1.

You’ve gotten a C-minus, and it isn’t your fault. It is also not your fault that your parents are anal, Pakistani immigrants who came to this country with nothing and think a C-minus in tenth grade spells life-long doom. It doesn’t help that your Auntie (your mother’s cousin three times removed) is staying over and caught you watching inappropriate content on your laptop. Disgusting and shameful were salvageable character traits, but not when combined with dumb and lazy. For a panicked moment your mind thinks of the messages that will circulate the endless family WhatsApp groups, the GIFs that will be sent in moral superiority and commiseration, the looks you will receive at family dinners. You feel sick. Luckily, you have a way out. Your grandmother taught you how to summon the Gate to Hell. You—

1. Go home, come clean, promise to study next time.
2. Summon the Gate to Hell—Jump to 5
3. Don’t overreact, just go to your friend’s house—Jump to 2

2.

Your friend’s parents are away. They’re often away, lucky bastard. He also lives in the kind of house where he doesn’t have to give up his bedroom to host an Auntie whose visits seem to be increasing in frequency. She used to visit once a month, now she’s here every other week!

Auntie puts all your things in the wrong place—she put your favorite shoes in the dryer till they no longer fit. She walks around as if she owns the house, cooking ancient, smelly food, invading privacy, and ruining lives. The only thing you hate as much as you hate Auntie is the Indian Cricket Team.

You wish your grandmother were still alive. You and her were thick as thieves. She’d help you bury the body and your grade.

“C-minus, that’s great, dude!”

Your friend hands you a smoking joint and you take a dizzying puff. Life is over, might as well smoke weed.

“I needed an A to be able to take AP English next year. My parents are counting on me getting into a good college.”

Your friend tears up. You’re not sure if he’s feeling sympathy or he’s just incredibly high.

“I know what will cheer you up.”

You—

1. Go home, come clean, do your homework.
2. Go to the mall—Jump to 3
3. Change your mind, summon the Gate to Hell—Jump to 5

3.

The police are after you, and it isn’t your fault. You were only admiring the Iron Man keychain. You didn’t know it was made of such cheap plastic it would shatter in your hand. You hid it in your pocket because you didn’t have the money to pay for it, and everyone knows: You break it, you buy it. All of this could have been avoided if your parents just gave you an allowance as you had asked them to do on multiple occasions. Then you wouldn’t have to borrow lunch money from friends or steal from a dollar store. But your father only gives you money if you man the counter behind his gas station convenience store. And you haven’t had time for that lately, you’ve been . . . studying. Or trying to.

Now you could be a felon over a broken keychain of not even your favorite superhero. Batman is way cooler. Your friend bounced the moment the shop doors sounded the alarm. Your mind goes into override. There’s only one thing to do. You—

1. Go back to the store, come clean, suffer the consequences
2. Run!—Jump to 4

4.

You push past ice-cream-eating children. You leap over benches and potted plants. You skid past the mall fountain to cheers and yells. Where the hell should you go? That reminds you. You still have a piece of chalk in your pocket from when you thought you’d summon the Gate to Hell. Now there’s really nothing for it. You sprint for the parking lot. You—

1. Go home.
2. Summon the Gate to Hell—Jump to 5

5.

Your hand trembles as you draw the magic square—yes, pentacles don’t work. That’s just a common misconception. You sprinkle salt and vinegar (borrowed from your friend’s house) around the square. You open a ringtone app on your phone and choose the bell. Cling. Cling. Cling. The air directly in front of you begins to churn like moonlit mist. An arched doorway appears, foggy at first, and then dark as a bruise. A gargoyle sits atop it, a nose ring larger than its whole body passing through its septum.

“Ugh. Another desperate peasant. What do you want?” The gargoyle’s eyes are pupilless, but you can still tell he rolled them at you.

“I need a grade altered.”

“Denied.” The gargoyle’s septum ring bangs against the door like a gavel. “We’re not in the business of correcting people’s faults. We can punish you though, interested?”

“Please. I can’t show this grade to my parents. You gotta help me.” You wring your hands in distress.

The gargoyle looks unmoved. “How’d you get our address, by the way?”

“My grandmother gave it to me. Haleema bint Nasser?”

The gargoyle sneers at you for the question mark your voice accidentally puts at the end. You can tell it doesn’t think much of you and your shaking knees.

“Ah, old Hal, we love her down here.”

“She’s down there?”

“Ohhh yeah. She made all the right moves to end up here. Tell you what: For her sake, I’ll cut you a deal. We’ll drop a little insinuation in your teacher’s ears to make her amenable to a retest. Say, the 26th of this month, 10 a.m.?”

“Thank you! Thank you!”

“Just remember, no refunds, no exchanges, no wheedling or going back on your word.”

You snort. Why would you, when you’re getting everything you want?

“Deal.”

“Not so fast. What’ll you give me for it?”

You don’t have to think too long. You know exactly what to bargain. You—

1. Tell the gargoyle “no, thank you” and go home with your C-minus.
2. Offer Auntie up to the demons and go home—Jump to 6

6.

The house is strangely quiet without Auntie playing Bollywood songs at full volume.

“Abbu . . .” you approach your father, ready to tell him about the C-minus. He’ll forgive you once he hears about the retest.

Abbu is sitting on the couch, his shoulders drooping a little. He’s not listening. He’s holding a letter, and it quivers as his hand shakes.

“Abbu . . . is everything all right?”

Abbu looks up. His eyes are wide and blank as if they’ve been painted onto his face. Your blood freezes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Auntie. Why isn’t Auntie here? She promised she’d be here at five o’clock.”

Abbu’s crying. You’ve never seen him cry. Why would anyone miss Auntie’s chaotic presence? But you can’t very well tell him now that you’ve sent Auntie to hell. So you keep quiet.

He wipes his tears with the back of his hand.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you, Bacha. Ammi felt a lump. We did a biopsy.” Abbu lifts the quivering letter. “The prognosis isn’t good.”

You’re on the checkered floor of the kitchen. It’s cold. You don’t know how you got there. Abbu is still talking.

“I was hoping Auntie could be here this week to look after the house . . . Ammi won’t be able to . . . I don’t know how I’ll manage alone. You didn’t see her on the way, did you? It’s really not like her to forget . . . you’ll manage though, won’t you?”

You nod, you think. It’s the floor, it’s too cold, and you’re too numb.

“Ammi’s surgery is on the 26th. 10 a.m. I’ll write to the school so you can be there for her.”

You stare at Abbu as he picks up the keys and leaves the house. You could use some Bollywood songs and the ever-clinging smell of garlic right about now. Your copy of Macbeth lies untouched on the table. Suddenly, a C-minus isn’t the worst thing in the world. You—

1. Wish you could turn back time.
2. Get up, wash the dishes, and cook dinner before your parents get home.