I shrug, because we both know why I didn’t call. I think she’ll reprimand me some more, that she’ll punish me somehow for coming home on the late bus which, according to her, is “dangerous.” But she just sighs and shuts the door behind me.
“Where’s Priti?”
“She’s already asleep,” Ammu says. “It’s really late.”
“I know … am I not allowed to celebrate my results?”
Surprisingly, she smiles. Ammu and Abbu haven’t been angry about the results. Maybe they had low expectations, like me being a lesbian means my results matter less, or negates the Asian expectation of getting straight A’s. Or maybe they just had low expectations of me from the start.
I don’t know whether I should be grateful or annoyed that they haven’t given me a hard time about the results. But they seem kind of … satisfied. Which my parents rarely are.
“You are allowed to celebrate, shona.” The endearment surprises me. Sends a jolt through me. “I’m … proud of you. You did well.”
I blink at Ammu like she’s sprouted several tentacles. Honestly, it would be less surprising if shehadsprouted several tentacles.
“You’re …”
“You’re focusing on your studies. You did well. Just … that’s what you need to keep doing.” She smiles at me, but I read between the lines.You need to keep focusing on your studies and stop being a lesbian.I want to tell her that I didn’t make the choice she thinks I’ve made. That I can never make the choice she thinks I’ve made. But the words won’t come out. Because Ammu said she’sproudof me. She’s actually speaking to me. Having a conversation that’s not about how I’m bringing shame to the family. How I’m wrong. How I need to do better.
So I just nod and turn away, blinking back tears.
All of my joy from the party has disappeared as I change into my pajamas and wipe the makeup off of my face. I feel like my heart, which was soaring just moments ago, has been sliced open, and I can only put it together when I make a choice. If I want my family to be my family, if I want my Ammu and Abbu to love me, the choice can’t be Flávia.
My phone buzzes on my bedside table. Two messages. I bite my lip, wondering if I should click into it. But my heart is already beating a mile a minute and my fingers move of their own accord.
Flávia:hey
Flávia:would it be okay if you maybe don’t mention what happened at the party tonight?
Flávia is typing …
Flávia is typing …
Flávia is typing …
Flávia:I just got caught off guard
I stare at the screen for a moment, unsure what exactly is happening. Just an hour ago, I was floating on cloud nine. I felt like the happiest girl in the world. Like everything was goingrightfor once in my life. Now …
My hand hovers over the on-screen keyboard but I’m not sure what there is to say to that. I’m not sure how she expects me to respond.
I won’t mention it,I type out, against my better judgment.
I stare at the message for a second, feeling shame bloom inside me once more. Lately it feels like that’s all I am to everyone—some secret they have to hide away. I thought that coming out to my family, at least, would negate some of the shame.
I guess I was wrong.
So I hit send, feeling an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, growing deeper and darker as I stare at my phone. I clasp it so tightly in my hands that my fingers become pale.
Flávia:thanks
“Knock, knock!”
“You know it’s not knocking when you just say the wordsknock knock,right?”
“You’re supposed to say who’s there.”
I turn around in my chair to glare at Priti, who apparently has the same sense of humor as a child in Montessori.
