Us In Red | Gini

Five

Kourtney's neighbourhood is the kind of place you'd see in a travel magazine. Old trees sprout from front lawns and spread out, branches covering the sky, creating a canopy over the street. Sunshine streaks through the spaces between the leaves, looking like golden glitter on the asphalt. At the end of the cul-de-sac is my friend's house, a dark burgundy spot among the its dull counterparts.

It feels strange stepping up the onto the porch to go see someone other than my best friend, but it doesn't feel wrong. I'd forgotten to return Gina's jacket during the week, so I brought it with me now. Actually, I wore it here. I was just going to carry it, but I like the way it feels. It calms my constantly-on-edge nerves, maybe because it belongs to someone so close to Kourtney, or maybe because it's just comfortable—I'm not sure which.

I ring the doorbell, and a part of me is caught off guard by Gina answering the door instead of Kourtney, even though I know Kourtney's not here. But that feeling goes away almost immediately when Gina smiles. I didn't see her at all at school, so I'm only seeing her for the first time now, and I feel a little disoriented for a moment looking at her now. It's like I'd forgotten that she looks like this. She wears a jean mini skirt and an indigo long sleeved-top that hugs her figure. The silver glitter in her eyeshadow is subtle, but I notice it. I don't think I ever realized before just how pretty she is.

"Hey," she says.

"Hi," I say, my eyes still stuck on hers.

"Come on in."

She steps aside, and I remove my shoes. The door closes, and she turns back around to face me.

"Oh, uh—" I start to take off the jacket "—I brought your jacket. Sorry, I didn't give it back sooner."

"Keep it," she says, stopping me as I'm about to pull my arms out of the sleeves. "It looks better on you anyway."

Smiling, I slide the jacket back on and bring my hands up to lift my hair out from under the collar.

"So, do you have a copy of the script, or do you need one?" Gina asks, walking with me farther into her house. "I have an extra."

"I'm good," I reply. "I've got one." I tap the coat pocket where I have my lines folded up inside.

"Awesome. You can head down to the basement if you want, and I'll just grab my script and meet you down there."

We split in different directions, but even as I descend the stairs, I find myself looking back over at the girl going upstairs, and I almost trip. The rest of the way, I focus on making it down safely, and a minute later, Gina comes down to join me on the couch. She plops down cross-legged at the other end of the sofa from me, her body turned in my direction.

"Do you want to start?" Gina asks. "I'll read the lines for the dad."

"Yeah, sure," I reply.

We both flip open our scripts to the part for those auditioning for Mo to read. It's the scene where she comes out of the police station and talks to her parents. Gina flicks her eyes up to me in a way that asks if I'm ready. I almost am, but I feel too far, so I scoot forward a little to make the space between us less prominent.

Then I start my lines. "'Okay, look, I know you're disappointed in me, and I just—'"

"'I don't want to talk about it,'" Gina reads. "'Let's go.'"

"'No, Baba, please. I need to say this.'" There's a pause, and Gina looks up from her script to me with a smile. Although it's soft as cotton, something about it makes me feel weird, so I force my eyes downward again at my own papers. "'Look, I'm never gonna be this perfect, Indian daughter you want me to be. I'm never gonna be just a regular American teenager. I guess I don't know what I am exactly. Maybe a little bit of both? But what I'm trying to saying is . . . I'm finding my way. And yeah, I'll—I'll make mistakes, but . . . I deserve for you to just let me be me.'"