“We’re going to have to run,” she says. “Like … fast.”

She looks at me with a hint of a smile on her lips before taking off with the broken umbrella still clutched in her arms. I follow as fast as I can, cursing the wind and rain in my head.

When we get to the house, both of us are soaking wet. Flávia closes the door behind us while I try not to drip water onto the carpet, even though that’s near impossible.

“I’ll get us something to dry off,” Flávia says. She’s smiling as she takes me in. Both of us are weighed down by our wet wool sweaters, but taking them off would only reveal our see-through white shirts. I don’t think I’m ready for Flávia to see that much of me.

“Mãe cheguei!” Flávia shouts, seemingly to no one. A voice floats over from the kitchen, strangely similar to Flávia’s.

“Tô na cozinha!” the voice says. It’s the first time I’ve heard Portuguese being spoken, and it sounds both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It’s like a strange mixture of European languages I’ve been hearing for most of my life.

Flávia slips off her shoes and beckons for me to do the same. Once I do, she waves me over toward a doorway at the far end of the hallway, her light footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet as she moves.

The last time I was here, it was dark and loud and full of people. Now, in the dim daylight, Flávia’s house looks completely different. For the first time I notice the bright blue paint on the walls, and the odd, otherworldly pictures that line the hallway.

“Hey, Mom!” Flávia exclaims. I slip through the doorway to find a woman whose features resemble Flávia’s. She has the same sharp bone structure, wide eyes, and dark hair. When she smiles, there’s even a dimple on her cheek.

“Oi filha, who’s your friend?”

“It’s Nishat. We’re working on something together for school, so I invited her over.” It’s a statement, but the words come out like she’s asking for permission.

Flávia’s mom’s smile brightens. “Nice to meet you, Nishat.” Permission granted, I guess.

“Nice to meet you too,” I say in the most polite voice I can muster.

“É essa a garota de que você te me falou?” Flávia’s mom says.

Flávia flushes, bringing a pink tinge to her already dark cheeks.

“Mãe, por favor,” she says under her breath.

“Ela é linda,” her mom says. She’s smiling at me once more. I smile back, even though I have no idea what she’s saying.