I realized Sarina’s pappa and Neel’s pappa were friends as well as brothers. No wonder they laughed and joked with each other.

“Pappa says the same thing, but like you and Pappa, I want to stand on my own feet.”

“You’ll not only stand, you’ll fly,” the judge said, beaming. “Sarina wants to be a doctor, just like her mummy. I can’t seem to get her interested in studying law.”

“One lawyer in the family, that’s the rule,” Mrs. Judge said.

“You don’t want Sarina as a lawyer in your court,” Neel’s mummy said.

“Why not?”

“She’ll make you forget you’re a judge, that’s why.”

They all laughed. “Jeeta, what do you want to study?” Neel’s pappa asked me.

“I . . . I have no idea.”

“What’s your favorite class?”

“History.”

“Wasn’t that your favorite subject too?” Sarina’s aunt asked the judge.

“Yes. Maybe you’ll want to pursue the law, Jeeta. Any lawyers in your family?”

I shook my head.

“Come see me if you want to go to law school.”

I looked at Sarina. She knew how different and difficult this conversation was for me.

After dinner Sarina cut the cake. Mummy never allowed cake in our house because it contained eggs. I’d tasted tiny cakes from Iranian bakeries a few times. I loved those golden brown squares and rounds, frosted in pastel green and pink, cupped in crinkly tissue paper. There was never enough of it, though. Sarina’s birthday cake was bigger than any I’d ever seen on display at the bakery store. Sarina’s aunt had baked it, and it had no eggs in it. When I took a bite it reminded me of the December air blowing from the ocean, light and moist.

After the cake, Sarina opened her gifts. She picked up my package first and shook it. I was afraid that it would make noise and give away what was inside. I’d wrapped it in six layers of pink tissue paper before putting it in the box, and it made no sound. “Ah, silver anklets,” she said when she opened it. “How did you know that I wanted a pair?”

“I always know what you want.”

“And I know what you want,” she said, her eyes dancing.

Her parents gave her an antique brass statue of Natraj, the dancing Shiva, surrounded by a whirling flame of cosmic energy, his right foot resting on the dwarf of spiritual ignorance.

Her aunt and uncle gave her a leather purse. Neel brought her the gift that I liked the best: a CD of ghazals, Urdu poetry.

It was nine-thirty when Sarina and I went to her room. “So, did you like my birthday party?” she asked.

“Oh, it was the best.”

“See, you were panicky for no reason at all.”

“I still am.”

“Why, because Neel is here?”

“How did you know it was the same—”