Flávia doesn’t seem taken aback by the bluntness of my question. I know if it was Jess, she’d be annoyed that I was “playing the race card” by bringing up race at all. White people like to pretend that race is only as deep as the color of our skin—maybe because the color of their skin gets them so many benefits.

But race is so much more than that. Good things and bad things. And when you’re Brown or Black, it shapes you in life. Maybe even more so for Flávia.

Flávia takes a deep breath and says, “It’s like … I know that I have to be certain things to get by in life. I have to be smart enough and talk a certain way and adapt to what my dad’s family wants. Chyna thinks that’s just who I am. I guess she doesn’t really see the other side of me. Maybe because I don’t show her the other side of me.”

I want to ask her what exactly she means by that, what the other side of her is, but she shakes her head.

“Anyway, that’s enough about Chyna. You know, you look nice tonight.” Before I can reply, she reaches out and touches the sheer sleeves of my dress, running her fingers over the cloth.

My heart is going a mile a minute all of a sudden and I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, drowning out almost everything else.

“Though I didn’t think this was exactly your style.”

I shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though I am definitely freaking out inside.

“It’s a celebration, right?” I say.

“Right.” She catches my eye. “Well, I like it. And when did you get this?” This time, she reaches over to touch the gold ring jutting out of my nose. It’s the same one I was wearing at Sunny Apu’s wedding. “I don’t remember this from primary school. It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

Flávia leans forward so much that our faces are inches apart. And she’s touching me—albeit on the nose, which is weird and not romantic at all, but it’s still making my stomach do somersaults—and I can feel how hot my face has gotten. Just from that single touch that I can barely feel.

I want to think this is just something girls do—that it means nothing. But I’m one hundred percent sure that the way she’s looking at me is not the way friends look at each other. Her eyes are bright, but hooded. Intense.

She’s inching forward.

Is there a heterosexual explanation for why she’s inching forward?

Her hand drops from my nose, grazes my cheek, and cups my face.

And then I’m inching forward, though it’s an unconscious decision. My heart is about to burst out of my chest.

PING!