“Nah, not for real.” She takes off her wig and replaces it with a shaggy lavender one. “My friend Laila—the only other Syrian at my school—used to love putting chalk in our hair before shows, but our moms would’ve killed us if we did more than that.” She affects a melodious, lightly accented tone that’s even lower than hers. “Y’haram, Jasmine! What did you do to your beautiful hair?! Steta would be rolling in her grave!”

“I thought your mom was super into fashion.”

“She is, but pastel hair isn’t exactly her idea of it. My mom is Gucci and Chanel, not Manic Panic. Her idea of letting loose is wearing sunglasses with blue-tinted lenses. She’s very classic. All earth tones and whatnot.”

“Hmm, I can see that with your dad.”

Jasmine snorts. “She dresses classy, but she’s the loudest human you will ever meet. My dad used to wear literal earplugs when her family was visiting. Honestly, I can’t believe they lasted six years.”

“You weren’t exactly shocked by the divorce, huh?” I tug on the wig’s curls a little to see how it’d look a tiny bit longer, but it ruins the effect.

“Not at all. They fought about evvvverything. And my mom’s parents hated that she married a gentile while my dad’s parents hated that he married a Jew, and it was not great. My mom kept the house, my dad moved his business up to the city and got that huge-ass house in Stratford while keeping this one for the summer, and by the time my bat mitzvah hit I had nothing left to ask for because I was already spoiled to death.”

“That explains so much.”

She grins. “Doesn’t it? How about you? What’s your single mom story?”

“Not much of a story,” I say with a shrug. “My mom was waiting tables to put herself through college. My dad picked her up. A few dates later, I happened. My mom wanted to keep me, my dad didn’t, and they compromised on him paying child support and otherwise disappearing. Ta-da! You have the beautiful, well-adjusted teenager you see before you today.”

“You are pretty well-adjusted for someone who knows her dad didn’t want her to exist.”

I smile into the mirror, poking dimples into my cheeks. I learned a long time ago that it was entirely his loss, and my mom is enough awesome for three parents. “Why yes, I suppose I am.”

“I could never.”

“Please. She who laughs in the face of divorce.” I turn to face Jasmine, who’s pulled the wig from her head and is slumped against the wall, letting the lavender strands dangle. “Hey, are you okay?”