Tilly folded her arms and made a serious face. It took a great effort to follow her words, and even then I was sure there was much I was missing. Still, it was a welcome distraction.

“My point is that she’ll do anything she can to help you—to make sure she figures out the problem and gets you to exactly where you need to be. Do you believe in kismet?”

At first, I didn’t recognize the word.

“Kismet. Fate. Destiny written in the sand,” she said, twirling a finger in the air. “What will be will be. Have you heard of Marlene Dietrich? I’m sure you haven’t. You’re far too young.”

Qismat. I understood then, though I had no idea what or who she was talking about.

Tilly rose to her feet so effortlessly that she might have been pulled up by an imaginary thread. She began to strut across the roof of the building, leading with one pointed toe and humming a rising and falling melody. She danced her fingers around her calves then up the length of her leg in a movement so sultry, I almost looked away. She circled the small rooftop as a seductive dancer would, rolling her hips with each step and holding the edge of an invisible veil to her face.

“Aren’t I lovely?” she said, batting her eyes and tracing her torso. She turned her head to the side and pulled her shoulders back, aiming her breasts at the sun. She placed one hand on her lower back and the other behind her tilted head. She slid her left foot so far in front of her right foot that I feared she would fall to the ground.

I’d never seen an adult behave in such a way.

“You smiled!” she said accusingly, playfully. “The lady of the moonlight has done her job then.”

She slinked, catlike, back to her chair and collapsed with a heavy breath before turning to face me. There was a resolve in her expression, a faith that looked big enough to hold the both of us.

“If you ever feel like talking, you should know I’m very good at listening. I know it doesn’t seem like I would be, but I am,” Tilly said, her voice bright with mischief. I couldn’t follow what she said after that. Like her dancing, her talking spun her in different directions and consumed much energy. She let out a long sigh, leaned over to me, and concluded with: “Pardon my French.”

If she’d been speaking French, I hadn’t realized. I let my hair fall forward to hide the unbidden tears that streaked my cheeks. I hadn’t meant to smile. I prayed God would forgive me for that moment of lightness. I prayed my family would forgive me. I was so angry at myself.