The thought of stepping out of the bathroom and facing her looking like this sends my heart plummeting. But then I remind myself that I shouldn’t care anyway. I’m supposed to be over her. We’re not even friends, really. We’re just trying to call a truce, and who knows how long that will even last. Maybe this will be good. Maybe exposing myself as an unattractive lump of potato will make me get over Flávia.
But when I walk out of the bathroom I forget all about the dull clothes clinging to me, because in front me is Flávia Santos wearing a hot pink unicorn onesie.
She looks, to put it frankly, ridiculous.
I burst into a fit of giggles. Unwillingly. The laughter bubbles up all the way from my stomach, spilling out of me in big, ugly guffaws that echo across the room. No matter how much I try to bite it down, it won’t stay down.
I should probably feel self-conscious, but I don’t.
Flávia turns at the sound of my laughter. To my surprise, she grins.
“It’s not that funny,” she says, once my giggles have finally subsided. She reaches up and runs a hand over the silver unicorn horn at the top of her onesie. “It’s cute, right?”
“Why are you wearing that?”
She shrugs. “You seemed … I don’t know, self-conscious about changing into those. I thought me wearing this might put you at ease.” She avoids my eyes as she says this, like admitting she wants to put me at ease is too much vulnerability for her. It does make my heart soar in a way I definitely don’t want it to. Because the whole getting-over-Flávia thing is not supposed to go like this. She’s not supposed to make me feel at ease.
“I need to take a picture.” I reach for my phone and turn the camera to her, but her hands fly up to cover her face.
“No way, you are not taking a photo of me like this.”
“Come on, I won’t show anyone!”
“Nope. No way. Not happening.”
I put the phone down and heave a sigh.
“Fine, fine. I won’t take a photo.”
She lets her hands drop and flashes me a smile. Before she has the chance to move another muscle, I pick up my phone and snap a quick photo.
“Hey!” she cries, lunging toward me to take the phone out of my hands. I dodge, slipping out of her grasp and climbing onto the bed. I stand up tall, on my tip toes, and raise the phone above me. It almost touches the ceiling.
Of course it’s pointless, because Flávia climbs up after me and she’s at least a few inches taller than I am. She towers over me.
“I promise I won’t show anyone!” I say again.
“I definitely don’t believe you!” She lunges for the phone. Both of us topple onto the bed. The phone slips out of my grasp, crashing onto the floor, but I barely register it because Flávia is on top of me. Her face is inches away from mine. Her hair brushes against my chest, still damp from the rainwater.
“S-sorry,” I mumble. She shakes her head. I can see every bounce of her curls. And when she stops, I can make out the flecks of gold in her eyes.
She inches closer until there’s barely any space between us.
“Hello?”
Chyna’s voice makes Flávia jump off of me as if I’m a house on fire. Chyna pushes the door fully open just as I manage to sit up. Flávia looks at her with wide eyes and a flush on her cheeks.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice comes out a little breathless.
Chyna seems to take us in for a moment, and I’m not sure what she sees. Her expression doesn’t change. She turns to Flávia and says, “Why are you wearing that?”
Flávia shifts uncomfortably, not looking Chyna in the eye. “My uniform got wet in the rain and I wanted to be comfy.”
Chyna doesn’t look like she’s completely buying it. Buying us, looking like we’ve been caught doing … what? I can’t imagine what Chyna is thinking.
Her eyes drift from a guilty-looking Flávia to me, and she says, “Nishat,” with a grim nod of her head.
“Chyna,” I mumble.
“I’ll be downstairs …” She toes the doorway like she’s waiting for an invitation to stay. “Auntie said I could come over for dinner….”
“Oh.” Flávia doesn’t say any more—doesn’t try to stop Chyna or anything. A moment later we hear Chyna’s footsteps on the stairs, the wood creaking underneath her weight.
Flávia brushes a lock of damp hair away from her eyes and heaves a sigh.
“Sorry.”
I’m not sure what exactly she’s apologizing for. For trying to kiss me again? For Chyna interrupting us?
I’m afraid to ask, so I just shrug and say, “It’s okay.”
24
CHYNA IS IN THE SITTING ROOM, WITH HER SHOES OFF AND her legs crossed on the couch. She’s watching a rerun of America’s Next Top Model like it’s the most interesting thing to ever exist.
It’s actually strange to see her like this—so domestic. It almost reminds me of back when we were friends. During the first few days of secondary school, Chyna had this nervous energy about her. Like she didn’t quite know where she fit in, or what her role was. I thought that all dissipated after Catherine McNamara’s birthday party, but watching her now, I think that maybe it didn’t really. Maybe Chyna just got really good at hiding it.
“Does she come here often?” I whisper to Flávia at the bottom of the stairs.
“Every once in a while.” Flávia’s lips are pressed in a thin line like she’s not very impressed with Chyna for being here. “I have to go talk to my mom, can you give me a minute?”
I can’t exactly say no, even though the last thing I want is to have to spend time alone with Chyna of all people, but I nod my head.
Flávia slips away toward the kitchen and I gingerly make my way into the sitting room. The episode of America’s Next Top Model is from a few years back—I remember the faces of most of the contestants, but I’ve forgotten their names.
“I can’t believe you still watch this,” I say, before my brain reminds me that engaging in conversation with Chyna is not something I want to do.
Chyna turns to look at me with her lips pressed together in a frown.
“I can’t believe you’re here, hanging out with my cousin.”
I roll my eyes and take a seat on the couch next to her. “You know, I knew Flávia way before I knew you.”
“Yeah, so she’s said. The world has a funny way about it, doesn’t it?”
Funny is definitely one way to put it. I shift around in my seat, watching the screen in front of me but not really taking anything in.
I can hear Flávia and her mom in the other room, but their words are barely audible—not that more volume would help, since I don’t speak a word of Portuguese, and as far as I know neither does Chyna.
“I hate it when Flá and Auntie talk in Portuguese,” Chyna mumbles, confirming my suspicions. “You know when someone is speaking in another language right near you and you’re paranoid they’re speaking about you?”
I have to smile at the irony of that, because Chyna doesn’t really have any qualms about speaking about other people in a language they most definitely understand.