“I think so,” she says finally. “I mean … Ali’s going. And it sounds like it’ll be fun … plus!” She suddenly turns to me with a smile and bright eyes. “It’s like … she’s extending a … what’s the word? A hand and—”
“You forgot the word hand?”
“Shut up!” She hits me lightly on the shoulder and sits back, the smile still on her face.
“I just feel like … I don’t know, she’s changed from back then—”
It wasn’t that long ago.
“And she’s making an attempt, you know? To make amends. I have to meet her halfway, don’t I? Isn’t that my responsibility?”
Personally, I think Priti is blathering on about nothing to justify going along with Ali, but I know better than to say that.
“Did she say she was sorry?” I ask instead.
“Well, no. But it was a long time ago.”
“Priti … remember the other day when you told me I should be careful? About the Flávia stuff?”
“This isn’t the same. It’s completely different.” Her words tumble out so fast that they run into each other.
“Did you know that Flávia and Chyna are cousins?”
That seems to stump her because she looks up at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, Flávia told me.” Which is obviously the wrong thing to say, because Priti narrows her eyes in a glare.
“You know that makes it worse, right? You hate Chyna, so by extension shouldn’t you also hate her cousin?”
“You’re the one going to Chyna’s birthday party.”
“Yeah, but that’s a party, there’ll be lots of people there. I’m not fantasizing about kissing Chyna.”
“I’m not fan—”
“Look, I’m only going because Ali is going, okay? And she’s going because her boyfriend is going and—”
“You didn’t tell me Ali had a boyfriend,” I say. Her first boyfriend, in fact. Priti looks away, like this isn’t something she wants to discuss any further. She picks up her English book and begins to flick through it like it’s the most exciting thing she’s ever come across.
“You should have told me. I know it can be weird when—”
“It’s not weird.” Her voice comes out high-pitched, assuring me that she definitely finds it weird. “I just have to get used to him, is all.”
I want to say more. I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to offer her words of wisdom. Pass on my knowledge. But it’s not like I’m exactly skilled in this department.
Instead, I let the silence wash over us, reaching out and grabbing Priti’s phone from beside her. I start to scroll through her phone again. She shoots me a look over the top of her book, and I return it with a cheeky grin. Neither of us comment.
I’m still scrolling through her photos when Priti shuts her English book again and says in a bright voice, “What about Bengali sweets?”
“What about them?”
“You could sell those. That would be fun, right? Jilapis. Mmmmmmm.” Priti might as well have started salivating right there, right then. The look in her eye at the thought of jilapis is totally dreamy.
“I don’t think so.” I have to stifle a laugh. “Can you imagine the girls at school eating jilapis? They would be turned off just looking at it.”
“What are you talking about? Jilapis are beautiful. They’re all soft but not too soft. And golden and sweet and yummy and … I really want some now.”
