heel on her toes.

  She almost yelps but coughs instead.

  Umi brings out the lentils and turmeric fried chicken. She knows these are my favorites. We dig in, silent except for the sound of my father’s grumbles at failed goal kicks and strange soccer terminologies I’ll never understand—I mean, what the heck is an offside, and why would anyone want to be on it? Anyway, I’m way too distracted by the juicy thighs on the screen to care about a score. I shall settle on these skinny chicken thighs instead.

  And the thought is automatically followed by a pang as Farouk creeps back into my mind, and my thumb ring grows heavy.

  As I slowly consume my meal, I drift away to the other side of the world.

  Wondering where he is right this minute.

  Wondering how he’s doing with all the freedom he’s swimming in.

  Chapter Three

  ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

  “Relax, Sy. They’re going to love me,” Farouk said, his shoulder rubbing against mine as we walked up to my front door.

  How was he taking it all so easily?

  I couldn’t help but stare at this tall boy next to me. Seriously, he towered a whole human head above me. The curly hair that swept across his forehead and those big brown eyes that refused to look away from me every time our eyes met.

  “You’re telling me to relax? I’m bringing you home for the first time ever. I just know something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it. I can smell it. It’s oozing out of the ground like a pile of dead skunks swept in by the sewer tide and—”