“Walaikum Salam,” Nanu says. Her voice sounds weaker than I remember, but maybe I’m just projecting. “Your Ammu said you were worried about me.”
“Because Priti told me you’re sick,” I say, my voice taking on a chiding tone. Really I’m trying to keep it from breaking, because Nanulookssick. She looks paler and thinner than I remember her, and there are bags under her eyes. As if she hasn’t been sleeping properly.
“Only a small thing,” Nanu says reassuringly, though it doesn’t reassure me at all. “The doctors say everything will be okay, Jannu. You have nothing to worry about.”
Obviously that doesn’t stop me from worrying, but I don’t let that show on my face. I want to ask her more questions, find out exactly what’s wrong, even if that means I’ll spend the next several hours on WebMD learning the worst possible outcomes of whatever it is.
But before I can ask anything else, Nanu leans forward, a smile lighting up her face. She asks, “How’s your henna business? Your Ammu has been telling me a lot about it.”
“She has?” I ask.
“She said you’ve been working very hard.”
I try to bite down a rush of tears.
“Well … it’s been going okay.” I shrug. “I’m going to work from Abbu’s restaurant this weekend.”
“Well, I’m very proud of you, Jannu,” Nanu says. “And of Priti. Your Ammu said she’s been helping you.”
“Yeah.” I nod slowly. “She’s been helping me come up with ideas.”
Priti must hear her name mentioned through the wall between our rooms—or because she’s been eavesdropping as always—because the door to my bedroom cracks open and she peers inside.
“Is that Nanu?” she asks in a small voice.
I nod, patting the space beside me for her to sit down. She comes over, hesitating in a way that she never has in my room before. But when she turns to the screen, her face breaks out into a grin.
“Assalam Alaikum, Nanu!” she says. I put an arm around her and bring her closer to me so we’re both on screen at the same time.
“We were just talking about how you’ve been helping me with the henna business,” I tell her. “How we’re both proud of you.”
Priti blinks at me with some confusion for a moment, but I give her shoulder a squeeze, hoping she understands what that means.
After Nanu finally hangs up, telling us very little about herself but saying, “Mashallah,” and “Alhamdulillah,” and “Insha’Allah,” about a hundred times in response to everything from the business competition to Priti’s exams, I turn to Priti.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I’msorry,” Priti says, in turn.
“Okay, I’m trying to apologize and it’s rude to take over someone else’s apology.”
Priti burrows her face into my hair and mumbles, “Okay, apologize away.”
“That was it.”
She looks up at me again, a frown settled on her lips.
“That was your apology?”
“I said sorry.”
“For what?”
“Being selfish?”
She blows out a breath and sits back, crossing her arms over her chest. “And …”
“Not … paying enough attention to you. You’re right. I’ve been so caught up with Flávia that I forgot to pay attention. What’s going on with you and Ali anyway?”
