If I had a nickel for every time I'd been fucked over by the people in my life, I'd have two nickels. Except, I had many already, and now I had more. What did that make me? A millionaire.

I was already rich.

I sat cross-legged beside my mother on the soft leather couch, twiddling my fingers because I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't have up and left, that would have been in poor taste. I pursed my lips into a firm line, my back straight, skirt smoothed out across my lap.

My stare was bleak, looking like the life had been sucked out of me (it might as well have).

My mother put a hand on my shoulder, I flinched at her touch. No. This could not be happening.

"Aya?" I heard her say. But I couldn't respond. Not with sensible words. So, instead, I stayed quiet. It beat having a screaming match in the middle of the living room. "Aya," she said again.

I stood from my station. I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit still and be normal when my life was being taken from me.

"Why?" I asked, scanning my family with daggers for eyes. My hands clenched into fists, bunching up on the sides of my white skirt. "What about me?" I swallowed, feeling the bile rise in my throat.

"This was not an easy choice to make," Papa said, sitting on the leather seat across the couch, his big burly hands knitted together between his legs.

"And you didn't think to tell me about it? Ask me how I feel?" I bit back, further antagonizing and tugging at the elephant in the room.

"Emaad's tour is starting–"

"I don't wanna hear about it." But I did. I so badly wanted to hear about it. To hear about everything.

Emaad was my older brother by five years. I always thought of him as the star child of the family. I mean, everyone else seemed to think so. Even Goddamn America was in on it.

He was America's Prince of Rock N' Roll, the people adored him; and worshiped him like he was a king or a god or something. All the girls my age loved him. I couldn't tell you if the love these girls had for him was admiration, romantic, deranged, lustful–or all of the above.

But I knew Emaad before all of that, all of this. He'd been the face of the music industry for six years – since the age of twenty – but he was the face of my brother, my blood, my family, for twenty more.

While he got to live a life of luxury and parties and everything a rich man was allowed have, Mama and I stayed home most days. I couldn't experience half, or even a quarter, of what he got daily. But ever since the accident last year, I hadn't experienced anything.

I was stuck doing work at home with the supervision of my mother, who didn't know what I did for work. And I couldn't forget the security cameras plastered along the perimeters of our mansion in Short Hills, New Jersey.

I wanted to leave this; leave this house, and live somewhere I wouldn't be treated like I wasn't there.

It was suffocating.

The door opened, and my heart palpitated. I pressed my palm on my collarbone, trying to self-soothe my heart rate.

"Sorry it took so long for my arrival," said Emaad, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack.

"How was the ride home?" I asked, pushing out a smile and easing my hands at my sides.

"Oh, you know," he said, his back turned, voice distant as he filled water in a cup from the cooler in the kitchen. "It was fine."

"That's good."

Come on, say something, anything it all.

"I read your draft of the new article you've been working on today on the way to the studio," he told me, his elbows propped on the island counter at an angle. "I even let Randy look over it."

Randy was his manager, the man behind all of his bookings and studio visits... and greatness. I still remember the day those two met.

It was the summer of 1948, August, I think. We were at the Marigold Banquet Hall celebrating the wedding of one of our long-time friends. We were on the bride's side. To this day, I still don't know how Randy was even invited–was he on the bride's or groom's side?—and where the hell he came from. It was a packed building, with 700 or so guests collectively.

Emaad offered to sing a song for the couple, providing live music for the entire night. This was the first time he sang in a semi-professional setting. Singing in the kitchen never counted. But this, that moment, it would forever live in my memory.

I could see why Randy took a chance on him. I mean, look at him now four years later. We no longer live in Edison in our cramped townhouse; Papa retired from his military position and came back home; and I... got to go to university. Something I've always wanted to do.

None of that would have been possible if Randy hadn't been there, peeping in the crowded wedding venue, when he had.

I sometimes think back to the time when we weren't anywhere. When my family was normal. But this was the American dream, right? Living in wealth far beyond what you could imagine? The land of the free?

I didn't feel like I belonged here. And somehow, that comment Emaad made about Randy made me think otherwise. A sprinkle of hope, maybe. Maybe he would see me, too. Maybe he could convince Emaad to let me stay.

"Oh," I said, unsure if I was startled or flattered. "What'd he say?"

Emaad circled to the center of the ground floor where our parents and I were, jogging along and out of the open kitchen area and plopping himself comfortably on an empty sea-foam green, suede armchair. He spread his legs, Mama made a face. He fixed himself, sat neatly, and clasped his hands behind his head full of thick, black curls. "Said he liked. This one was better than the last draft."

I couldn't help but smile wide at his words. Yes. Yes–oh my God, he's going to reconsider...

"So I can come with you?" I asked, my tone rushed and full; something it hadn't been all night. Come on, Randy, please. "I mean, it'd be stupid if I didn't because I was there since the beginning–"

"—And left right after." Emaad gave me a stern, cold look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I felt myself getting red at my very real, very rhetorical question. "Stop." I glared at him in return.

Swear, if I still had my shoes on I would've chucked them both at him.

"A no is a no," he said.

"But–"

"Aya."

"I can't believe you." I furrowed my eyebrows, my voice knocked up at a high pitch. "I can't believe all of you!"

In a fit of rage, I removed the black silk bow that had my hair tied up and threw it on the white, plush rug that was ugly anyway.

Emaad fanned his lips together, his arms moving into a cross over his chest. He looked at me with that warning look your dad would give you to tell you to shut up.

But I didn't want to shut up. These people–my family–weren't going to make me.

"Stop," I urged, feeling my eyes bubble up and my throat begin to close up. "I'll be safe, I promise."

