Only If She Stayed

18. Falsehood

Rose's P.O.V.

I RODE WITH Michael to school, using his mom's car. On most days, I got picked up by Edgar. I would need to find a new way to get to school. I couldn't always rely on Michael.

Michael's mom worked from home so she didn't use the car in the morning. And if she did need to go anywhere, she could use their second car that was once his dad's.

He left it there for Michael, but it desperately needed repairs before Michael would consider driving it. It wasn't a death-trap on wheels or anything, but it was a fixer-upper. His mom didn't mind it.

His dad drove in that car for more than two decades and clearly it showed if you lifted the hood and gave it a look. His dad didn't see a problem with it. It got him from point A to point B "with only a faint sound of the engine wheezing the background." His dad's words, not mine.

Speak of parents, my mother didn't know about my breakup with Edgar yet. I had knots forming at the thought of telling her. When I snuck back into our house to get ready for school, I shared a short talk with my mom when I was in the bathroom and she was outside the door, asking about my night.

None of it had to do with Edgar, but about my dad and her schedule for the week. Dad was coming home this weekend from his Tanzania trip. He had gone to see his parents.

I never saw my grandparents on my dad's side in real life. I spoke to them on the phone once a year around my birthday and holidays.

My Swahili and Somali wasn't very good. It used to be better when I was a kid because my siblings and my dad would speak to me in that language. But when I got to school, my teachers constantly told my parents at meetings that I needed to practice more English in the household because my spelling skills needed improvement.

My family's primary language, on my father's side, was Somali and Swahili, whereas my mother's family was only English. Most of her family lived in the US for decades.

My dad's parents were trilingual so they could speak to my mother and I with whatever language we were comfortable with. But you could tell that they wished I improved on the other two dialects they knew. They thought I was losing a sense of culture that couldn't be simply taught in a classroom, but from what was passed down from generation to generation.

This always get lost in translation.

"That's great that your dad is coming back," Michael said when I told him about the good news I learned this morning. "Do you think his parents are coming with him this time?"

"No, they don't want to come to America. Never have, probably never will."

"I still don't get why not. You've told me before, but I would've figure otherwise." He tapped his palm on the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing. "They could move here."

"Why would they want to leave? They have their own land and their own business there. They'd leave everything and have to start over here. It's the only home they've ever known."

"Wait, but I thought you said your dad's mom used to live in Somalia though."

"Before the war. It's not like she left willingly."

"True."

I readjusted myself in my seat. "I get moving around is more common in the western world, but many people like my grandparents don't like leaving where they're from unless it's a dire situation. It may be more acceptable to move and start over here in the States, but where we come from, it's not as common. They'd rather stay with their kin."

"Where we come from?" he chimed. "Rose. Quit lying to yourself."

"What?" I faced him. "What did I say wrong?"

"You're half-white."

"I'm also half-East African."

"Yeah, but you're extremely Americanized."

"Am not." I protested.

"You hardly speak your native language. I only ever hear you speak it whenever you're around your dad or on the phone with your dad."

"Because it's kind of pointless to speak that language to a non-Native. You wouldn't understand me. Duh, doqon." I said, which meant idiot.

"I heard that. What does that mean?"

"Friend." That word would've be saheb. It was Arabic, and so were other words in the Somali language. As well as some Italian words. "That's all it means." 

"Uh-huh. I don't believe you. You're lying," He said accusingly, but with a knowing grin. "Where was I? Oh, right. I was going to say how you were born and raised here. Plus, your mom name is Erica McClellan and she came from Milwaukee."

"You're completely ignoring who my dad is."

"No, I'm not. Sure, your dad did immigrate here in his teens, but you're as much as part of the western world as I am."

"Being a first-generation isn't the same.

"I think it is the same. It is at least different than someone who immigrated here a few years ago. You didn't experience a culture shock."

I was inclined to say doqon, but didn't.

He turned down the volume of the radio, twisting the wheel to put us on to the freeway that would get us to school. "Did you see your mom when you went back to your place?"

"Yes, I did. She's the one who told me about my dad coming back this week." I replied, running the pad of my thumb on the wooden interior of the vehicle. "We didn't talk that much. I wanted to tell her about Edgar, but I also didn't. If that makes sense."

"Your mom wouldn't care if you and Edgar broke up," Michael expressed, exiting the freeway and on to the Avenue. "Your mom didn't like him."

"No, you didn't like him. My mom did like Edgar. My brother and sister liked him, too."

"I don't see what's there to like."

I sank into my seat.

Michael stole a look at me, away from the road, for just a moment. His grin faltered. "I'll shut up."

I didn't know which dingy, dark forest of hate this uncensored Michael had emerged from. He was being intrusive and making up assumptions to get under my skin. He wasn't like this days ago. I couldn't say that the break up with Edgar was the cause behind this. This was something he wanted more than anyone. I knew he deeply disliked Edgar.

Michael's phone buzzed as we rolled on to campus, looking for a parking spot. Because of how comfortable we were with each other's phones, I picked it up and checked to see who it was.

It was a text from Lily. The girl he said he didn't exchange numbers with.

The text read: "Oh, I saw you just pulled in! I'm on the student porch."

She has known him for a day. How clingy could this girl be? Get a grip.

I hadn't officially been introduced to her but I could see that I didn't like her. She sprang to her feet when we moved into a spot, waving at the car like a child, seeing their best friend at daycare.

She looked younger in daylight.

I put the phone back down. "You got a text from Lily."

Michael stayed silent.

"She says she can see us—well, you. She sees you."

"Oooh."

It was all he said.

I couldn't beat around the bush. I had to be honest. "I thought you said you didn't get her number." I said, frowning at him. Why did I feel hurt? 

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