“Henna–”
“Please don’t shout,” she winces. “It makes my stomach hurt.”
“I didn’t even raise my voice.”
“It sounded like you might.”
This actually makes me angry. “When, in my entire life, have I ever shouted at you?”
“Never, I know.” She breathes heavy for a minute. “My stomach hurts.”
“You were worried about asking us.”
“Yes.”
“You’re worried he might say no anyway.”
“Yes.”
“You’re worried about your mom and dad not letting you go to prom with someone they’ve never met so you’re going to pitch it that he’d come with all of us when really you just want him to come with you.”
I see her swallow. “There’s a war in the Central African Republic.”
“…What?”
“They’re still going to go, Mikey. They’re going to give aid to refugees. But it’s a war. An actual war. And they say we’ll be in safe places but…”
I turn a little in my seat to look at her better. “That’s crazy.”
“And it’s the stupid prom that’s making my stomach hurt.” She laughs, but it’s thick in her throat. “I didn’t want to let you guys down. And I have no idea where this comes from with Nathan–”
“You don’t even know him–”
“I know! I’ve spoken to him like three times! But it’s like I was telling Mel. It wells up in my stomach when I see him and it’s so strong, I can barely put two words together and I’m a smart person, Mike!” She shakes her head. “Smart enough to know that it’s probably not Nathan. It’s going away, isn’t it? It’s school ending. It’s going to the middle of a war. With my parents. My stomach hurts all the time and he’s a distraction from that.”
“…But a good one.”
She nods. “I’m sorry to be saying this to you. Of all people.”
I blink. “Of all people,” I echo.
She looks at me again. And then once more. She clearly wants to say something, but doesn’t know how. Or doesn’t want to hurt me.
Of all people.
I stare at her profile as she drives, taking a turn, then another, then to the road that leads to our respective houses.
She’s beautiful, and not in a stupid way. Sometimes she leaves her hair curly, sometimes she straightens it. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if she’s got make-up on or not – though she regularly complains about how hard it is to get proper stuff for black skin out here in our little middle of nowhere.
But it doesn’t matter. She’s beautiful. The tiny scar on her cheek makes her more so, not less. The freckles that are pretty much the only inheritance from her father even more. The slight overbite. The terrible taste in earrings. None of it matters. Or if it matters, it’s only because it makes everything else more beautiful.
And she knows I think so.
How could she not? She’s smart, like she said, and she’s best friends with my sister. There’s no way she could not know.
And she desires Nathan, not me. Her anxiety – which I understand, hooray – looked for a place of safety and it found Nathan. It didn’t find me. And she knows how I’ll take that information.
This should hurt my heart. It does. I can feel it. I should also be humiliated that she knows how I feel, and I do, I can feel that, too. But I look at her, and I just want to make it all okay.