by Heron, Farah
“Totally fun,” Gia said. “And I feel like we’ve, you know, reconnected with a simpler life. A couple of days ago, we were even hanging out at a farm! Can you imagine? But I’m glad to be back to the city. Those rural communities are so monolithic, you know? Everyone is the same. There is no originality. I’m glad to be around, you know, cool people again.” She smiled at Marcus.
“You mean everyone is white and straight out there,” Angie said, dipping a tortilla chip into a green salsa.
I shook my head. “Actually, it’s pretty diverse for such a small town.”
“Yeah, but they’re all into the same thing,” Gia said. “Flowers. Like, seriously—I know florals are hot right now, but in design. Not actual flowers. We were even supposed to be doing this flower-arranging thing this weekend.” Gia grinned at Marcus again. “This is so much better. Flower nerds have no chill. I’m glad to be back with people who know how to enjoy themselves.”
Who exactly was Gia talking about? Cameron? Juniper? Rowan? Was this just to look cool in front of these people, or did she actually believe these things?
“Seriously, Gia?” I asked. “You were all about taking pictures of flowers from the moment we got there. And you didn’t seem to have an issue spending all your time there with locals.” One, in particular, but I doubted she wanted me to mention Cameron now that she was flirting with this guy.
Gia gave me her sweet smile. “I was trying to help you make the best out of a shitty situation.” She turned to Dasha. “It’s all good now, though. We have one more week there; then we’ll be back to civilization.”
“I love those cutesy small towns for the aesthetic, but the people are just exhausting,” Dasha said.
“Exactly,” Gia agreed.
“I thought you made friends there, Gia?” Matteo asked. Even he seemed to notice how ridiculous his cousin was being today.
Gia snorted. “With who? Addison, the bitchiest, meanest mean girl I’ve ever met? Or Juniper, real name, by the way? The girl only talks about three things: flowers, books, and her dead grandma. Yet her mouth never stops moving. Then there’s Leanne. She’s a unique one. Bit of a hillbilly. Obsessed with her rabbits and teaches them to jump through hoops, which must be some sort of animal cruelty. Only thing interesting about Juniper and Leanne is that they are secretly totally into each other, but like everyone else there, they’re so backward they won’t act on it.”
I blinked at Gia. She was going way too far.
Matteo laughed. “Everyone couldn’t have been bad, considering you and Tahira both hooked up there.”
Gia gave Marcus a flirty giggle. “Nothing serious. Just a fling to get me through the summer.” She winked at him. “A girl has needs, you know? And you can’t blame Tahira for claiming Rowan for herself. I mean, did you see the guy on her Insta? He’s hotter than sin, and he’s a gifted artist. Too bad he has the personality of a . . .” She looked at me. “What was it you said? He’s got the personality of a garden slug?” She laughed. “But oh my God, the engagement on her page from those pictures. Phew. He even got her into that sunflower field before it was open to the public. Worth it, I’d say.”
What. The. Hell. Did Gia seriously think I was using Rowan for my Instagram? I wanted to tell her off . . . she knew that wasn’t true. She knew how much Rowan and Juniper meant to me.
Or did she? That first day Rowan kissed me, I’d really wanted to talk to Gia about him. Even before that, I’d wanted to talk to her as soon as I noticed that I’d caught feelings for the guy. But she hadn’t been around. She’d been with Cameron, who I’d thought she was actually really into but who she now was ready to dump for this guy who had fifty thousand followers.
But even if she didn’t know how much Rowan meant to me, she did know I would never use someone like that. I mean, she knew I dumped Matteo as soon as I found out he was using that Alyssa person for her party invitations.
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to yell that yes, Bakewell started out being torture, but it turned out to be wonderful. I wanted to say that Juniper was sweeter, kinder, and more loyal to her friends than any of the phonies at this table. That being alone in a sunflower field was a more transcendent experience than any photo shoot or rooftop party.
That I’d take a flower nerd any day over a flighty, opportunistic, long-waisted, gaslighting cheater.
But this wasn’t the right crowd to hear me admit that I really wasn’t feeling this life anymore.
Nilusha started talking about the Paris streetwear scene, which was a bit different from the North American scene. I struggled to pay attention. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t, because this—the recognition, the networking, the ass-kissing—was all necessary to get where I wanted to be.
I loved fashion. I loved design. I wanted that feeling of being completely engrossed in the perfect flow of creating something. Seeing something go from a two-dimensional drawing to a three-dimensional garment and, finally, seeing it on a real person.
My work. My designs. Becoming a tool someone used to express their true selves.
