Rebels by Accident Read Free

I leave on her shirt. I’m not ready to take it off; it still smells like my first night of being a true teenager. I climb into bed, and as I fall asleep, I think about how I can’t go back to living the cloistered life of a Muslim nun. Somehow, I have to convince my parents to trust me again.
    When I wake up a little while later, my whole body is on fire. I’d been dreaming about some guy I don’t know, but in the dream, I liked him a lot and he liked me, and then… I can’t remember the details. All I know is there’s no way my parents can stop me from living my life. They can lock me up in this apartment, but I’ll figure out a way to escape, even if I have to climb out the window. Oh my God, that’s what they’re going to do: ground me for life. I can’t let that happen. I have to talk to them.
    I jump out of bed and rush to their room, hoping they’re still up. I listen at the door. I don’t hear anything. I quietly push it open and look through a crack. My mother is sleeping so far on the right side of the bed and my father so far on the left that they leave a huge space in the middle—a space big enough for me.
    For a moment, I want to crawl into bed with them, the way I did after I’d had a nightmare when I was little. Sleeping between them always made me feel like life was exactly as they wanted me to believe it was: beautiful and safe, as if nothing was ever going to hurt me. But I’m too old to crawl into that space, and this time I’m the one who did the hurting.
    I close the door and go back to my room. It’s a struggle to fall asleep. All I can think about is how I’ve let my parents down.

chapter
THREE
    When the phone wakes me up, I don’t run to answer it like I usually do. I know Deanna won’t call this morning. She’s crazy, but she’s not that crazy.
    I pee and wash my hands and face. As I look down at the mascara and other gunk left on the towel, I’m reminded of how much trouble I’m in. I walk down the hallway to the kitchen like I’m going to the dentist to get my teeth drilled—without anesthesia.
    â€œMorning, Baba.” I watch him take his coffee from the freezer.
    He doesn’t answer, but he never does before he’s had his morning coffee. And it can’t be just any coffee. It has to be this special Arab coffee that he drives an hour and a half to Brooklyn to buy.
    â€œMariam, my coffeepot—have you seen it?” Baba asks, like he does every morning.
    â€œIn the cabinet over the sink,” I say, like I always do. Instead of feeling annoyed, today I’m grateful for our routine.
    â€œMariam, it’s not here.” Baba’s pulling out the old coffeepots, none of which he’ll use, because, as he’s said more times than I can count, the Turkish copper coffeepot makes the best coffee he’s had since he left Cairo. But Mom won’t let Baba throw away the old ones, just like she won’t let me throw away the baby shoes in my closet. She says she’s going to give them to charity. But unless a shoeless kid with a caffeine addiction shows up at the door, my closet and the kitchen cabinet will remain stuffed with things none of us can use.
    â€œDid you check the dishwasher?” I ask.
    â€œThe dishwasher?! Who put it in the dishwasher?” Baba grabs his copper coffeepot from the top rack. He turns to me. “Why are you still wearing that black shirt?”
    I look down at Deanna’s shirt, all wrinkled now. “Oh—I’ll go change.”
    â€œEat your breakfast first.”
    I’m not hungry, but this isn’t the time to argue—not that I ever do. I get the plastic stool I’ve used since I was five and reach for the Healthy O’s on top of the refrigerator. I told Mom I wanted to try this brand because it’s the one Deanna eats. I wasn’t expecting it to taste exactly like the Cheerios I love so