At the sound of Chyna’s voice, I drop said French book right onto my toes.

“Ow. Um, hi.” I pick up the book, trying to massage my toes through my shoes and definitely looking like a misshapen pretzel or something.

Chyna doesn’t seem very sympathetic to my plight, unsurprisingly. She’s looking around as if to make sure nobody’s watching us have this conversation. It’s only five minutes until the bell rings, so everyone is too busy to pay attention to our corner of the hallway. Except for Chaewon and Jess, whose lockers are only a few away from mine. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see their attempts at inconspicuously eavesdropping.

Chyna takes a deep breath and, with a pained expression on her face, says, “I wanted to tell you that it’s okay that you’re dating my cousin.”

“Oh.” She’s still avoiding my eyes and I wonder if Flávia put her up to this. “Well … thanks.”

She finally catches my eye and her lips press together in a frown. “I probably shouldn’t have said what I did on Friday …” She trails off as the sound of the first bell fills the air around us.

“I should …” Chyna is already shuffling away from me, putting visible distance between us like I’m contagious with something she’s afraid of catching.

Chaewon and Jess make their way over almost as soon as Chyna is out of sight. Their eyes are bulging out their sockets.

“What was that?” Jess asks, as if she just witnessed something otherworldly. She might as well have.

“I guess that was Chyna apologizing?”

“That was an apology?” Chaewon asks, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. “I think it’s the most I’m ever going to get.”

Even Chyna’s non-apology apology can’t ruin my good mood because when I wave goodbye to my friends and slip into French class, Flávia is sitting in a corner. She has her bag propped up on the seat beside her, and she’s absentmindedly twirling a curl around her finger.

When she sees me, her face breaks out into a smile.

Dimples and all.

Warmth spreads through me at the sight.

34

FLÁVIA HAS A THING FOR PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES. IT’S possibly the most white girl thing about her. So when she drags me into Starbucks one afternoon after school and buys me one of those spiced coffees, I have to pretend that I hate it, even though I secretly kind of love it.

I scrunch up my nose with every sip I take, until Flávia rolls her eyes and says, “I bet if I come here tomorrow, you’ll already be in a corner cradling a mug of pumpkin spice latte.”

“I can’t believe you think I have such bad taste.”

“You’re a real food snob, you know that?”