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Life in the Khan house is far from glamorous.

When we lost Baba, we had no choice but to move into an apartment so tiny, my mother, brother, sister, grandmother, and I are packed inside it like a family of squabbling djinn in a particularly cramped lamp.

Amma sleeps next to my five-year-old sister, Resna, while Nanu and I share a room that used to be a walk-in closet. My fourteen-year-old brother, Arif, got the shortest end of the stick. He sleeps on a pullout couch in the living room, and his “bedroom” doubles as Amma’s work space and our hangout spot.

Worlds away from the grand estates of the stories my mother told at the wedding a couple of days ago.

“Resu, please just get dressed! I’m going to be late for work!” I shout, leaping over a bolt of beaded velvet. A teetering stack of library books almost topples as I attempt to catch my sister’s giggling, half-naked form. She ducks under the wooden coffee table that holds Amma’s sewing machine, but I’m not so quick. “Ow! Shit!”

Amma’s tired eyes narrow as she undoes a skewed stitch. “Zahra.”

My sister blows a raspberry from the other side of the table.

I throw my hands into the air. “She refuses to wear any pants, Amma.”

Now our mother’s stern gaze veers to Resna, who scurries to hide her pantsless form behind the torso of a mannequin. Whenever Amma’s busy with a particularly involved job, Arif and I take turns making sure Resna looks presentable while Nanu cooks. My brother conveniently claimed kitchen duty before I even woke up this morning, giving me the sneaking suspicion he’d bribed her into bed with too much sugar last night.

“Besides,” I add more urgently, “my shift at Chai Ho starts at nine. I just convinced Mr. Tahir to give me overtime. If I’m late again, he’ll change his mind.”

Maybe even fire me, I don’t have to clarify.

Amma already knows, if her weary sigh is anything to go by. Rising creakily to her feet, she crooks a finger at Resna. Immediately, my sister hastens to stand at attention in front of her, chubby hands bunched in the hem of her baby blue Queen Elsa nightie. A pout darkens her pudgy face as our mother dresses her.

“Now, go eat,” Amma orders us both.

Chai Ho isn’t far, but we don’t have a car anymore. When Baba died, I was only sixteen and Amma never got her license, so we used the thousand dollars from selling our beat-up old Toyota Camry as the security deposit for a cheaper apartment.

Paterson, New Jersey, rushes by as I sprint to the other end of Union Avenue, having left too late for the bus. Two- and three-family homes much like ours flank bodegas, bars, laundromats, and homey restaurants serving up a hundred different kinds of cultural cuisines. Beyond them, old brickwork factory buildings ascend to meet the smoke-kissed blue sky, some boarded up, others repurposed to host charter schools and apartment complexes.

Over the beeping of cars and the disgruntled complaints of the pedestrians I swerve around, the low burble of the Great Falls drifts toward my ears. It probably never comes up in the musical, but Alexander Hamilton himself saw the falls in the late 1700s and proposed building a city around them. It’s a wonder they didn’t call it Hamiltonville.

Amma, Nanu, and I applied for naturalization together when I turned eighteen a few months ago. Though I doubt the proctor will ask any questions about Paterson, we all memorized these facts by heart, because the city is special to us Bengalis. It contains one of the largest Bangladeshi diaspora populations in the entire United States.

Even someone who doesn’t know its history can guess that the instant they enter Union Avenue. Five times a day, the call to prayer echoes from the local mosque, pulsing through the boulevard like a heartbeat. All along the block are Bengali restaurants, grocers, and garment stores.

Then there’s Chai Ho, the only Pakistani establishment in Little Bangladesh.

A stenciled window displays the name of the shop—a pun on Jai Ho, roughly translated to mean let tea rather than victory prevail . It wisps out of a painted teapot like steam. Behind the image, I spot my two best friends, Dalia and Daniya Tahir. Dani spots me and drags a thumb across her neck, the universal gesture for you’re dead , while her twin sister directs an uneasy glance at the clock over the counter.

9:07.

Shit, shit, shit.

I skulk into the shop, wincing at the bells that chime overhead like a death knell. Mr. Tahir stomps out from the kitchen on cue, stocky arms crossed over an apron too lacy to be as intimidating as it is on him. For a second, it looks like smoke billows out of his hairy ears, but I know it’s just my imagination.

“I’m really, really, really sorry, Mr. Tahir. I was helping my mother get my sister dressed this morning, but she wouldn’t cooperate and—”

“And nothing! You were late twice last week. Is this your grandfather’s shop, for you to come and go as you please?”

His voice pitches louder with each word, as if he’s a teapot growing hotter and hotter, the lid about to burst right off. I recoil, please don’t fire me running through my head on a loop, but before he can progress to proper shouting, Dalia says, “Abbu, stop!”

