her mother—at home in general—than she was at CIS.
This wasn’t out of necessity—at least Amira didn’t think so. Her mother was strong-willed, sure, but Amira had never tested that will. If she pushed back against her mother’s beliefs about what Amira could not or should not do, about what girls could not or should not do, her mother might very well respect her wishes. Her dad, certainly, was less of a traditionalist than many Malaysian men of his generation.
Amira became someone else at school merely out of opportunity. At home there were expectations pressing down on her—not forcefully, but they weighed heavily just the same. Expectations of what a girl should do and be, expectations of religion, expectations of family, expectations of sexuality, expectations that she did not feel equipped to go against. And though she did not hold herself to many of these expectations, her parents did, and that wasn’t something she could ignore.
Amira did not know how her parents would react if she outwardly bucked any of these expectations, and so she tried as best as she could to fit within them. She was never forced to act a certain way; the expectations were so heavy that she didn’t dare subvert them.
At school, though, the expectations felt easily shed. They were not religious or familial, they weren’t ingrained into the history of who she was. The expectations outside of her home felt, at worst, superficial. Society and its expectations, albeit plentiful and obsequious, were not tethered to Amira’s soul. So she could leave them behind, chasing the thunk thunk of her heart instead.
* * *
Most people expected Amira to win, though a handful of others believed Omar Ng’s strength and speed were superior simply because of his masculinity. Omar, for his part, standing on the opposite side of the gymnasium from Amira, likewise awaiting the first event (a one-on-one basketball tournament), wished Amira the best, and at least partially hoped she would beat him. He wanted only to do his best, or whatever amount of athleticism might impress Peejay Singh.
Omar eyed the bleachers, looking for Peejay’s magnificent face in the stands. Those dark eyes of his, that unblemished brown skin, the softness of which would be apparent even from across the gym. There were plenty of people, many holding up poster board signs in support of Amira and a handful for Omar, with a few more scattered signs for other competitors unlikely to succeed against the two front-runners. Others had signs advertising their team or club’s event or booth at the lock-in. Some held signs simply in support of lock-in night itself. Omar couldn’t see Peejay there, but right before the whistle sounded he thought he saw his younger sister, Joy, fiddling near the exit to the gymnasium, holding something shiny.
* * *
While her brother checked the ball to his opponent, Joy Ng tried to remember Marisa’s exact instructions. Loop twice, then over and through, or over and through, then loop twice? She’d lost the notebook paper where she’d written it down. Joy didn’t want to disappoint Marisa by messing up the chains and not having everyone properly locked in.
She pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose and fixed her hair back up into its usual messy bun, figuring it would be enough to simply make the metallic knot as convoluted as possible. The steel clinked satisfyingly in her hands, and she smiled as the gym burst into cheers around her (Amira had scored her first basket of the tournament, a beautiful pull-up jumper from the elbow). Joy felt like she was making Marisa proud, but right at the moment she clicked the locks into place, she realized she had forgotten to use the bathroom. Longingly, she looked across the gym, where at that moment Celeste Rollins emerged from one of the two unisex toilets.
* * *
Unlike most everyone else, Celeste was not enjoying lock-in night.
A new student at CIS, Celeste had never lived outside of the US before, and had struggled to make friends. Struggled is too generous a word. Celeste had failed to make friends for the past eight months. No one was mean to her, nor did they hold her Americanness against her. But no one made a space for her, either.
She could at least partially understand. It was what she came to think of as her unfortunate singlehood—single passport, single language, single previous home. All these other kids knew the world up close, knew its histories and beautiful nooks, knew the