“Yes, well. This is different.”
“How, exactly?”
This is a perfectly valid question, because nothing really is different, but something feels different since Flávia called a truce. Even if it’s for only one day, should I not make the most of it?
Because I am eloquent and amazing at expressing myself, to Priti I say, “Because it’s just different, okay?”
She comes over and stands by me so we’re both reflected in the mirror. After tucking a strand of hair away, she rests a hand on my shoulder.
“This is like a scene in a Bollywood movie,” I say.
“What Bollywood movie does this happen in?”
“I don’t know! But I feel like there’s been one!”
I can see her rolling her eyes in the mirror. I stifle a smile as she says, “It’s more like a Hollywood movie, really. It’s your wedding day and you’re getting married. Your sister—bridesmaid comes over to tell you how beautiful you look in your wedding dress, etcetera, etcetera.”
“So …?”
“So …”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me how beautiful I look, obviously.”
“Wow, Apujan, you’re so beautiful,” Priti deadpans. Her face and voice are so devoid of emotion that I burst into a fit of giggles. She joins me a second later, and soon we’re both bent over laughing.
Priti wipes a tear from her eye and I blink rapidly, trying to keep my tear ducts in check.
“You’re going to make my makeup run,” I say after the giggling has finally stopped.
“You started it!”
She catches my eye in the mirror and I’m surprised by how alike we look, even with my face full of makeup and hers without any. I am a shade darker, but we both have the same wide eyes, inherited from Ammu, and the too-round face inherited from Abbu. Perhaps the biggest difference is Priti’s button nose, compared to my longer, slightly arched one.
After a beat of silence, Priti says, “You’ll be careful at the party, right?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth or not. When matters of the heart are involved, it’s difficult to be careful.
Even from the outside, Flávia’s house is already far different from Chyna’s. It’s a small, narrow brick house wedged between two other strikingly similar buildings. When I climb the small steps and ring the doorbell, it emits a hollow sound.
Chyna, surprisingly, greets me with a smile and a hug when the door swings open. I can smell beer on her.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaims, brushing back wisps of her thin, blonde hair.
“You are?” I ask, but she doesn’t seem to hear me—or care.
She grabs my hand and drags me inside, through a pair of double doors and into a sitting room that’s full to bursting.
“Last one!” She shouts loudly at the room full of people. They glance up, some utterly nonchalant, some with broad grins on their faces. They all let out a cheer that drowns out the beat of the music. I catch sight of Chaewon and Jess in a corner, and turn away. I’m not in the mood to face them tonight.
Flávia strolls up to me once the crowd has turned back to itself and Chyna has disappeared somewhere among the throng.
“I guess our entire year is here?” I shout over the music, by way of greeting.
“Yeah,” Flávia shouts, a sheepish smile on her lips. “She’s pretty excited that she was the one to do it.”
Is that the only reason I got invited? Why Flávia called a truce? I try to ignore those thoughts. I’m here, after all. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
I see Flávia’s lips move but the sound gets drowned out by the music, which seems to be getting louder and louder with every passing second.
I shake my head to indicate that I didn’t hear what she said. She grabs my hand, sending a jolt through my entire body, and drags me out of the room. We weave through the house—the hallway littered with people, the kitchen almost as full as the sitting room—and finally slide into a small, deserted room.
The room has a few bookshelves pressed against the wall, a small desk in one corner, and a cozy-but-beaten-down couch in the other corner. It’s so small that it can barely fit the two of us in with the furniture.
“It’s the study. Well, technically it’s a store room my mom converted into a study.” Flávia’s voice seems too loud without the booming music in the background. “Sorry, I didn’t think we could have a conversation in the sitting room.”
She clicks the door shut and strolls over to the couch. Settling herself into the cushions, she raises her eyebrows toward me.
I shuffle over too, wondering why exactly she brought me here. What kind of conversation is she looking for? Our last conversation wasn’t exactly sunshine and daisies. Plus, I’m pretty sure we could have had a conversation in the hallway, or even the kitchen. Sure, they were crowded, but the music wasn’t as loud and there were plenty of people talking there.
This setting—the two-seater couch, the deserted room, the closed door—it all feels too intimate.
When I’m settled into the couch beside her, Flávia is still watching me in a way that’s disconcerting. I don’t know what the expression on her face means. It’s unreadable—to me, at least.
“So … let’s get it out of the way.”
My stomach sinks. Was this truce not a truce at all?
“Were you happy?” she asks.
“W-what?”
“With your results? Were you happy?”
“Oh.” I let out a breath. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” She smiles.
“Well, it’s nothing to write home about but it’s not, you know, bad,” I say. “Were you happy?”
She shrugs and finally looks away from me.
“It wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but I guess it’ll have to do.” She sounds disappointed.
“What did you get?” I lean forward, trying to catch her eye.
“You can’t ask that!” she says with a slight laugh. “That’s like … against the rules of polite society.”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” I can see her thinking about it.
“Okay, tell me yours.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath, wondering why I offered to do this. “Two Cs, three B’s, and five A’s.”
“Five A’s!” Flávia exclaims, a smile breaking out on her lips. “That’s kind of amazing. You should be proud.”
“Thanks,” I mumble as a blush creeps up my neck. “And you?”
She sighs. “Three A’s, three B’s, and four C’s.”
“And you’re disappointed with that?”
“Did you not hear the number of C’s?”
“Did you hear the number of A’s?”
She smiles again, though it’s hesitant this time.
“My mom isn’t exactly … thrilled.”
“Oh?”
She leans back in the chair. “Just … she has this thing about showing up my dad’s side of the family. I guess because … I don’t know, they never really liked her and I think it’s a race thing. Like they assume that because my mom is Black and Brazilian, and still has an accent, she isn’t smart enough or good enough or whatever. So she always wants me to do better.”