“Then don’t.”
I hear Mrs. Nasar downstairs, the clink of ceramic cups and hum of her talking to Sammie’s dad in Urdu. Sammie always made an effort to learn basic Spanish, not just because it was a language requirement for school, but because he knew I felt lonely growing up without a real Latine community. And yeah, he’s got a ton of sisters and extended family who emigrated from Pakistan a couple of generations back, but I feel a snake of guilt coil around my stomach knowing I couldn’t speak a word of Urdu if I tried.
“Can I ask you something?” I break the silence. He nods. “Would you have talked to me about how upset you were if I hadn’t seen you?” He starts to sigh and shifts on his bed, so I quickly add, “Or talked to anyone? Your parents or your sisters?”
Sammie runs a hand over his face before leaning over to check that neither his mom nor any of his other sisters are coming. “O, we’re not all besties with our parents.”
I wilt. “I know.”
He straightens his back, his face clear of any of its usual amusement. “So you know they don’t want to hear about some pointless drama.”
“I was just trying to—”
“Understand, I know,” he finishes for me, slumping. I bite my nail. “I get it, you love telling your parents all our chisme and talking about your feelings. But that’s not me. I’m fine, okay? What happened last weekend was nothing. Please, just move on.”
He clears his throat as Mrs. Nasar comes back in, handing each of us a piping hot cup of chai. She offers us almond cookies on a platter that we refuse, but knowing her, she’ll be back with the whole box in a few minutes. Sammie and I sip in silence.
The thing is, Sammie has to be wrong. I look at the carefully prepared cups of chai and how artfully his mom stacked those cookies for us. Maybe she’s not sitting down on his floor and asking what’s the latest with him and Lindsay, but his mom cares about his well-being. And I’m sure his dad does too.
Which means the problem here isn’t that Sammie doesn’t have a willing audience. It’s that he thinks he doesn’t need one.
“All right, what we’re not going to do is be weird now,” he finally says. He sets his cup on his side table. I curl my hands around my own so I won’t move to put a coaster under his. “Anyway, don’t you have to get ready for your mom’s bougie English department party soon?”
“Shit.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. I was supposed to head home fifteen minutes ago. “I should go. You still down to help me scout roses for everyone’s corsages and boutonnieres tomorrow?”
“I am a man of my word.” He takes my chai and lightly bumps my shoulder with his before reaching around me to pick up Northanger Abbey. “You’re only reading this to impress your mom’s colleagues despite swearing you have no interest in studying English in college, aren’t you?”
“Go drink your chai.” I snatch the book back and race home.
* * *
Ags started a group chat this morning with herself, Lindsay, Talia, and me to tell us about some big makeup sale in case we needed anything new for prom, so I figured why not send them a selfie in my Sophisticated Ophelia outfit? I’d normally send a picture to Ags and Linds anyway.
It took me a few tries to get a good shot that wasn’t embarrassingly blurry, sitting in the back seat of Mom’s car, but I finally get one as we park. I stare at it for longer that I’d like to admit, worrying my eyes are uneven or my smile looks too forced, but we’re here, so it’s now or never.
I slip my phone into my purse after sending the photo and straighten my dress as we get out of the car, determined to make it through tonight without feeling like a baby or a disappointment. Or both.
I managed to get out of coming to these events for the past two years, but couldn’t find an excuse this time around. At least this year I’m almost the same age as some of the attendees, so it’ll be like practice for the fall.
My pale blue dress with the white collar studded with tiny, flower-shaped pearls shifts in the early evening breeze. I run my hands over the several buttons lining the front of the chest.
Feeling girly and pretty, but still classy, I take the bottle of wine my parents brought from my dad as he knocks on the front door. Mom’s colleague, an older Black man named David, opens the door, and I’m met with the sight of dozens of mingling college students behind him, all wearing casual ripped jeans, band tees, and the occasional yoga-pants-and-sweatshirt combo.
“So glad you could make it,” David says as he pulls Mom into a hug and shakes Dad’s hand. He hugs me too, and despite knowing him since I was a kid and feeling comfortable around him, I’m annoyed Dad gets away with a handshake whereas I’d be rude for rejecting the hug. “Ophelia, it’s great to see you. What grade are you in now, tenth?”
Dad stifles a laugh. I forcefully hand him back the wine. “I’m actually a senior.”
“No way!” He gasps in that classic I’m An Adult And Cannot Process You Aging At The Same Rate As Me For Some Reason way and turns to Mom. “Stella, you didn’t tell me she was getting so big.”
“I know, it’s astonishing,” she sighs.
“David, where should I put this?” Dad interrupts, lifting the wine.
“Oh, let’s go ask Susan where would be best,” David says as he beckons Dad to follow him, chatting about how potent the wine is or how dried the grapes were or whatever it is people actually say about wine, leaving Mom and me in the foyer.
She’s quickly swarmed with greetings. Students and faculty alike crowd us. And I know she’s not forgetting me and no one here is ignoring me. But I wonder if we looked more alike, if people would stop and ask if I was her kid rather than another student waiting for the chance to speak with the illustrious Professor Rojas.
I step into the open living room and quickly spot a table covered with chips and salsa, crackers and cheese, and fruit platters. I’m stacking up my plate with watermelon cubes, hungry after an afternoon surviving solely off chai and Sammie’s sarcasm, when someone bumps into my shoulder.
I spin around, annoyed, only to see an attractive white boy standing beside a shorter blond girl with freckles. The boy adjusts his thick hipster glasses and smiles at me. “Sorry about that. Gotta get to the salsa before people start double dipping.”
“No problem,” I say, praying my tight voice doesn’t betray how cute I think he is.
“I’m Jeremiah.” He sticks out his hand, and I shake it despite feeling my palms begin to sweat. “This is Coleen.” He nods to the girl beside him, who smiles and takes a sip of her drink.
“I’m Ophelia,” I reply, instantly regretting it. Their eyes widen like they’re children on Christmas morning before they glance at each other as if to say did you hear that?
“Dude, are you Professor Rojas’s daughter?” Coleen asks excitedly. “Your mom is, like, the coolest professor I’ve ever had.”