“Oh.” Flávia looks at me with a slight tilt of her head, sprays of water flicking off her loose strands of hair. “My mom has always been really into art. She used to paint when she was younger too. She stopped, though. My sister used to do it as well. She wanted to go to art school for a while but when push came to shove, she decided to give it up and study something more practical in university. We always get into arguments about art in our house. Especially about Romero Britto.” She pauses for a moment. “There are three things you don’t bring up in a Brazilian household: politics, religion, and Romero Britto.”

“Romero Britto …” I test the name on my lips and Flávia smiles.

“He’s a very controversial Brazilian artist. I don’t have any of his work up here but my mom has some downstairs. I can show you later.”

“So your mom likes his work?”

“Yep.”

“And your sister …”

“Doesn’t.”

“And you …”

Her smile widens. “Still thinking about it. But I guess that’s why I picked up art. My mom and sister are both so passionate about it.”

“That’s why I started henna,” I offer. “Kind of. Because of my grandma. When we were in Bangladesh, she’d apply henna to Priti and my hands and she used to do all of these elaborate designs. But then, after we moved here and we couldn’t really go back very often, I had to try and figure it out for myself …” I’m not sure how much I should share. Does Flávia even care? She didn’t care about what henna meant to me before she decided to start her henna business.

“I’d love to see her designs sometime,” she says.

I think she’s just being polite, but she has a smile on her lips.

“Which are your paintings?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

“Basically everything else,” she says. “But … you don’t have to look at them. Like I said, a lot of them are older and not that good. I don’t even know why they’re up. Do you want some tea?”

“Um … a towel might be nice first.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Duh.” Her cheeks flush again as she jumps off the bed and begins to rifle around her drawers. She throws me a fresh towel, white and blue with flowers patterned all across it. She takes one herself and scrubs at her hair, which has become flat and limp from the rain. Mine sits flat on my scalp too, with wet strands glued to my chin and cheeks. I can’t imagine it’s a very attractive image.

When I’m finished drying my hair—as dry as it will get, anyway—I look up to find Flávia staring at me, unblinking. She smiles when I catch her looking.