“Well. She sent me a bunch of pictures of London and the theater. She said that it’s incredible, which, duh. But she also said that there’s this Young Scholars Summer School there. I think most of the people who go are older, like about to attend university, that’s how Novak said it.” I sat up and laughed a little and so did Layla. “But you only have to be sixteen to apply, and I guess she told the professor who heads up the program about me. That I’m—”
“A Shakespearean expert?” Layla finished for me. She lifted her hand and stared at it like she was holding Yorick’s skull, and theatrically recited, “To be or not to be,” in a bad British accent.
“Shut up,” I said, throwing the dress I’d slipped out of a minute earlier at her head. She dodged it and I didn’t point out that that’s not even the scene where Hamlet holds the skull. “Anyways. You have to apply and be accepted and everything, and they only take a handful of kids a year. But she said you get to see tons of productions, and like, hang out with the actors, and go to lectures at the theater and the whole point of it is to discuss how Shakespeare shaped the rest of English literature.”
Layla picked up the dress I’d thrown and walked over to me, laying it across my lap. She said, “So like, b-basically your Shakespearean w-w-w-wet dream?”
“Gross,” I laughed. “But yeah, kind of. It sounds freaking amazing. But I can’t apply until September. Novak said she’d write me a recommendation and help me with everything, but she wanted me to start thinking about it now. And I mean, if I get in, this time next year I could be in London.”
“Your dream c-c-come true,” Layla said. “Oh! I c-c-c-could come visit you and mmaybe we could spend a w-weekend in Paris with my aunt Khadija!”
“Yes!” I shouted. I pulled a different dress from Layla’s closet, stood up, and stuck my head through the hole made from the straps and the hanger so that the thin fabric fell in front of my body like I was wearing it. Layla danced over to her laptop and put on “La Vie en Rose” by Louis Armstrong just for me, and we proceeded to twirl around her bedroom for the next three minutes as Layla’s smooth voice mixed with Louis’s gruff one. When Layla sings, she doesn’t stutter at all.
I was back in front of the mirror with the dress still hanging over my head, and Layla and I were debating whether I should keep my braids up or wear them down, when Layla’s mom pushed the bedroom door open.
“Mama! You’re sup-p-p-posed to knock!” Layla whined. I ripped the dress from over my head and let it fall to the floor.
“Hey, Mrs. Hassan,” I said.
“Hi, Pinky,” she said, rubbing her hand over my hair. “Mamuni, what are you two doing?” She bent to kiss Layla’s forehead.
Mrs. Hassan gave me a Bengali nickname basically the second she met me. I don’t know why I’m Pinky to her, or why Layla’s Mamuni, but I love the way it makes me feel warm and wanted. I smile up at her.
“I t-t-told you, Mama. We have that p-p-party tonight? At Valeria’s?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Hassan said. She glanced over at me. “Naomi know about this party?”
I nodded. Mrs. Hassan and my mother had spoken on the phone almost daily since Layla and I met the summer before middle school, so we rarely tried to put anything over on them. “Good. And there will be parents at this party, yes? I want to call and speak to them.”
Layla said, “Of course, Mama.” She pulled out her phone, dialed a number, and handed it over. I had no idea who was on the other end of the line, because I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be parents at this party, but Layla was inexplicably brilliant sometimes.
I watched as Mrs. Hassan spoke to…someone. She asked about alcohol. She asked about curfew. She asked if boys would be there. And whoever was on the phone gave all the right answers. Mrs. Hassan smiled and nodded and by the time she handed Layla’s phone back to her, she seemed completely confident that we’d be attending a chaperoned, boy-free, alcohol-less party.
Layla was an evil genius.
“So, are we deciding what to wear?” Mrs. Hassan said as she picked up the dress I’d dropped, and her eyes widened the tiniest bit beneath the sheath of her deep purple hijab. “I hope neither of you is planning to wear this…undergarment?” Layla burst into a fit of giggles and I was grateful to be as brown as I am; my skin hid most of my blush.
“It’s a slip dress, Mama. And it’s perfect. C-C-C-Cleo would look great in it. But what d-do you think? Should she wear her hair up or, or, or d-down?”
Mrs. Hassan looked like she was considering, and I was dying of embarrassment right there in front of the mirror. “I think,” Mrs. Hassan started, looking at the dress. Then her dark eyes found mine. “I think that you, Pinky, are an intelligent, talented, beautiful young woman. And a dress, however thin or short or perfect, won’t ever matter as much as your brain.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Hassan.”
“I think hair up,” Layla said, sticking her fingers into my braids like she hadn’t heard her mother at all.
YOU OVER EVERYONE
In the end, I decided to wear a strappy black tank top, a very short pair of jean shorts, and Layla’s earrings—a bit of a compromise that satisfied Layla but that felt a lot more me. I piled my hair and wore it up, and though I let Layla put a little eyeliner and mascara on my eyes, I still wore my glasses.
In the mirrored elevator of Valeria’s building, Layla was fixing her makeup. I was still nervous. I knew there would be drinking at this party, and I’d never drunk anything stronger than Coke. I knew Layla would want to talk to everyone, while I’d only want to talk to her. But when I turned to tell her that I was freaking out, she looked as nervous as I felt.
I poked her arm. “Are you worried Valeria won’t like your lip gloss or something?” I teased.
“Shut up,” Layla said, but her normal playfulness was missing from her eyes. I touched her arm and when she looked at me she seemed genuinely hurt. “Wait. Are you?” I asked more seriously. Layla sighed.
“Not my lip gloss. B-but, like, maybe me? She’s in ch-ch-chorus and I really want to audition this year. So I k-k-kinda want the chorus g-g-girls to like me. It’s stupid.”
In the same way I dreamed of London, Layla had always dreamed of being onstage.
“No, it’s not.” I bit my lip, feeling bad that I’d teased her. “But I mean, you know you’re a shoo-in for chorus. And how could they not like you?” Layla didn’t answer, but I knew she was thinking more about the way she spoke than the way she sang. I stepped in front of her so she had to look at me.