“Zahra’s only a couple of minutes late,” Dani adds. “We haven’t had a single customer yet. Do your blood pressure a favor and chill out.”

As always, he deflates at his daughters’ reprimand, but still wags a thick finger in my face. “Weren’t you the one asking for more hours?” I mumble an affirmative without meeting his gaze. “You’re lucky Daniya and Dalia are starting full-time classes in the fall. I need help, but I won’t be so generous if you’re late again. Understand?”

It’s the millionth time he’s mentioned that my best friends will soon be going to college without me . The reminder fills my mouth with such a bitter taste that I’m afraid I’ll throw up on his shiny leather loafers if I try to answer.

I manage a nod.

He orders me behind the counter, where his daughters flock to cheer me up. Since the three of us moved to Paterson in the second grade, we’ve all been joined at the hip, bonded by our shared new-kid status. I was there when Dalia began veiling and when Dani admitted to liking girls. They helped me through my grief after Baba died.

Dalia wraps an arm around me. I drop my head onto her shoulder, the tassels of her pastel pink hijab tickling my cheek. Dani, meanwhile, hands me a cool glass of falooda.

“What’ll I do without you two?” I ask with a watery smile.

They exchange an apprehensive glance.

Dani says, “Zar, we’re going to Rutgers, not Rajpur.”

Dalia pokes my stomach. “Besides, you can still enroll, Miss Ivy League.”

I know they’re trying to console me, but the sago pearls on my tongue are suddenly too thick to swallow. The thing is, even if a djinn popped out of one of the shop’s decorative teapots and granted our family enough money for tuition, it’s too late for me to attend this semester. I’ve already deferred all my acceptances, including to my dream school, Columbia University. Although many colleges promised scholarships, most were contingent on attending full-time, and we have bills to pay at home.

Trust me, I’ve crunched the numbers. Maybe if it were just Amma and me, we could figure out how to survive without my paycheck and pay off student loans, but we’re not alone. What happens when it’s Arif’s turn? Or Resna’s? I need to consider everything. Every one . There’s no way to keep the lights on, even if I go to school part-time and work the rest, much less if I don’t contribute at all.

I shake my head. “It’s not in the stars this year, but if I keep saving half my paychecks, I might be able to enroll at PCCC by next semester.”

The twins share another frown.

They don’t think I should give up attending a prestigious school like Columbia for Passaic County Community College, especially after working myself to the bone to get in, but PCCC is cheap, close to home, and has a less rigorous course load that I can work around if I need to keep my job. After two years there, perhaps I can transfer to a four-year university. By then, Arif should be old enough to chip in.

But for now, things are what they are.

The bells above the door jangle to announce the arrival of our first customer. We hurry to reprise our respective roles. Dalia joins her father in the kitchen, Dani brews the drinks, and I wait tables. It’s easy to become Chai Ho Zahra.

The day ticks by in a busy but blissful monotony. I pour tea, clean up after a string of customers, and make small talk whenever possible with our regulars: elderly aunties and uncles who enjoy reminiscing about the good old days over a cup of masala chai and a plate of somosas.

The city is full of characters who frequent the shop.

I move on automatic, but my brain buzzes with activity as it runs through a brand-new round of the People-Watching Game. It’s something I started playing with my friends when I first got hired at Chai Ho, where we made up increasingly hilarious backstories for customers.

Baba had just died, so Dani’s girlfriend, Ximena Mondesir-Martínez, suggested the game to distract me, promising it would spark my creativity like it did hers. It hasn’t helped me write a single word, but it is fun to let my imagination run wild.

Ximena drops by over lunch and seems to be having better luck with her art, her curly head bowed over a sketch pad, a smudge of charcoal on her brown cheek and one strap of her overalls.

Before I can pour her a drink, someone else enters the tea shop. Clearly not a local, the red-haired woman points at the screen of her phone to show me a photo of a cup of creamy pink tea sprinkled with chopped pistachios and almonds.

“I want this chai tea,” she enunciates slowly, squinting at me over designer sunglasses.

Ximena catches Dani’s eye over my shoulder and mouths the word, Gringa .

Without turning, I know Dani is smirking and whispering, “Gora,” right back.

Paterson isn’t exactly a gentrifier hotspot like Newark or New York City, but hipsters like Ginger Lady sometimes wander in to switch up their Starbucks orders, thanks to the scrumptious pictures Dalia posts online under the hashtag ChaiHoes .

Smothering a snort, I start to explain to the gringora in question that Kashmiri chai, although very Instagrammable, is deceptively bitter—in fact, in Bengali, we call it noon saa, which means “salty tea”—when the bells over the door tinkle for the umpteenth time. I turn to greet the new arrival and almost drop the teapot in my hands.

