No Strip Rummikub For Me

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
"Who's that?"
"None of your business," I shot back, trying to sound defiant, though the shakiness in my voice betrayed me yet again.
Hamza didn't press further. Instead, he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, eyes never leaving me. His silent presence was more intimidating than any threats. With trembling fingers, I answered the call. 
"For God's sake, Raisa!" mamaie's voice nearly blew my eardrums. "Do you know what time it is? You were supposed to be home hours ago, Raisa!"
Blinking, I took the phone away to check the time. Almost nine in the evening. Damn.
"Do you know how worried I was? I thought I'd have a heart attack!"
Her worry tied a knot in my throat. While she was exaggerating, as every grandparent does, mamaie's blood pressure issue made it concerning. 
"Sorry. I put my phone on silent for class and forgot to switch it back on," biting my lip, I lied.  
"Where are you even? Get your ass home right now, or I'm calling Minerva. Maybe she'll kick some sense into you."
"No! Don't call her," I rushed to say. 
Getting my mother involved, especially with God-knows-what drugs still in my system, was not an option. She would send me straight to rehab. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.
"My friends asked me to join them for coffee, and I lost track of time," I lied again. 
From the corner of my eyes, I could see Hamza quirk his eyebrow. Everything considered, he was the last person allowed to judge me for this. 
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I faced the white ceiling and squeezed my eyes shut.
"I'll be on my way soon, okay? So, don't call her."
"I better be seeing you through the door in twenty minutes, or it's out of my hands. You hear me?" 
Mamaie was sweet as long as I played by her rules. She knew the relationship between Mother and I was rocky and used it to keep me in line whenever she could. But if she were to find out her granddaughter was a washed-up addict, she'd have a second heart attack and we don't want that. 
"Yes," I sighed.
"We'll continue talking when you get home," she said, which, in Balkan terms, meant "prepare yourself for the broom (or slipper)," depending on which was closer. 
The call ended before I could even attempt to butter her up. She always did that—hanging up once she had said her piece. My Mamaie wasted no time.
"God damn it." 
Remembering the cause of my predicament, I turned and pointed an accusing finger at Hamza. 
"This is all your fault!"