“Tequila? Bordeaux? Ali, alcohol? Liquor? In my house? Subhanallah!” Mirabel’s voice was panicked, disappointment and anger clear on her face as she bent down, rifling through the bottles and glasses scattered around. Her beautiful green velvet abaya flowed with each of her hurried movements. Ali was right—though a Christian, she was stricter than his Muslim dad.
“Mira… Mirabel, I’m sorry, wallahi I didn’t even take a sip!” Ali stammered, his voice trembling.
“Ali! Why?” She looked around at each of us, her gaze landing on Fiona’s tear-streaked face, then on Ming’s swollen cheek. We all stood in painful silence, the weight of everything settling in.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. What had we done?
I took a shaky step forward, my face and head still throbbing from the fight. “Mirabel, it wasn’t his fault, I swear. It was all me. He didn’t even know I brought alcohol—he didn’t touch it, I swear…”