Not all of us can gather
our insides into one package
that comes out the same every time

You could call it being a chameleon
- fronting -
but I'm not

I really do have many faces inside
and everyone who crosses my path
brings a different one to life

It was the way I learned to survive in America

I'm ready to leave home. I've been ready for years now. Last year, Mrs. Bedansky asked our 11th grade English class to start a writing journal. Little did I know that this cheap yellow note pad would be only the first, soon at the bottom of a quickly filling drawer. Finally, I have an outlet for the thoughts I can't express anywhere else. One, in particular, haunts me, and for days no other words get through: "I can't wait." These three words fill the last few pages of the journal. College. I can't wait for college.

Outside our three bedroom, two and half bath, yellow aluminum sided suburban house is a neighbourhood that hasn't yet accepted us. Two years in a row, our house was the only one egged on Devil's Night. Our family is not so much offended as resigned. We almost expect it as the only brown family on the block. But it doesn't bring us together. I am only more eager to leave.

The phone rings. It's my best friend, Todd. We only have one phone and it's in the kitchen, so private conversations are pretty much out. Todd asks if I'd like to go to a movie this weekend. It's Friday afternoon and we've been home from school for a couple of hours. I glance at Amma. She's pulling the skin off chicken legs. We're having a big dinner party for the Bangladeshi community tonight, and the house is filled with the smell of spices. She won't have time to think, which means she'll just say no, so I don't even bother asking. Sorry, I tell him. Maybe next week when I have some lead time.

The operator breaks into our conversation--an emergency call needs to be put through. I say good bye quickly and take the other call. It's Abbu, calling from work. He's wondering why the phone was busy. He wants to know if Amma needs anything from the grocery store on his way back from work. And by the way, who was I talking to for so long?

"Jessica," I say. "Just French homework stuff. Sorry...."

"Didn't you see her all day at school? You have to talk to her again?"

It's 9 p.m., and I'm wearing a blue silk shalwar kameez that shimmers as I move through the guests. An adorable child in a red kurta runs underfoot as I bend to offer one of the uncles a soft drink. My voice automatically lowers, softens, when I speak to the adults. The party is a huge success. Somehow, Amma has managed to cook more than enough food for forty guests, and it all tastes like heaven. The table is laden with fragrant biryani and chicken korma, a huge salad, lentils with squash, shrimp, catfish, and eggplant mash.

Afterwards, my sister, Muri, and I will clear away the entrees and bring out ice cream, home made pineapple upside-down cake, firni (rice pudding), and that beloved South Asian dessert, sweet red spongy balls of gulap jamun. These parties take up most of our weekends. One family or another in our growing community in Pittsburgh throws a lavish and rich dinner party pretty much every week. For our parents' generation, it's the only kind of gathering in this foreign country where they can relax. Muri and I attend these events reluctantly, as there are almost no kids our age. We don't know how American families spend their weekends but we'd rather be home reading or watching some forbidden TV. Our only conversations with adults involve academic pursuits. And we have all the right answers to the questions.

"I'll be studying engineering, Uncle," Muri says earnestly.

"Business and mathematics, Aunty," I tell them with equal and tragic fortitude.

It's 7 a.m. A claustrophobic winter sky looms above. Muri is banging on the bathroom door.

"Hurry up!"

I emerge, dressed in a black mini skirt and a tight grey blouse. She rushes in. I can hear Amma calling from downstairs, "The school bus will be here soon!" I pull jeans on under my skirt and grab a long sweater that covers both the blouse and the skirt.

By the time I put on my winter jacket, my secret outfit is completely concealed.

The school bathroom smells sticky sweet and smoky. Jenny is spraying her already three-inch-high hair higher. Her perfectly red mouth purses as she sprays. Tracy, Kelly, and Leah are going through their crammed purses for cigarettes. I sneak into a stall and unpeel my layers. By the time I reach homeroom, I'm transformed, and by the last period, I'll be back in disguise.

We have a no-TV-after-7 p.m. rule, so it's always quiet in the house at night. Amma and Abbu usually read downstairs, while Muri and I do our homework and talk in our bedroom until we fall asleep. I look cautiously into the living room, debating whether to bring up the movie. Amma looks up and asks whether I've finished my homework. Her tone of voice deters me, and I don't say anything else.

Three days later, I finally gather up the courage to ask. By this time, I have an army of answers: Becky will pick me up. Just the two of us are going. We're going to see a PG-13 movie at the Mall. The movie is an hour and forty-seven minutes. I'll be back in exactly three hours. Yes, I did already go see a movie this month, but this one is supposed to be really good. Thank you, Amma and Abbu!

More often, I get an unexplained refusal, or the thwarted agreement.

"Abbu, I have to attend the School Spirit dance because the student government organised it and I'm the vice president." I'm trying to keep the correct balance of dignified pleading and firmness in my voice.

"Why exactly do you have to go?"

"I'm helping check the tickets at the door. It starts at eight."

"How long will that last?" My father hasn't looked up from his newspaper yet.

"I don't know..."

He looks up at me and waits.

"Maybe till nine?" I say uncertainly.

"Ok, your mother will pick you up at 9:15," he looks back down at the paper.

I can't show how sullen I feel, not if I want to go out every so often. Not only do we live in the suburbs, but we're on the outskirts on top of that, and so not having a driver's license is a huge drawback. Would they let me borrow the car anyway? The closer it gets to my leaving for college, the less and less I ask my parents for permission for each prized outing. I have had to be so good for so long, ask so very nicely, and still be prepared for immediate and likely rejection. It's seems too arduous a process. Once I move out, I won't have to ask anyone anything. Still, sometimes, I can't help myself.

"Since when do children defy their parents?!" Amma and Abbu exclaim in horror, each time my angst gets the better of me.

"Since you brought us here, that's when," I say recklessly.

"You don't have to be here. We can always send you to Bangladesh. You can do college there, and it will be far less expensive anyway. And then you can marry a nice Bangladeshi boy."

There's nothing to say to that, is there? Together, we unfairly and fairly blame America for our troubles. They turn their backs. And I join the ranks.

Abeer Hoque is a Bangladeshi living in San Francisco. She recently won the Tanenbaum Award for Nonfiction.