“I wonder if they also grew their dreadlocks specifically for the occasion,” I say, keeping my expression serious. Lena rolls her eyes.
“Maybe some of them are legit,” she allows. “By the way, did you know this is the café that was hit during that big terrorist attack a few years ago? The same one that targeted the Taj Hotel.”
“Gee, that makes me feel super safe. Thanks for bringing me here.”
“They never hit the same spot twice, Bree. This is basically the safest spot in Bombay.” I recoil at her use of “Bree.” I can’t help it.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. I feel bad one second later. She didn’t know. She couldn’t have.
She lifts one eyebrow. “Jet-lagged or just bitchy?” she asks. I sigh. Maybe I am jet-lagged. But it’s more than that. Charlie was the only one who ever called me Bree, until now. It’s odd, the way they both chose the exact same nickname. I don’t want to think about everything it implies about them, the way they think, the way they think of me . . .
“I’m a little tired,” I admit. “But shouldn’t we get going on this? Look into Charlie’s contacts out here and stuff?”
“Whatever. I’m tired too. Just another hour before we can check in.”
“Not whatever,” I tell her. “I have school in less than two weeks,” I remind her. “I have to be back for orientation in one. We don’t have tons of time.”
“I have school too,” she tells me. “But you can’t rush this process.”
It’s ironic, coming from her. I lean back in my chair, eyeing her. She seems so unconcerned. It’s almost like she already knows what’s going to happen. “Why are you so calm?” I ask.
“Just genetically blessed with an even temperament, I guess.”
“Stop.” I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. She’s avoiding my gaze, and I don’t like what that might mean. “What’s your deal?”
“My deal is that I’m tired, and I want to check into our hotel, and I want to sleep for, like, nine hours before I start thinking about this. Okay? Just chill, Aubrey. You’re not going to figure anything out unless you take a few steps back.” She takes a sip of her mango lassi. “Just try to enjoy Bombay while we’re here.”
“It’s annoying how you call it Bombay. It’s Mumbai.”
“No one calls it ‘Mumbai.’” She rolls her eyes, showing her scorn for my lack of knowledge. “That’s just for official paperwork. Conversationally it’s still ‘Bombay,’ even among Indians. I’ve been here enough to know.” That piques my interest. Glittering eyes, I think, watching hers light up. Whenever Lena talks about travel, her eyes glitter. It reminds me of the Roald Dahl quote, “Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you.”
I tell her as much, and she laughs, rolling her eyes.
I blush, embarrassed. “Why have you been here so much?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.
“My parents,” she says. “They brought us here two summers running for three weeks each time. Typical rich-parents thing to do: expose us to a third-world country so we won’t be ruined forever.”
“Too bad it didn’t work,” I comment.
Lena lifts an eyebrow. “My, my,” she says. “Who knew you had such bite?”
“Why the sheep?” I ask, tapping her wrist. I’m eager to change the subject again. It feels like we’ve been bickering constantly this whole time, and I don’t want that. Lena blushes and shoves the bangles back down her arm, so they cover her wrist.
“Lamb,” she corrects. Then, “I don’t know. I just felt like it.”
“You just felt like it?” I say, doubtful. “Come on, what’s the story?” She’s clearly embarrassed, and I can’t help but feel even more curious. It takes a lot to shake her up.
“I actually don’t know,” she admits. “I kind of wonder that a lot. It’s not really me, is it? I mean, I always thought if I got a tattoo I’d get something like ‘Rock on,’ or whatever. Not that, but you know. Maybe something from an album cover.” She pauses. “But Little Lamb was Charlie’s nickname for me. I was out one night, had a little too much to drink, woke up in the morning, and it was there.” She finishes with a shrug. “I guess I was feeling sentimental that night.”
“Wow.” I’m impressed. Or maybe shocked. “Wasn’t someone with you? A friend or something? Or like, wasn’t there a receipt? Are tattoo artists even allowed to do that when you’re drunk?”