A single knock on my bedroom door was my only warning before Shayda barged into my room, looking overheated.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” And then, taking a long look at me: “Why are your eyes all red and puffy?”
I startled, glanced in the mirror. “Oh,” I said. “Allergies?”
“You don’t have allergies.”
“Maybe I do.” I tried to laugh. “Is it really bad?”
“Whatever, I don’t care,” she said, distracted. “Just get dressed, please. I can’t go down there without you.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because,” she said. She narrowed her eyes, pinwheeled her arms like I should understand.
I did not.
And then she shook her head, shook her head like she was talking to an idiot. “I don’t want to look too eager, okay? I’m trying to be—” She waved her hand around, searching for the right word.
“Nonchalant?”
“What? Why can’t you talk like a normal person?”
“I do talk like a nor—”
“God, I don’t care, okay?” She cut me off. “I don’t care. How do I look?”
I took a deep breath and thought of my mother, my mother, my mother. And then, carefully, I processed the scene in front of me.
Shayda was wearing a dress—long and frilly and glittery—with a shiny hijab to match. She looked nice, but extremely overdressed, a truth I wasn’t sure I should impart. I didn’t know how to tell her that it didn’t matter how many people accompanied her as she descended the stairs; her outfit screamed the truth.
She looked too eager.
“You look really nice,” I said instead.
She rolled her eyes and shot me a look so scathing it scared me a little. “Forget it, I’ll go without you.”
She was already at the door, turning the handle, when I said:
“What is your problem?” I could no longer keep the anger out of my voice. “I just told you that you look really nice. Why is that a bad thing?”
“I saidforget it, Shadi. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I was stupid to even ask you to care.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means?” She spun back without warning. “It means you don’t care. It means you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.”
I stepped back like I’d been struck.
“That’s not true,” I said, but I was stunned, which made me sound uncertain, which only proved her point.
She laughed, but the sound was hollow, angry. “You don’t care about anything. Not about us, not about Baba. You never talk to Maman, you never ask me anything about my life.”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to ask—I didn’t even know you wanted to talk to me—”
Her eyes went wide. “Shadi, you’re mysister. Who else am I supposed to talk to?”
I took a step forward and she drew suddenly back, her face flushing.
