“I missed you, Hasina. Oh, I missed you too.” In Tariq's grimace, Laila learned that boys differed from girls in this regard.
They didn't make a show of friendship. They felt no urge, no need, for this sort of talk.
Laila imagined it had been this way for her brothers too.
Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.
“I was trying to annoy you,” she said. He gave her a sidelong glance. “It worked.”
But she thought his grimace softened. And she thought that maybe the sunburn on his cheeks deepened momentarily.
Laila didn't mean to tell him. She'd, in fact, decided that telling him would be a very bad idea.
Someone would get hurt, because Tariq wouldn't be able to let it pass.
But when they were on the street later, heading down to the bus stop, she saw Khadim again, leaning against a wall.
He was surrounded by his friends, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He grinned at her defiantly.
And so she told Tariq. The story spilled out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“He did what?” She told him again. He pointed to Khadim. “Him? He's the one? You're sure?” “I'm sure.”
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