I touch my own nose ring self-consciously as I look at hers. After putting on my salwar kameez earlier today I swapped out my usual stud for a golden hoop. I wonder if I can pull off a chain like Sunny Apu. I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to. You only really wear them at your wedding, after all. And with the way things are going …
“Will you come with me to take a photo with them?” Priti asks, cutting off my train of thought. She’s already whipping her phone out of her beaded white clutch, so I know I don’t have much of a choice. But right now I’m so grateful that she’s here, that she’s my sister, that I don’t care.
“Sure.” I give the Auntie at our table a smile that I hope conveys apology, condescension, and mischief all in one, and the two of us slip away from the tables and into the throng of people waiting to take a photo with the bride and groom.
“She looks so happy now,” I say.
“Well, duh,” says Priti, even though it’s not very “duh” at all. She thrusts her phone out, nearly punching a guy in a khaki sherwani standing in front of her. He ducks out of her way, shooting us a glare while I try to give him an apologetic smile. Priti is too busy checking that she has nothing in her teeth to even notice.
“I gotta run to the bathroom to fix this.” She waves her hand over her face.
“It looks okay,” I say. I want to add “your face,” but that might be too complimentary. And “your makeup” might make her scoff, because she probably means something specific. So I settle for adding nothing.
“Thanks, now I feel confident. Do you want to come?”
“To the bathroom?”
“No, the moon. I hear there’s a really big mirror there—perfect for fixing up your makeup and taking selfies, didn’t you know?”
“Okay, there’s no need to get sarcastic.” I punch her on the shoulder.
“I’m going, I’ll be right back. Don’t go up on stage without me, okay?” She turns around and whips me in the face with her urna.
“Okay,” I mumble, but Priti has already disappeared into the crowd. I turn back to face the stage. The Irish girls from the back room are up there now, their faces arranged into wide grins as the professional photographer clicks away. One of them rushes off the stage, nearly tripping, and hands the photographer her iPhone, mumbling something. The photographer frowns but begins to click away with the iPhone. I wonder if photographers feel a little insulted when people ask them to do that.
“So is this what weddings in your country are usually like?”
I turn around and come face-to-face with the girl with the curly brown hair who has been dancing in the back of my mind all night. She must remember me to come up to me like this. There’s a hint of a smile on her face; I can’t tell if she’s impressed by the wedding or if she’s trying to insult it.
“Sorry?” is all I can say, though there are a million other things I could have said that would have made me seem a little more charming and a little less dumbfounded.
“You don’t remember me.” Her smile shifts into a smirk. It suits her, weirdly. There’s a dimple that forms on her right cheek.
“I do.” It comes out more defensive than I want it to, but Ido.More clearly than I should.
“And my name?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I bite my lip. Then, acting braver than I feel, I say, “Do you remembermyname?”
“Nisha.” More confident thansheshould feel.
It’s my turn to smirk. “Wrong.”
She looks bewildered. “No, I’m … that’s …” She knits her eyebrows together, like she’s really thinking about this. “Thatisyour name. I remember, you’re from Bangladesh. Ms. O’Donnell made you do a presentation about it in your first week in class and you were so embarrassed or shy or something that your entire face was on fire, and you stuttered through the whole presentation.”
I do remember that presentation. It was my first week in school, my first month in the country. Everything was still new and everyone’s words blurred together in an accent I couldn’t yet understand.
“It’s Nishat,” I offer. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“You were kind of distinctive.” She’s trying to bite down another smile. I can tell from the way her lips are turned up at the edges.
“Flávia,” I say, and she brightens at the sound of her name, like she really didn’t expect me to remember.
“You look nice in that.” The words slip out, and I immediately feel heat rushing up my cheek. But she does look nice. She’s wearing a salwar kameez that a Desi girl wouldn’t be caught dead in at a wedding, but Flávia wears it with such nonchalance that she pulls it off. It’s royal blue, with a silver floral pattern on its torso. She’s wrapped the urna around her neck like a scarf, with the long end of it hanging off to the side. It’s beautiful, but far too simple a design for an elaborate wedding like this.
“Thanks.” This time she does smile, dimple and all. “I like your henna. Did you do it yourself?”
I look at both sides of my right hand, filled with vines and flowers and leaves darkened to a deep red.
