“Yeah…” Pinky shook her head, studying the passionate, intense expression on her mom’s face. She looked like she held the whole world in her fist. She never looked like that anymore.
“You know what’s funny?” Samir said, and Pinky glanced up at him.
“What?”
He smiled a little and tapped the picture with a finger. “You get that exact same look on your face when you’re fired up about something.”
Pinky looked down at the picture. “No, I don’t.”
“Yep. Identical. I guess I see now where you get it.”
“This doesn’t make sense.” Pinky shook her head. “This… My mom isn’t… She hates protests. And rebels. And people who challenge authority in any way. She thinks swapping out a pastel-blue cardigan for a pastel-yellow one is out there.”
“Well… does she have a twin?” Samir asked. It was obvious even to him, Pinky guessed, that this wasn’t Meera Mausi.
“No. It… I guess it has to be her.” Pinky sat back, all the way on her butt, and set the picture on her lap. “Wow. I feel weird.”
Samir frowned at her in concern. “Is it the heat? Do you want to go downstairs?”
“No, I don’t… I think I’m just thrown. Like, I don’t get it. How is this possible?”
Samir watched her for a moment, his face softening. Then he went and sat beside her, also on his butt. “Have you guys ever talked about her Harvard days?”
“Yeah, but the only things I’ve heard are how she knew she wanted to go to Harvard from when she was, like, twelve and how I need to get my act together so I don’t end up at some scam university.” Pinky met his eye. “And she really doesn’t like it when I tell her all universities are scam universities.”
Samir chuckled. “Yeah, I can see how she might not.”
“But why would she hide this from me?” Pinky asked. “It doesn’t make any sense. This means we’re… I mean, we’re not two completely different species like I thought.”
Samir shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you could ask her.”
Pinky raised an eyebrow. “Really? You think I could just take this to her and ask her?”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s obviously kept this from me for a reason. She doesn’t want me to know.” She looked back down at the picture. Why was her mom hiding this? Didn’t she want to bond with Pinky? Didn’t she want to find common ground? A hard lump of hurt lodged in her throat.
“Hey.” Samir’s voice was soft. When she looked up at him, he put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “She probably has a good reason for not telling you. Don’t make it worse in your head.”
“I’m not,” Pinky protested, although that’s exactly what she’d been doing. After a pause, she smiled a little, conceding.
“Yeah. I thought so.” He smiled back.
There was a beat of silence, then two. Samir took his arm away, and she instantly felt its loss. She studied him. “What are you doing here, Samir?”
He looked back at her, confused. “Here, at Ellingsworth?”
“No.” Pinky shook her head. “Here, in the attic, with me. Talking with me about my mom.”
“Well, we were looking for butterfly habitat pictures.” He fiddled with the corner of the photo album.
“Samir.” Pinky waited until he looked back at her.
He looked at her frankly then, his brown eyes clear. “I like you,” he said simply. “Still.”
Pinky’s mouth was suddenly very, very dry. So he was just going to say it like that, then. Just out in the open, no guile, no game. “Oh.” She swallowed, hearing her throat click in the silence.
“I know you don’t want to go out with me. I know you don’t feel the same way.” He held her gaze. She wanted to protest; that second statement was utterly, completely wrong. But she didn’t say anything. “And I respect that. But sometimes I get the feeling that…” Samir shook his head and cleared his throat. “Doesn’t matter. The thing is, I’m working on it. Okay? I’m working on not liking you anymore. It might just take me a while. So in the meantime, I’m probably gonna do more stuff like this.” He waved his hand toward the photograph and looked at her again. “Because I care about you.”
Pinky felt like her heart would burst. What he was offering her—it was unconditional caring, unconditional acceptance. He didn’t give a crap if his feelings weren’t returned. He just wanted to be there for her. No boyfriend she’d ever had had ever done anything close to this.
Suddenly Pinky felt very unsure. Dolly’s words echoed in her head: Who cares? Why was it so important to her that her identity be that of the free-spirited rebel? She looked down at the picture in her hand. It was pretty obvious that identities could end up changing and morphing. Her mom’s definitely had.
She looked back up at Samir. “I like that you… that you care. About me. So.” She wiped the sweat off her upper lip. Gross. “But, um… that’s all I have right now. I’m just—I’m…” She shrugged, feeling helpless. Why wasn’t that enough to say yes to dating him, to jumping into this thing with both feet? Because Pinky was a confused, swirling tempest of emotion, that’s why.
Samir smiled a little, as if he was thinking the same thing. “Okay. Do you want to look for some more butterfly habitat pictures?”
“Yeah.” Pinky got back on her knees and put her mom’s picture off to the side. “Yeah, let’s. I’ll think about all this later.”
* * *
The adults got back from the farmers’ market just as Samir and Pinky had finished trawling through the pictures and carried the best ones down to the living room to spread out on the coffee table. The one of Pinky’s mom was tucked into the back pocket of Pinky’s shorts, for later review. Dolly was still out; she’d texted that she’d be back in a half hour or so.
“Oh!” Pinky’s dad smiled down at the pictures. “What’s all this?” Her mom came up behind him, her canvas tote bag full of fresh produce. Pinky stared at her, trying to picture this mom in a denim miniskirt, with a protest sign clamped in her hands, and she just couldn’t do it. How was it even possible that the two were the same woman?
Her mom frowned lightly. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Um, nothing,” Pinky said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. To her dad, she said, “Oh, these are pictures of the butterfly habitat. We’re going to try to drum up support from the year-round residents to stop the developer from razing it,” Pinky explained.
“I thought we’d agreed that you were done with all that.” Her mom’s lips were set in a thin line.
“I didn’t agree to anything. As I remember, you told me to drop it and assumed I would fall into line like one of your peons at work. Well, news flash, Mom, I’m not a peon you pay. I’m your kid.”
Her mom glared at her. “Yes. I’m well aware of that.”
What did that mean? That she was regretful of that? Pinky rallied. “If you just listen to our plan, you’ll see that—”