I still wanted that.
But I also wanted to lie out on a clear night with so many stars in the sky that I could barely keep my eyes open. I wanted to watch sunsets in the middle of farmers’ fields with my friends. I wanted to take pictures, of gardens, of cities, of people I loved. I wanted to stop and smell the flowers a little more often.
Problem was, I had no idea how to have it all. Or whether it was even possible.
26
CHOCOLATE, CHURROS, AND HEART-TO-HEARTS
After we finished eating, everyone talked about heading to a lounge of some sort, but I didn’t feel like going, so I made an excuse. Matteo and Gia seemed super enthusiastic, though, so I resigned myself to taking the subway alone back to Scarborough. After saying a quick goodbye, I headed toward the nearest streetcar stop.
But Nilusha called out: “Wait up, Tahira!” She tapped her cane on a nearby light post. “I’m not in the mood to join the others if it means navigating those narrow ‘lounges’ with this. I told everyone I’d see them at the party tomorrow. Want to have that coffee before you head home?”
I wasn’t sure. Nilusha wasn’t annoying me like Gia and Matteo were, probably because she didn’t need to suck up to these people, but she was a part of this whole scene that was getting under my skin today. Still, she was my mentor, and I knew what Mom would say: that an existential career crisis was exactly the stuff you were supposed to talk to your mentor about.
“Okay.”
“C’mon,” Nilusha said, motioning for me to follow her back into the Distillery District. “There is a place over here which has chocolat chaud almost as good as Paris.”
The hot chocolate smelled good. The place was adorbs. Nilusha was as warm, open, and kind as ever. But still. I wanted to go home. Maybe watch Netflix and chill. Maybe stare at those pictures from the sunflower field. Maybe wait for my phone to buzz with a text from Rowan that would never come.
Pretty pathetic.
“Here, share with me,” Nilusha said, holding her plate out to me. “I didn’t realize an order of churros would have so many.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.”
“I miss the patisseries in France so much,” she said, taking a churro for herself. “Didier sent me some pictures of beautiful pâte à choux puffs that were decorated with gold leaf yesterday.”
“Are you still seeing him?” How could they possibly still be together? A nurse in a busy Paris hospital and a Toronto fashion designer were about as far apart as you could get. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their love of pastries.
“No, not technically.” She waved her hand nonchalantly. “Just friends now. It would be nice to keep someone as steady as him around, but I’m honest with myself. I don’t have the time to devote to a relationship when I’m getting my brand off the ground. It was a holiday fling, like yours with that garden boy.”
A holiday fling. She made it sound s
o insignificant.
Nilusha tilted her head. “I detected a bit of tension between you and your friend there—what’s her name, Gina?”
“Gia.” I blew out a puff of air, looking at one of the old French chocolate posters on the wall. “What she said was wrong. There are a lot of cool people in Bakewell. And I wasn’t using Rowan for hits on my social.”
“No, you don’t seem the type.” Nilusha dipped another churro into her single-origin steamed chocolate.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think Gia was the type, either. She was all over this guy in Bakewell. Why make it seem to Dasha like there was no one there of any substance? I mean, I know she can be a bit extra, but I’ve never seen her that phony. I don’t know why she was acting like that.”
Nilusha tilted her head. “Don’t you?”
“You think she was just trying to be, I don’t know, cool for the cool kids or something?”
Nilusha smiled, shrugging. “This industry brings out the worst in a lot of people. You must have seen that before.”
Of course I had. I’d seen backstabbing when I was working on Yorkville or applying for internships. A girl intentionally spilled foundation on another girl’s dress at the audition for that TV show. And I’d heard stories much worse. People would throw their own grandmother under a bus if it meant they could be a little closer to fame and the limelight.
But I wasn’t like those people. And I didn’t think my friends were, either.
Nilusha sipped her chocolate. “It’s such a shame you and I couldn’t work together this summer. I could have helped you figure out who is genuine. Let me give you a hint . . .” She leaned in close. “None of us are.”
“That can’t be true. You’re not like that.”
She nodded. “I am when I need to be. Sometimes it’s hard to notice because we’re all so friendly and affectionate, and we all party together. But I see those people as my colleagues, not friends. This is a cutthroat industry, and to get ahead, you need to be looking out for yourself first. People who get discouraged when people act fake aren’t looking at it with the right lens. Everyone’s using each other.”
“That’s awfully pessimistic.”
Nilusha shrugged, smiling. “You do have to be real with some people so you don’t forget how to do it. That’s why I like mentoring interns. They keep me grounded.” She smiled warmly. “The good interns, at least. You remind me so much of me at your age, so you’re extra special.”
