She smiles again, though it’s hesitant this time.
“My mom isn’t exactly … thrilled.”
“Oh?”
She leans back in the chair. “Just … she has this thing about showing up my dad’s side of the family. I guess because … I don’t know, they never really liked her and I think it’s a race thing. Like they assume that because my mom is Black and Brazilian, and still has an accent, she isn’t smart enough or good enough or whatever. So she always wants me to do better.”
“Than who?”
“Than … well, everyone, really. But especially better than that side of the family.”
“So … Chyna?”
She nods, turning to meet my eyes. Her lips are pulled down in a frown.
“I didn’t, though.”
“Chynadid better than you?” I don’t mean it to come out as surprised as it does, but it does make Flávia burst into a fit of giggles, so that’s something.
“She’s pretty smart, you know.”
I shrug. “Just … she makes a habit of … I don’t know, not putting in an effort?”
“She does. I mean, she likes to act like she doesn’t care but honestly, Chyna cares a lot about this stuff. She wants to be a lawyer, you know? It’s all she’s wanted since we were kids.”
I can see that. Chyna is definitely good at manipulating the truth, at making people see her side of the situation, no matter how wrong or twisted it is. It makes me a little terrified to think of her as a lawyer. She’d be a white Annalise Keating; all the manipulation and amorality but none of the pushback from white people. Chyna would one hundred percent get away with murder, and she probably wouldn’t even have to try that hard. Of course, I don’t say any of this to Flávia. To her, I say, “You and Chyna must be pretty close, huh?”
“We … have a complicated relationship.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and gives me a smile. “We’re supposed to be friends, but we’re also kind of competitors.”
“Because of your mom and that side of the family?”
She pulls at a loose thread in her shirt absentmindedly for a moment. “When I was younger, it didn’t seem like there was a difference between us, really. But the older we get, the more aware I am of just how different we are. And I think … the less awaresheis.”
“Because she’s white and you’re Black?”
Flávia doesn’t seem taken aback by the bluntness of my question. I know if it was Jess, she’d be annoyed that I was “playing the race card” by bringing up race at all. White people like to pretend that race is only as deep as the color of our skin—maybe because the color oftheirskin gets them so many benefits.
But race is so much more than that. Good things and bad things. And when you’re Brown or Black, it shapes you in life. Maybe even more so for Flávia.
Flávia takes a deep breath and says, “It’s like … I know that I have to be certain things to get by in life. I have to be smart enough and talk a certain way and adapt to what my dad’s family wants. Chyna thinks that’s just who I am. I guess she doesn’t really see the other side of me. Maybe because I don’t show her the other side of me.”
I want to ask her what exactly she means by that, what the other side of her is, but she shakes her head.
“Anyway, that’s enough about Chyna. You know, you look nice tonight.” Before I can reply, she reaches out and touches the sheer sleeves of my dress, running her fingers over the cloth.
My heart is going a mile a minute all of a sudden and I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, drowning out almost everything else.
“Though I didn’t think this was exactly your style.”
I shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though I am definitely freaking out inside.
“It’s a celebration, right?” I say.
“Right.” She catches my eye. “Well, I like it. And when did you get this?” This time, she reaches over to touch the gold ring jutting out of my nose. It’s the same one I was wearing at Sunny Apu’s wedding. “I don’t remember this from primary school. It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
Flávia leans forward so much that our faces are inches apart. And she’s touching me—albeit on the nose, which is weird and not romantic at all, but it’s still making my stomach do somersaults—and I can feel how hot my face has gotten. Just from that single touch that I can barely feel.
