“No, the moon. I hear there’s a really big mirror there—perfect for fixing up your makeup and taking selfies, didn’t you know?”

“Okay, there’s no need to get sarcastic.” I punch her on the shoulder.

“I’m going, I’ll be right back. Don’t go up on stage without me, okay?” She turns around and whips me in the face with her urna.

“Okay,” I mumble, but Priti has already disappeared into the crowd. I turn back to face the stage. The Irish girls from the back room are up there now, their faces arranged into wide grins as the professional photographer clicks away. One of them rushes off the stage, nearly tripping, and hands the photographer her iPhone, mumbling something. The photographer frowns but begins to click away with the iPhone. I wonder if photographers feel a little insulted when people ask them to do that.

“So is this what weddings in your country are usually like?”

I turn around and come face-to-face with the girl with the curly brown hair who has been dancing in the back of my mind all night. She must remember me to come up to me like this. There’s a hint of a smile on her face; I can’t tell if she’s impressed by the wedding or if she’s trying to insult it.

“Sorry?” is all I can say, though there are a million other things I could have said that would have made me seem a little more charming and a little less dumbfounded.

“You don’t remember me.” Her smile shifts into a smirk. It suits her, weirdly. There’s a dimple that forms on her right cheek.

“I do.” It comes out more defensive than I want it to, but I do. More clearly than I should.

“And my name?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I bite my lip. Then, acting braver than I feel, I say, “Do you remember my name?”

“Nisha.” More confident than she should feel.

It’s my turn to smirk. “Wrong.”

She looks bewildered. “No, I’m … that’s …” She knits her eyebrows together, like she’s really thinking about this. “That is your name. I remember, you’re from Bangladesh. Ms. O’Donnell made you do a presentation about it in your first week in class and you were so embarrassed or shy or something that your entire face was on fire, and you stuttered through the whole presentation.”

I do remember that presentation. It was my first week in school, my first month in the country. Everything was still new and everyone’s words blurred together in an accent I couldn’t yet understand.

“It’s Nishat,” I offer. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“You were kind of distinctive.” She’s trying to bite down another smile. I can tell from the way her lips are turned up at the edges.