The following day resumes normally, and if Ali tries hard enough, he can squeeze the previous day to the back of his head so he can pretend he's forgotten it ever existed. In fact, by the end of the week, Ali and Khalifa are closer than ever as they lounge in the latter boy's gaming room Thursday after school.
No one's home but the maids. Ali doesn't know how many Khalifa's family have employed, and he's ashamed that he doesn't know their names. Ali's own mother can't stand having help around, but his father instead she needed someone to help with the babies when Ali and Alia were born, and so they employed Sarah, a single mother from Sri Lanka. Ali's known her all his life, she's almost like family. He remembers her prepping his food, switching the television on to Spacetoon, or slotting in a DVD when he'd been too sleepy or lazy to do anything. He knows she's working hard just to see her kids back home, she's shown him pictures of them before, from the minuscule screen of her outdated flip phone.
The maids don't bother them unless Khalifa asks for something. Like cans of Red Bull to down after snacking on Lays (the green bag, not the yellow one, which they can both agree tastes just as plain as cardboard).
Khalifa's younger siblings are playing at a soccer field a few minutes away from his house, but it's way too hot outside even in mid-May. The sun's heat is only blocked by the AC that Khalifa turns on as soon as they walk in, which typically remains permanently switched on during the summer.
"You're losing," Khalifa says, leaning one way as his cart passes another automated one on his flat TV.
"I can tell for myself, thanks."
Khalifa's shoulder brushes his. He always gets too excited when he's playing video games.
Sometimes he even stands up and jumps around. But for Mario Cart, leaning one way or the other seems to suffice.
Maybe that's why Ali always loses. He likes to think he's better at other things, like physics (when he remembers to study) or calculus. He's got better taste in movies, at least. But video games never rile him up the way they do Khalifa. He's always got that far away look in eyes when they play, and when the game's over, his shoulders finally relax and he leans back on his yellow beanbag and grins at the ceiling.
"Good game," he says. "You weren't last at least."
Ali shoves him, and Khalifa shoves back.
He knows he should retaliate, shove Khalifa harder until they're rolling around on his blue rug looking like animals left too long in the heat. He doesn't, allows Khalifa to sit up and stretch.
Ali should be working on his homework, but it's Thursday and he'd never bothered. He's even less bothered on Fridays, which leaves Saturday the only day open before his assignments are due Sunday through Thursday. He sighs, and takes another swig of his Red Bull.
Khalifa turns to him. "What would you like to do now?"
What Ali wants is to forget about school and live in a virtual world, where his only job for the day is to run after pieces of candy or try to combat zombie attacks with a limited number of bullets. Heck, he'd rather drop out of school and join the military than attend one more class. It's overwhelming now, being so near the end of the year exams. Somehow Khalifa's cheat system works on Sunday, and Ali passes the quiz with flying colors. He doubts he'll have similar luck in the remaining weeks.
He wants to say something like, "Let's watch a movie", but they never do that unless they're with their other friends, or at the movies (with their other friends). He glances out the window, the sun slowly starting to set.
"We could play soccer," he says. He wants to get dirty and sweaty and spent. There's energy and built up stress that's been ringing through his bones and has him more alert than usual. He doesn't care that it must be two hundred degrees out there.
