The urge to throttle him grows infinitely stronger. “My best friend, Rosie, and I are the co-presidents of the film club, and we’d be really grateful if you’d consider making a brief cameo in our film. I know it isn’t Firebrand, and no one is running around to get you a hot water bottle, but it’s important to us and we have a role that we think would suit—”

“No.”

I hesitate. “No?”

“No,” he says again, his jaw tight.

I blink slowly. “But you didn’t let me finish.”

“My answer is no.” Emmitt turns around without another word, heading for the cafeteria.

I watch as he leaves, wondering if it’s worth losing more of my dignity to chase after him. Then I remember the film competition is at stake.

I curse under my breath and hasten down the hallway. “Wait! Wait. I’m sorry. Was it the hot water bottle comment? I shouldn’t have said that. Emmitt, wait!”

He doesn’t even turn at the sound of my voice. Of course he doesn’t.

I catch up to him and reach out, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. He falters, looking down at his arm in a way that’s eerily similar to our first meeting.

“Please just hear me out,” I say, forcing my voice to remain level. If he knows how desperate I am, he’s never going to say yes. Clearly he has some type of superiority complex. “I can help keep your identity under wraps. Or I can help you with whatever undercover project you’re here for. Or I can help you with something else, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be in a significant role. It can just be a brief cameo. Thirty seconds, tops.”

“I said no,” Emmitt says darkly, shaking me off. “Leave me alone.”

My hand falls to my side limply, and I watch whatever hopes we have of winning the competition fade to dust as Emmitt walks away.

Shit.

8

Anam and I are sitting in the dining room, working diligently on our homework—by which I mean I’m rereading the script for Gone Girl (2014) and she’s watching some K-pop music video on repeat—when Baba takes a seat at the head of the table.

He was in the kitchen for the past hour, cooking something that smells delicious, though neither Anam nor I were inclined to actually investigate what it was.

When we were younger, Anam and I used to hound Baba when he was in the kitchen, poking and prodding at him to give us a taste of whatever he was cooking at the moment. Given the disconnect between me and my parents, I don’t know as much about Bangladeshi culture as I might have if we were closer, if we talked more, but food is one of the few things I do know about.