Papa raised a calm, gentle hand to speak. Emaad and I glanced at each other before he gave him the go-ahead. "How can any of us be certain, though, jaan?" his tone was caring and sympathetic.

I clamped my lips shut. Papa was right about that. As a woman in America, you were a far easier target than your male counterparts. I knew the sentiment, but...

I was an adult. Why were they treating me like I was a child or something?

"Emaad, please." I threw him a pleading look. Desperation framed my face.

"I'm too tired to talk anymore, Aya. I said no. That's final." He got up from his chair and stretched his arms and legs. He trod towards the staircase. I followed him like I was a lost dog needing a home.

"Can't you talk to Randy?" I swerved to move beside him, watching his face expectantly.

He took long strides across the floor, ignoring my question. When we reached his room at the end of the hall, I braced myself for what he was going to tell me.

His hand on the doorknob, he sighed. His hands clenched.

Ran in the family, I guess.

"I can't," he said, sounding defeated. "The arrangements have already been made."

I looked at him, a puzzled expression on my face. I rub the tiredness from my eyes, he ran his free hand through his tousled hair.

What arrangements?

I couldn't answer anymore. I didn't want to continue to beg when I wasn't going to get in return.

"Okay," I said, stepping away from him to give him his space.

I took a good gander at him, albeit his side profile, and he looked tired. His hair was a mess, his clothes were wrinkled, and his eyes - from what I could see - were bloodshot. "When do you leave?" I asked softly.

"I ought to tell you that I am sorry," he cut me off, shaking his head. "You just have to stay back this time, Ayu. I can't risk anything," he went on, "you're my liability."

My stomach dropped hearing him refer to me as his liability. Fuck.

I dropped my head, turning away from him. "I know..."

"I leave in a few months, by the way. I have to do the press tour for Little Women first before I can finish the tour."

I completely forgot he had his acting debut, too.

"I've always liked the book," I said, a sheepish, tired smile playing at the edges of my lips. I lightly dug my fingernails into my skin.

Emaad leaned his head against his door frame, a floppy smile on his face. "I know. You liked Jo the best."

"I still can't believe you're playing Laurie," I said. "It'll be a little weird, having girls fawn over you, my literal brother, on the screen next to me as I watch."

Emaad cringed at the thought. But I saw him bite his lip. We burst out laughing.

"I accept your apology, by the way," I said, steering the conversation back to his music.

I glanced at him, he glanced at me. "You're most definitely going to the premiere." He reached out to grab my hand and I let him.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I told him in earnest, swinging our arms back and forth. "It'd be hard to forget that you're you and not gentleman Laurie, but I wouldn't miss it." I giggle.

I couldn't be mad at him for long periods. He was my brother, after all. And my best friend by a long shot. I loved him and he loved me.

But I needed to put my foot down. Or, I tried to. Being the youngest was a set of challenges no one prepared you for.

The overshadowing, the dissatisfaction, the why-can't-you-look-at-me kind of rage. And yet, as a sister, I felt like I owed him something if not my life.

He was there to protect me when no one else could or didn't. Always helped me first before he helped himself.

He was always there.

I knew, despite my best efforts to think anything different, he had my best interest at heart.

I had my own, too.

Like my freedom.

"I know you're going to sleep," I said, switching to Urdu, "but what did you mean by 'the arrangements have already been made'?"

I bit my lower lip, pursing them in the process.

Why was I allowed to go to the premiere but not the tour? What made them so different? Both of them were weeks-long events; getting ready in hotels and small black cars; crammed in rooms with people; parties, dancing, music...

Aside from one difference I tried to shake away, there wasn't much of it.

Unless... oh, that sneaky son of a bitch.

"Go to sleep, you two!" Mama bellowed from downstairs. I heard the dishes clatter below my feet. "There's much to do tomorrow."

I roll my eyes at her statement. I move near the banister ledge, peering my head down to look at the tops of Mama's head. "In case you've forgotten, Ammi, I stay home almost all day–"

"Aye! Quiet. Go. sleep."

There she goes dismissing me again like how Emaad was doing just now.

I hated it when people ignored me.

Which meant I hated almost everyone in my life.

There was not one person that didn't forget about me.

I heard Emaad shut his door.

No.

I ran towards it despite it closing on my face. My dreams were crushed at that moment. I wouldn't be heard until morning. If that. "Emaad, please," I whispered, pressing my ear against the door and my hands on either side of my face. "Open up."

I heard rustling like he was rummaging through a bag. And then the soft crinkle of papers. Multiple. "I can't," he finally responded. But it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

Talk to me, Goddammit.

"I'll see you in the morning, Aya. Allah Hafiz."

"Promise?" my voice went small and quiet, like a diminishing fire.

I couldn't trust his words, not yet, anyway. He always said things and never did them. He was so busy trying to be like them white people in Hollywood that he forgot, I think, sometimes that he was a brown man–a Pakistani man–so long he lived in this house, in this neighborhood, and our secluded South Asian community.

I didn't say anything after that. It was pointless trying to talk to people who didn't want to talk to you.

I went to my room, which was three rooms on the left-hand side of Emaad's, and closed the door halfway. I didn't much like the dark; you never know what kind of things lurk in the shadows. The thin strip of the hallway light pooled into my bedroom.

And I was able to hear something.

"Be here by noon tomorrow. I've got the papers ready. The press tour starts In a couple weeks, I expect you to do your job."

Whoever Emaad was talking to, I had a feeling I definitely wouldn't like them.

"...and make sure you bring the sweets I requested. She likes gulab jamun. Bring a box of it. There's a sweets shop nearby–Pie in the Sky–pick it from there."

I carefully shut my door, and my hands shook, rattling the doorknob.

On second thought, maybe I should have gone to bed.