“No,” I cut her off firmly. “What are they going to do?” Priti doesn’t know that I’ve been late to P.E. almost every day since being outed because now I have to change after all the other girls have left. She doesn’t know the things I hear them whisper about me sometimes. She doesn’t know that there’s nothing to be done about it all—just like nobody ever called out Chyna for all of the awful, racist things she has done, nobody is going to face consequences for their homophobia in this school.

“Apujan.”

“Just leave it,” I say.

She frowns, before casting a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you’re going to have a choice, Apujan. Ammu and Abbu are here.”

“What?”

When I look up and follow her gaze, I can make out my parents weaving their way through the crowd, sticking out like sore thumbs. Ammu is wearing a green and red saree, one that I’ve only ever seen her wear on Noboborsho, the Bengali New Year. Abbu has opted to go traditional too, with a collared off-white Panjabi with a subtle black and gold design along the edges. They both look far too fancy for a regular school function; I can see some of the other kids, and a lot of the other parents looking at them with raised eyebrows.

If this was any other day, I might be embarrassed, but right now I actually feel a swell of pride and joy. Their fancy outfits are an obvious show of support.

They stop in front of my stall with frowns on their lips and exchange a quick glance with each other. Speaking in that unique, exclusive language they’ve always had.

“What’s this?” Ammu asks. “This is your stall?”

I know she doesn’t mean it as an insult, but I wince.

“It’s …” I’m not sure how to string the words together to tell them what happened, but before I can try, Priti chimes in.

“Somebody destroyed it!”

“What?” Abbu asks, one eyebrow raised.

I shoot Priti a glare. “I came back from lunch and all my stuff was … gone.”

Abbu and Ammu share another look. Then, to my surprise, Ammu steps forward and plops herself down on the chair I have set up for customers. She looks small and uncomfortable—like she really, really doesn’t belong, especially in her saree.

“Well?” She looks up at me. “Aren’t you going to do my mehndi?”

I grab one of the only henna tubes that hasn’t been slashed and begin to weave henna patterns into her hands while Abbu goes for a stroll around the hall with Priti.

“I’ll scope out the competition!” Priti says with a little too much delight in her voice, while Abbu shakes his head, like he’s not quite sure how he got stuck with her.