Chyna seems to take us in for a moment, and I’m not sure what she sees. Her expression doesn’t change. She turns to Flávia and says, “Why are you wearing that?”

Flávia shifts uncomfortably, not looking Chyna in the eye. “My uniform got wet in the rain and I wanted to be comfy.”

Chyna doesn’t look like she’s completely buying it. Buying us, looking like we’ve been caught doing … what? I can’t imagine what Chyna is thinking.

Her eyes drift from a guilty-looking Flávia to me, and she says, “Nishat,” with a grim nod of her head.

“Chyna,” I mumble.

“I’ll be downstairs …” She toes the doorway like she’s waiting for an invitation to stay. “Auntie said I could come over for dinner….”

“Oh.” Flávia doesn’t say any more—doesn’t try to stop Chyna or anything. A moment later we hear Chyna’s footsteps on the stairs, the wood creaking underneath her weight.

Flávia brushes a lock of damp hair away from her eyes and heaves a sigh.

“Sorry.”

I’m not sure what exactly she’s apologizing for. For trying to kiss me again? For Chyna interrupting us?

I’m afraid to ask, so I just shrug and say, “It’s okay.”

24

CHYNA IS IN THE SITTING ROOM, WITH HER SHOES OFF AND her legs crossed on the couch. She’s watching a rerun of America’s Next Top Model like it’s the most interesting thing to ever exist.

It’s actually strange to see her like this—so domestic. It almost reminds me of back when we were friends. During the first few days of secondary school, Chyna had this nervous energy about her. Like she didn’t quite know where she fit in, or what her role was. I thought that all dissipated after Catherine McNamara’s birthday party, but watching her now, I think that maybe it didn’t really. Maybe Chyna just got really good at hiding it.

“Does she come here often?” I whisper to Flávia at the bottom of the stairs.

“Every once in a while.” Flávia’s lips are pressed in a thin line like she’s not very impressed with Chyna for being here. “I have to go talk to my mom, can you give me a minute?”

I can’t exactly say no, even though the last thing I want is to have to spend time alone with Chyna of all people, but I nod my head.

Flávia slips away toward the kitchen and I gingerly make my way into the sitting room. The episode of America’s Next Top Model is from a few years back—I remember the faces of most of the contestants, but I’ve forgotten their names.

“I can’t believe you still watch this,” I say, before my brain reminds me that engaging in conversation with Chyna is not something I want to do.