Ammu finally looks away from the TV, her eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together. She exchanges a glance with Abbu before asking, “Is it the girl from the wedding?”
“What wedding? What girl?”
“You know.” Ammu waves her arms around as if that’s an explanation. “Your sister showed me a picture. From the wedding. The Brazilian girl.”
I have never loved Priti as much as I love her right at this very moment.
“Flávia … yeah. She’s … coming over.”
“Now?” Abbu sits up straight, like he is very unprepared for this.
“Yeah, now. Is that … okay?”
Abbu frowns at me, before turning to Ammu. “What will we feed her?”
“Can she eat spicy food? Is she staying for dinner?” Ammu actually turns the TV off and adjusts her urna over her chest. “What do Brazilians eat? She’s not one of those … vegetarians, is she?” Vegetarians are the bane of existence for most Bengalis since most of our food is full of meat.
I try to gulp down the lump forming in my throat and shrug. “I don’t think she’s a vegetarian. She might stay for dinner.”
“She has to,” Abbu decides at the same time that Ammu shakes her head and traipses into the kitchen, clearly distraught about what she’s going to feed Flávia.
I text Flávia as soon as Ammu and Abbu have disappeared into the kitchen.
Me: You’re not vegetarian are you?
Flávia: nope, why?
Me: My mom is freaking out about what she’s going to feed you. It’s a Bengali thing
Flávia: freaking out about food?
Me: pretty much!
By the time Flávia rings the bell, Ammu has started prepping an entire feast and I’m not sure if I should be proud or embarrassed. I’m a little bit of both as I introduce a flustered Flávia to my parents.
I manage to drag her upstairs and away from their awkward, prying questions as soon as they’ve exchanged hellos and shaken hands.
“We have a lot of homework to do,” is what does the trick. Because studying—of course—comes before everything else.
“Your parents have really come around,” Flávia says once we’re up in my room. “Are they really going to feed me dinner?”
“If I let you go home without having dinner, I think they would disown me,” I explain. “You don’t come to a Bengali person’s home and leave without eating.”
“This is a perk I can get used to.” Flávia grins, before leaning forward and taking my hand in hers. “Also … all the other stuff, I guess.”
I have to smile too, but tentatively because the question I’ve been wanting to ask since I got her text is still bugging me. “Was Chyna … I mean, did you tell her? Is she …?”
Flávia sighs. “Chyna is … coming around.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means … we’re working it out.”
I want to ask her a thousand more questions. I want her to give me a blow-by-blow about her conversation with Chyna; I want to know everything. But then Flávia leans in and presses her lips to mine, and I don’t care about any of it anymore.
Monday dawns as dreary and dull as most Irish mornings. There’s a constant drizzle of rain that makes it look as if it’s not morning at all. Still, I couldn’t feel more elated if I tried. I can’t stop smiling, even as I pull my heavy French book out of my locker.
“Hey.”
At the sound of Chyna’s voice, I drop said French book right onto my toes.
“Ow. Um, hi.” I pick up the book, trying to massage my toes through my shoes and definitely looking like a misshapen pretzel or something.
Chyna doesn’t seem very sympathetic to my plight, unsurprisingly. She’s looking around as if to make sure nobody’s watching us have this conversation. It’s only five minutes until the bell rings, so everyone is too busy to pay attention to our corner of the hallway. Except for Chaewon and Jess, whose lockers are only a few away from mine. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see their attempts at inconspicuously eavesdropping.
Chyna takes a deep breath and, with a pained expression on her face, says, “I wanted to tell you that it’s okay that you’re dating my cousin.”
“Oh.” She’s still avoiding my eyes and I wonder if Flávia put her up to this. “Well … thanks.”
She finally catches my eye and her lips press together in a frown. “I probably shouldn’t have said what I did on Friday …” She trails off as the sound of the first bell fills the air around us.
“I should …” Chyna is already shuffling away from me, putting visible distance between us like I’m contagious with something she’s afraid of catching.
Chaewon and Jess make their way over almost as soon as Chyna is out of sight. Their eyes are bulging out their sockets.
“What was that?” Jess asks, as if she just witnessed something otherworldly. She might as well have.
“I guess that was Chyna apologizing?”
“That was an apology?” Chaewon asks, eyebrows raised.
I shrug. “I think it’s the most I’m ever going to get.”
Even Chyna’s non-apology apology can’t ruin my good mood because when I wave goodbye to my friends and slip into French class, Flávia is sitting in a corner. She has her bag propped up on the seat beside her, and she’s absentmindedly twirling a curl around her finger.
When she sees me, her face breaks out into a smile.
Dimples and all.
Warmth spreads through me at the sight.
34
FLÁVIA HAS A THING FOR PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES. IT’S possibly the most white girl thing about her. So when she drags me into Starbucks one afternoon after school and buys me one of those spiced coffees, I have to pretend that I hate it, even though I secretly kind of love it.
I scrunch up my nose with every sip I take, until Flávia rolls her eyes and says, “I bet if I come here tomorrow, you’ll already be in a corner cradling a mug of pumpkin spice latte.”
“I can’t believe you think I have such bad taste.”
“You’re a real food snob, you know that?”
I shrug. “I can’t help it. It’s the Bengali in me.” She definitely never complains about me being a food snob when she’s having dinner at my house.
But now she pokes me in the ribs and says, “Admit it. You kind of like it.”
A fresh flurry of butterflies flutters through my stomach. I don’t think Flávia realizes what her touch still does to me.
“Okay, I guess it’s not that bad,” I concede.
She grins, and I reconsider whether she does know exactly what her touch does to me. I don’t have much time to think about it though, because in the next moment she’s looped her arm into mine and is resting her head on my shoulder.
“We should study,” she sighs. That’s the excuse we gave both of our parents to venture out for the afternoon. Neither of us make an effort to reach into our bags, though; I’m not even sure what books I have in mine.
Instead, I lean into her and we watch the way the cars and buses and the Luas zoom up Westmoreland Street. The sunlight begins to dim slowly.