Born Wrong

05. a girl in the background

Kala Roshan

On Monday, while I was zoning out on a lecture about Shakespeare's Hamlet, I was pricked on the shoulder by a nail.

It snapped me out of my reverie, especially when said nail was filed down to a sharp point that punctured like a bite, and I turned around to face Husna Mansoor: the culprit boasting Ferrari-red nail polish and long stilettos.

I blink in surprise.

"Kala, right?" Husna asks with a wave of her hand, brushing away the curls of her dark mane. I hesitantly nod in response, consciously-aware of how her friends were displaying looks of confusion on why Miss Popular was talking to me. "I have a question for you."

I didn't know what to do. Most of my interactions with Husna's friends, aka the most popular girls and boys of our high school, were negative. I'm a quiet person, always opting to keep to the background, and while you would think this would allow me some semblance of invisibility, it is actually proven the opposite. Since I wasn't average—the one with at least one friend, who talks in class but meets the bare minimum, and has a moderate social presence—I was seen. I was targeted. I was made fun of.

I don't know about Husna, though.

She never bullied me. It is mainly because she just moved here from Los Angeles, two months into senior year. You would think this would push her to a similar status to me, but she managed within the social hierarchy. She's a pretty girl, and a smart one, because within a week, she climbed the social ladder into the most elusive friend group of Arlington High.

"Hello?" Husna snaps me back into focus and I shake my head, pulling myself away from my thoughts. This earns a few snickers from her friends, and one of the girls—Riya—comes forward and hits Husna on the arm.

"Leave her alone. She's basically a mute; you're not going to get anything from her." Riya says, making the boys in the back laugh some more. This earns some attention from our fellow peers, but no notice from our teacher.

Husna shoves Riya's hand away from her, "I can talk to her if I want to." She rolls her eyes and talks in a tone I can't quite decipher. It's the Valley accent: the type where her words were drawn-out, almost monotonic, where you can't exactly tell if she's being genuine or fake.

She turns back to me, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Are you always this quiet?"

It's the voice. I honestly can't tell. I don't know if I should prepare myself to be on the receiving end of a punchline, or if she has a sincere question about my lack of speech.

I don't answer.

Riya chuckles beside her, "I told you. You're not going to get anything from her—"

"God, Riya, are you always this annoying?" Husna snaps, causing her friend to silence herself into submission. Their other friends, the two boys in the back, watch the interaction between Husna and Riya with veiled interest—not knowing if this could tip into their established dynamics. "I've met pigeons more well-behaved than you. Let me do my thing."

There's something about her confidence. I would've chalked it up to being raised in the city of celebrities; you would have to pose confidence in order to navigate that space. It was rich, riveting, scary. I didn't know if I should turn back to my seat, focus on what Thompson was saying about Ophelia or stay in place.

Riya says nothing in response, and her mood completely deflated at the insult Husna issued. With satisfaction, Husna turns back to me with a quirk of her perfectly-arched brow.

"Are you?"

I stammer to find an answer. I don't know if it's because Husna just showed me she can dominate a person within seconds, or because I have a complex relationship with the women in my life—I attribute it to both—but I find myself mumbling a weak response.