I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should interrupt whatever conversation they’re in the middle of. Then I remember that if it wasn’t for Priti, I would be home in bed right now, wearing my PJs and binge-watching a show on Netflix. I march right over.

“Hey!”

They break apart and turn to me, Ali with a frown on her lips and Priti looking sheepish.

“Hey Nishat.” Ali’s pale red hair, which is usually straight, is falling in curls around her face. It looks almost exactly like Priti’s. I wonder if they planned this, or if they’re so close that these things simply happen. Like they have some kind of telepathy going on.

“Most of your classmates are in the sitting room, I think?” Ali says.

I know a brush off when I hear one, but I still glance at Priti, wondering if she’ll ask me to stay. After all, she asked me to come. But she says nothing. She doesn’t even look at me; she just stares at the ground. At her pretty pink shoes and the cream-colored tiles.

“I guess I’ll head over there, then,” I mumble, turning away. I feel a hole opening up inside me. I wouldn’t have come to this party if I’d known this was how things were going to go.

I guess I shouldn’t be totally surprised though. Ali and Priti might be best friends, but Ali’s never been my biggest fan. I always chalked it up to jealousy; Priti and I are close, obviously, and in the teen scheme of things—where you need that one BFF, the one you share half a heart necklace with—I’m Ali’s competition. If I’m honest, maybe I’m a little jealous of Ali too.

Slipping away, I peek through a crack in the door of the sitting room. It’s much fuller than the kitchen. I recognize more girls from school, but there are still so many who aren’t familiar to me; they must be from other schools, I’m guessing. And then there are all the boys, with pimples all over their cheeks and foreheads and AXE body spray so strong that my nostrils are overpowered from outside the room.

I spot Flávia and Chyna in a corner with a group of boys. Flávia is looking at one tall guy with messy blonde hair with particular interest. She has an arm on his shoulder and is listening to him speak intently, though how she can hear him over the persistent thump thump thump of the music is beyond me.

I can’t help it; I feel my stomach drop even though my little crush on Flávia is supposed to have disappeared. I guess it’s not that simple to get over someone. I still have a thing for Taylor Swift, after all—even though I hate all of her white feminism nonsense.