“Oi filha, who’s your friend?”
“It’s Nishat. We’re working on something together for school, so I invited her over.” It’s a statement, but the words come out like she’s asking for permission.
Flávia’s mom’s smile brightens. “Nice to meet you, Nishat.” Permission granted, I guess.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say in the most polite voice I can muster.
“É essa a garota de que você te me falou?” Flávia’s mom says.
Flávia flushes, bringing a pink tinge to her already dark cheeks.
“Mãe, por favor,” she says under her breath.
“Ela é linda,” her mom says. She’s smiling at me once more. I smile back, even though I have no idea what she’s saying.
“A gente tá indo pro quarto,” Flávia says to her mom. Turning to me, she says, “Come on, let’s go up to my bedroom.”
I nod and follow after her. From behind us, her mom calls, “Deixa a porta aberta!”
“Okay, mãe!” she calls back to her, rolling her eyes. “This way.”
We climb up the stairs, both of us dripping water everywhere. Flávia doesn’t seem to mind.
Her bedroom is a mess of clothes and books all over the floor and desks. What I’m really looking at though are her walls. They are a plain eggshell color, but I can barely see it because almost every inch has been covered with paintings, drawings, and a variety of other things.
“Are they all yours?” I ask.
“Um, most of them,” Flávia says. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks. She pushes the door behind us but doesn’t close it all the way. “They’re not great. They’re like … from a long time ago. These are the ones that aren’t mine.”
She points to a mishmash of pictures on the wall beside her bed. You can only peer closely at them if you climb on top of the bed. She crawls up, and looks at me with a raised eyebrow, as if asking why I’m not doing the same. So I do.
A moment later we’re both standing on top of the bed, the springs creaking noisily underneath us.
“This is by Degas,” Flávia says, pointing to a painting full of young ballerinas and soft colors. “And this is Frida Kahlo, obviously,” she says. It’s a self-portrait of Kahlo that I don’t think I’ve seen before. “And here.” She points to a painting full of colorful shapes—with a woman popping out of them. “This is by Sonia Delaunay. And this is one of my favorites.” She points to a painting crowded with faces. “It’s by Tarsila do Amaral.”
They’re all so different and amazing in their own way. I feel like every time I glance at each one, I see something new. Something I missed in my previous glance.
“We don’t really have a lot of art or paintings in our house. My mom isn’t a big fan. So I don’t know a lot of artists, really.”
“Oh.” Flávia looks at me with a slight tilt of her head, sprays of water flicking off her loose strands of hair. “My mom has always been really into art. She used to paint when she was younger too. She stopped, though. My sister used to do it as well. She wanted to go to art school for a while but when push came to shove, she decided to give it up and study something more practical in university. We always get into arguments about art in our house. Especially about Romero Britto.” She pauses for a moment. “There are three things you don’t bring up in a Brazilian household: politics, religion, and Romero Britto.”
“Romero Britto …” I test the name on my lips and Flávia smiles.
“He’s a very controversial Brazilian artist. I don’t have any of his work up here but my mom has some downstairs. I can show you later.”
“So your mom likes his work?”
“Yep.”
“And your sister …”
“Doesn’t.”
“And you …”
Her smile widens. “Still thinking about it. But I guess that’s why I picked up art. My mom and sister are both so passionate about it.”
“That’s why I started henna,” I offer. “Kind of. Because of my grandma. When we were in Bangladesh, she’d apply henna to Priti and my hands and she used to do all of these elaborate designs. But then, after we moved here and we couldn’t really go back very often, I had to try and figure it out for myself …” I’m not sure how much I should share. Does Flávia even care? She didn’t care about what henna meant to me before she decided to start her henna business.
“I’d love to see her designs sometime,” she says.
I think she’s just being polite, but she has a smile on her lips.
“Which are your paintings?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
“Basically everything else,” she says. “But … you don’t have to look at them. Like I said, a lot of them are older and not that good. I don’t even know why they’re up. Do you want some tea?”
“Um … a towel might be nice first.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Duh.” Her cheeks flush again as she jumps off the bed and begins to rifle around her drawers. She throws me a fresh towel, white and blue with flowers patterned all across it. She takes one herself and scrubs at her hair, which has become flat and limp from the rain. Mine sits flat on my scalp too, with wet strands glued to my chin and cheeks. I can’t imagine it’s a very attractive image.
When I’m finished drying my hair—as dry as it will get, anyway—I look up to find Flávia staring at me, unblinking. She smiles when I catch her looking.
“Can I get you something to change into?”
I look down at myself. At the red sweater that’s weighing me down. The checkered skirt that’s still dripping water everywhere.
“Sorry …” I mumble, like I’m somehow responsible for controlling the way rainwater affects my clothes.
“It’s okay.” She begins to rifle around her drawer once more, one hand still absentmindedly drying her hair.
“I, um … I’m not sure if your clothes will fit me,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “We’re not exactly the same size.” I’m at least two sizes bigger than her—maybe more.
“Well, you can’t hang around in wet clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia or something.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, like she’s taking in the size of my body—noticing for the first time that it’s not the same as hers. I suck in my breath, like that will change anything. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
She eventually digs up an old, gray t-shirt that is far too big for her, but big enough for me. She pairs it with old, loose-fitting pajama bottoms that may once have been bright blue but have dulled to a color that barely resembles blue anymore.
Still, it’s not as if I have a choice. I can’t really decline her clothes or I will catch pneumonia. So I slide into her cramped bathroom, staring at myself in the tiny mirror over her sink with a hollow feeling in my stomach.
Both the t-shirt and the pajama bottoms are a little too tight, making me feel uncomfortable and itchy in my own skin. They also make me look horrible, worse than my tatty maroon uniform ever did. And that’s saying something, because our uniform has the superpower to make every person who wears it look unattractive. Except for Flávia. Obviously.