In the past two years that I’ve worked at Chai Ho, my mother has never once come to the shop, though she’s never kept me from the twins or acted anything short of civil to them the entire time they’ve been my friends. When I told her and Nanu that Mr. Tahir gave me a job, even my usually mild-mannered grandmother ranted for weeks about the Bangladeshi Liberation War, when Bangladesh was East Pakistan and Pakistan—then West Pakistan—placed us under martial law, forbidding us from speaking our language. Fifty years later, there’s still bad blood.

“Why do you have to work at all? I can take care of us somehow,” my mother pleaded, and when it became apparent both of us knew that wasn’t true, “Couldn’t it at least have been a Bangladeshi restaurant? It’s a slap to the face that they don’t use Bangla in our own neighborhood.”

“All that matters is that their money is in USD,” I replied.

She couldn’t argue with that, not with a nagging landlord and mounting debt. But knowing that Chai Ho is such a big part of my life hasn’t stopped her or Nanu from pretending it doesn’t exist. Needing Mr. Tahir’s money to survive was a step too far for their pride, my personal relationship with the twins aside.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Amma?” I whisper, after hurriedly handing the redhead her Kashmiri chai.

She scans the bustling shop before returning her focus to me, exaggerated innocence on her face. “I was in the area, picking up groceries. Can’t you take a break now?”

“Assalamualaikum, Mrs. Khan.” Dalia materializes beside me and flashes Amma a disarming grin before I can turn my mother down, holding a tray of confections, teacups, and a fresh pot of chai. “Can I offer you some of our best tea and desserts?”

“Oh, how kind!” Amma is already setting down her grocery bags so she can sit. “Zahra, join me.”

Left without a choice, I lower myself into a chair. “Why are you really here?”

Amma takes a bite of spongy gulab jamun, pink at its heart and drizzled in rose syrup, but rather than complain that it’s not as big as kalajam, the Bengali equivalent, she pulls out her phone from her purse. The WhatsApp icon opens as soon as she inputs her PIN. I groan.

WhatsApp can only mean one thing: the Auntie Network.

That’s what I call my mother’s group chats. Her hotline blings so often, even Drake would get jealous. A group for customers of her business, one for relatives in Bangladesh, another for acquaintances in Paterson, more for friends and family in New York, Michigan, Texas, and London—anywhere and everywhere a Bengali may have settled.

If there’s juicy gossip to be shared, the Auntie Network will know it.

Already, a thrum of activity simmers in the tea shop as the aunties inside it take note of my mother’s rare appearance and prick their ears in our direction.

“Do you remember the Emons?”

“Who?”

Amma frowns at my inability to name every single Bangladeshi person on the planet. She slides the phone over to me, and on the screen I see a grainy photo of a glum teenage boy with a serious case of Batman Jaw in a black graduation gown standing behind a podium. Between his glasses and cap, I can hardly make out any other distinguishing features.

I look from the image to her blankly. She gusts a vexed sigh. “That’s Harun . We sat with his mother during the wedding Friday, mono nai? It’s hardly been three days!”

I snap my fingers. “Oh, right! The lady with all the rings.”

“Yes! Well, I’ve been doing some research”—when Amma leans in, I inch close enough that no one else can overhear—“and do you know what your Meera Khala told me?” She pauses expectantly. I offer a dutiful shake of my head. “They don’t come from much status back in Bangladesh, but they are rich, Zahra! So rich, they own not only that grand restaurant, but three convenience stores in Paterson alone. And didn’t you hear his mother say they plan to open a second restaurant here?”

“Okaaay.”

Amma’s frown deepens at my lackluster reaction. Her gaze follows mine as it strays to the glaring chai tea lady, who’s clearly dissatisfied about something. Before I can bow out using Kashmiri Karen as an excuse, she clicks her tongue, her doe-brown eyes suddenly big and imploring. “You’ve been working so hard lately, shuna. We never even had a chance to celebrate your graduation. Come home early tonight, accha? I’ll have a special dinner ready.”

“Really?”

The abrupt subject change gives me whiplash.

She stands and kisses the top of my head. “Yes, really. Don’t be late.”

Round-eyed, I watch her shuffle out of Chai Ho into the bright afternoon light. Not a minute later, the woman in sunglasses marches past me, barking a parting complaint loud enough for the entire shop to hear: “That tea was disgusting. Yelp will be hearing about this.”

Although Mr. Tahir’s palpable ire radiates from the kitchen, and I predict dreadful bathroom duty in my not-so-distant future, my eyes are riveted to Amma’s retreating figure.

What in God’s ninety-nine names is she up to?