Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating(29)

“Hey.” Hani smiles into the camera. “I’m kind of getting ready?”

“Me too.” I sigh. “I don’t know what people wear to a birthday party.”

“Clothes,” Hani deadpans.

“I know.” I roll my eyes. “A dress? Jeans? Is it casual? Semi-formal? Is it—”

“Definitely not semi-formal,” Hani says. “Show me some options.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.” She points to the wardrobe behind me. “Just open it up and show me what you have.”

“It’s kind of messy,” I mumble, inching forward. I haven’t properly organized my wardrobe in a while. When I throw open the doors, Hani’s eyebrows shoot up right into her hair.

“This is messy?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.” I observe my wardrobe. It’s mismatched, because I’ve been putting everything in without paying attention to color coordination or anything.

“Okay. You’re never looking in my wardrobe,” Hani mumbles. “Let’s see what you were thinking.”

I pull out my favorite flannel shirt. Hani immediately shoots it down saying, “Not unless you want to be an absolute lesbian stereotype.”

“I’m not even a lesbian,” I say.

Hani just shrugs. “That’s why I said stereotype. Plus, considering my friends’ reactions to me being bisexual, I think most people at this party will be the types to pigeonhole identities.” Like they have been our entire lives, I think but don’t say aloud. Maybe Hani has chosen to forget about my first few weeks in the school when the two of us were forced together by her friends. I bet they feel satisfaction seeing us as a couple now. Like they always expected it. We are culturally similar and, therefore, must be meant for each other. Never mind the vast differences in our language or our religious beliefs. To most white people, just having brown skin is going to mean we’re one and the same.

We go through a few more things that Hani says no to and end up settling on a simple black dress and—on my insistence—a pair of leggings.

“It’s almost summer, you know,” Hani says. “You can show a little skin.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

Hani just shrugs and lets it go. I’ve realized that’s one of the things I really like about her. She doesn’t press me on things—except when we’re in the middle of an argument, I guess.

“So … I’ll see you at the party? When are you going to be there?” she asks.

“I don’t know. When I’m ready, I guess.”

“Are you nervous? Because you seem nervous.”

“Is it that obvious?” It must be, from the sympathetic look she gives me.

“It’s just a birthday party. And everyone will be so focused on their own stuff that they won’t even pay you mind.” I know she means that to be reassuring but the idea that I’m going to all this effort for a party where people won’t even pay me attention makes me feel worse.

“If I’m going to this party, I want people to notice me. We are there to get people to notice us. You want your friends to know that you aren’t just pretending to be bisexual. I want people to see me as someone who can be their Head Girl.”

“Right.” Hani nods firmly. “Then you should definitely leave those leggings at home …” She trails off with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, it seems as if Hani is actually flirting with me. The thought of it fills me with a fluttery feeling that I don’t like one bit. A moment later, Hani shakes her head and says, “Actually … that would only work if you were running for Head Girl at the boys’ school. I’ll see you in a few hours?”

“Wait—” I say, before she can click the “end call” button.

“Yes?”

“Do you … think I can come over and get ready with you? And then … maybe we could go over together?” I ask. “I just … don’t want to show up there and then you’re not there. Aisling and Deirdre aren’t exactly my friends.”

“They’ll be nice to you,” Hani says, though she doesn’t quite seem to believe her own reassurances. The next moment, she nods her head and says, “Yeah … come over.”

A half hour later, Hani and I are in her bedroom once more. Me, in my black dress and leggings. Hani, in a purple dress with long, lace sleeves.

She makes me sit down at her desk and pulls at my hair with a brush.

“You know, there’s not much you can do with short hair,” I tell her, even as she seems adamant about making it do something.

“Is that why you always cut it so short?” she asks, a little too close to my ear. I edge away slightly, though it’s difficult when she’s essentially holding me hostage with a hairbrush.

“Kind of,” I say. “I mean … our hair is a lot of upkeep, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” she asks. I want to roll my eyes. This seems like the kind of naive conversation she would have with her white friends because she wants to keep up this pretense of being exactly the same as them. But Hani’s hair is almost down to her waist and she has to tie it up into a thick plait to keep it manageable.

“You know what I mean,” I say, trying to bite back the sarcasm that comes to me way too naturally. “You have such long, thick hair. It must take a lot of work to keep it that way.”