She frowns, like she’s thinking really hard about this. If you have to think that hard about the last time you prayed to Allah, I don’t think you get to hate gay people on the basis of God.

“That’s not important,” she says finally. “What’s important is that this … this is a sickness and—” I shoot up from the bed, feeling the blood rush to my head so fast that I stumble.

“I think you should leave.”

“But—”

“Please leave.” I want to say more. To scream, shout. Tell her that everything—every single thing—she has to say about my sexuality is hypocritical. Judgmental lies based on nothing. That she has no business coming to my room and telling me that I have a sickness. But I don’t. The words clog up my throat and I realize that they wouldn’t make a difference anyway.

I just want it to stop.

She stands up too and turns her whole body toward me. She has only a few inches on me but it feels like she’s towering over me. I realize this is the first time she’s looked at me—like actually looked at me—since I walked into this room. I wait for her to say something more but she doesn’t. Instead, she shakes her head and slips out the door. I can hear the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs, and then Ammu’s murmurs.

I close my door before I can decipher what they have to say to each other.

I’m too tired to hear them discuss me. I’m too tired to hear them judge me.

I’m too tired.

An entire hour has passed by the time Priti barges into my room. It’s strange, because if things were the other way around I would already be in Priti’s room, asking her to fill me in on all of the details. Instead, I’ve just been sitting alone in my bed, going over henna designs and stewing in my own misery.

When I look up at her though, I realize why she is only entering my room now. She has her hair up in a bun, prepared to get ready for tonight’s party, and a nervous smile on her lips.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, but I already know that she doesn’t really want to talk about it. She’s already in the headspace of the party and hanging out with Ali.

I shrug. “I’m okay.”

“Sure?”

I wonder how much of Ammu and Sunny Apu’s conversation she heard; she’s an expert eavesdropper, very light on her feet. But if she did hear their conversation, she doesn’t say anything about it.