So instead of spending lunchtime in the schoolyard, hanging around by myself in a corner and alerting everyone to the fact that I was utterly alone and friendless, I would slip into the school library, hide behind a few bookshelves and bury myself in whatever I could find.
“That was different,” I say to Flávia now, even though I don’t want to explain how it was different. I was just trying to find a safe place for myself in that school.
Priti is just a nerd.
Surprisingly, Flávia sighs and says, “yeah,” like she totally understands. “You know, it’s even worse outside of Dublin.” She says this like I know exactly what she’s talking about.
Weirdly, I do. Because I don’t think it was easy for either of us in primary school, with our pronounced differences.
“Like … if you think our school isn’t diverse, you should see the school I went to before.” She chuckles, but there’s a hint of sadness to it. I can’t imagine what it must have been like. Dublin is—weirdly—cosmopolitan. Maybe not so much in our little corner of it, but it is. If you go into town, the place is full of people from all parts of the world. A lot of them are Spanish students who love to block every doorway in existence—because apparently Spanish students don’t come here to study English or tour Ireland, they just come to stand in front of doors and inconvenience the rest of us. But there are people from other places too—from Poland and Brazil and Nigeria, and so many other countries.
“That … must have been difficult,” I offer, but immediately I regret it. The words don’t sound like enough. Maybe they even sound a little condescending. Unhelpful.
But Flávia shrugs. “It is what it is.”
“Can I ask you something?” I say after a moment of silence passes between us.
“Didn’t you already ask me something?” Flávia says, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes, but I have to smile. It’s the kind of joke I can imagine Abbu making.
“Seriously, can I?”
“Sure.” She sits up, like she’s ready for a serious question. She makes her face all scrunched up and somber. I have to bite back a smile.
“Why did your mom take you away?” I ask. “Why … didn’t you stay here?”
Flávia’s expression shifts—from mock serious to almost blank. Unreadable. My stomach plummets. I think for a moment that maybe I’ve asked a question that’s way too invasive and now Flávia will be annoyed with me.
But then she says, “I think it was hard for my mom.” She’s looking down at the ground, toeing the dirt with the soles of the regulation black shoes that we all wear as part of our school uniform. “She came here when she was younger, and fell in love with my dad, and she thought that was it. She’d made it. She says Brazil isn’t always an easy place to be in, even though she misses it. After the divorce, I think she just wanted to go somewhere where the fact that her goals had fallen apart didn’t stare her in the face.”
“Oh,” is all I can say. I don’t know why, but I’d never attributed Flávia leaving to something to do with her mom, even though obviously I heard about the divorce. We were a small class so nothing was kept under wraps for too long.
Flávia’s lips quirk into something resembling a smile. “You know, she actually wanted to take me and my sister back to Brazil.”
“Wow.”
“I was all for it.”
“Really?” I can’t help the fact that my voice rises an octave. It’s just that I’m not sure if I would want to go back to Bangladesh permanently, or even semi-permanently. Aside from the fact that being gay there is punishable by death, I’m also not sure where I would even fit in. I don’t fit in here, but would I fit in there any better? I don’t think so. I’ve already lost most of my Bengali, and when I sometimes talk to my cousins from there, it seems like the differences between us are akash patal—like the sky and earth.
“I’ve only been there when I was young and I barely remember it,” Flávia says. “I thought … it would be good. A way for me to actually learn about where I’m from, and brush up on my Portuguese.” She sighs. “But … it didn’t really work out. I don’t think my mom was ready to go back, and she says we have more opportunities here.”
It’s funny that Flávia and I are from such different parts of the world but our parents have the same philosophy. They shifted us halfway across the world, risking our culture, putting us in the middle of two nations and giving us an identity crisis, all because they believe it gives us more opportunities. It’s strange to think about how much our parents really sacrifice for us. But then, I’m stuck on the fact that Ammu and Abbu can leave their entire world behind, yet they can’t pause for a moment and consider who I am. How can they sacrifice everything for me and Priti, but they can’t sacrifice their closed view of sexuality to accept me as I am?
“Well … I’m glad that you’re back,” I say. It’s not like I pined after Flávia all these years, considering I didn’t even realize that I had a crush on her way back then, but … having her here feels weird, in a nice way. She’s changed so much—from her height to her hair (which she used to always straighten and put up in a ponytail), and just the way she carries herself—but then there are so many things that seem the same. She still has that warmth about her that she did in primary school, and a smile that could make anyone melt.
Flávia turns to me with that smile playing at her lips once more. “Yeah, I’m pretty glad to be back too,” she says, holding my gaze for a long moment.
We’re interrupted by the rushing sound of the bus zooming up, and I have to leap out of my seat to hold my hand out. If I miss this bus, I’ll have to wait a whole hour to catch the next one.
Flávia stands as the bus pulls up. “I’ll see you later, Nishat,” she says, and she steps away from the bus stop and toward the traffic lights with the zebra crossing.
“Wait … you’re not getting the bus?”
“Nope!” Flávia shoots me a grin. I want to ask her why she decided to stay and talk to me, but the driver is already glaring at me and I know if I don’t hop on now, he’ll close the doors and pull away.
So I step inside, swipe my card and hurry to the window. As I watch Flávia walk away, her curls bouncing in the wind behind her, I can’t help the flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
8
“WHAT’S THAT?” PRITI ASKS LATER, AFTER BARGING INTO my room when she gets home from after-school study.
“It’s a form.”
“Well, I can see that.” Priti reaches over and tries to grab the piece of paper out of my hands. “But … what’s … it … for?” She stops her attempts to frown at me. “And why won’t you let me look at it?”
“Remind me when this became your business?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She lets out a huffy breath and slumps back onto my bed. “Fine, don’t tell me. See if I care.”
I laugh and sidle closer to her, poking her in the ribs until she giggles. Priti is still the most ticklish person I know.