“Gia is real. With me, at least. We’ve been friends for years.”
“All I know is that girl was saying nasty things about what sound like good people just to impress Dasha. And she was saying it as if you felt the same way. She sounds super insecure, if you ask me. Sucking up to Dasha today isn’t even going to make any difference for her, because Dasha only cares about what someone can do for her, and your friend is a nobody, no offense to her.”
I mean, yeah, Gia was insecure. What seventeen-year-old girl wasn’t? Especially one who wanted to be a style influencer and an actress. But now it was hard to accept this behavior of hers—projecting superiority over others because of her own insecurity. When would this become who Gia was, and not just a game she played?
I swallowed. Did Gia assume I’d play along with cutting up our friends to look good in front of Dasha? Or maybe she was trying to take me down a peg in Dasha’s eyes to make herself look better. After all, it was my boyfriend, his sister, and his best friend Gia had insulted.
My stomach soured. Whether it was true or not, the very idea that Gia’s antics today were an intentional attempt to make me look bad . . . ugh. I hated everything about this game. I loved fashion, not backstabbing and intrigue.
I turned my hot chocolate cup on the saucer, having no appetite to drink it.
“Also,” Nilusha said, “just because you were friends, doesn’t mean you always have to be friends.”
I chuckled, feeling a little exposed. “Are you sure you’re a fashion designer and not a therapist?”
“Maybe that’s my true calling.” Nilusha smiled as she sipped her hot chocolate. “So other than your friends getting under your skin, what’s going on with you? Are you regretting leaving that flower contest?”
I exhaled. Was I? “No. I’m not.” Being here was important. I had to succeed. This was how I was going to do it. “I’m just . . .” My voice trailed off. “I’m exhausted.”
“Oh no, sweetie. Why? What’s exhausting you?”
I looked out beyond the patio. There was a big statue in the middle of the courtyard—the letters LO, with VE under them—and a long line of people waiting to take a picture with it. Cheesy as all hell, and about as basic an Instagram shot as possible. But the girls posing in front of it now were having the best time. Laughing. Making silly faces, putting their arms around each other. Complete and utter joy. I sighed. “All of it’s exhausting me. I’m always thinking about how to make a name for myself. Get more followers, get the best internships, get into FIT. Be noticed. Not to mention this backstabbing and sucking-up game. Don’t get me wrong: I want to be a designer. I love designing and making clothes. I love styling, and I even love merchandising and fashion photography. But I’m so tired of always having to be . . . on.”
Nilusha shook her head. “Tahira, you don’t have to do any of that. Look, I’m not going to say it’s easy. I love my job—that’s why I do it. But there’s a lot of noise I tune out. You don’t have to be seen, now. That can come later. It will come later—organically. There is no point spending so much energy on a following until you’ve at least started design school and have a better idea of where you want your career to go. And I’ve always wondered, Why are you only focused on one school? There are lots of great fashion programs out there—even here in Toronto. Ryerson University is fantastic for fashion. So is the Ontario College of Art and Design.”
I shrugged. “FIT is the best.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s the best for you.”
“Everyone says it’s the top school. It’s my parents’ dream for me to be the best.”
Nilusha chuckled. “Ah. Desi parents. I have a couple of those myself. You know my dad sends me the application package for engineering school every year? He says it’s never too late.”
I looked down at the table. “I’m not going into business like my mom, or law like my dad. I’m not even going into math like my sister. I want to be an artist. But I still want to make them proud.”
“Tahira, with all due respect for what sounds like supportive parents, but if you’re already exhausted and jaded about schmoozing, then New York might not be for you. It’s a lot. There are a lot of people with talent, and a lot of people with connections. I have no doubt you can do it, but you know that as a person of color, you’ll have to work twice as hard at everything to be seen there. It’s competitive. Maybe you’d be better off as a big, fabulous fish in a smaller lake?” She laughed. “Oh, I think I just found Dasha’s fish!”
I chuckled. Of course I didn’t doubt that I’d have to work harder than everyone else—this was something Nilusha and I had talked about in our mentoring meetings. And I didn’t mind working so hard at the designing work . . . but the thought of working harder at the other stuff—the fighting to get noticed, the schmoozing, the sucking up. Maybe she was right, and I would be better in a smaller lake?
But why was it so terrifying to even think of exploring other options?
I didn’t want to upset Mom and Dad. They would absolutely not be happy if I didn’t go to FIT. This had been the Plan for years.
But it was my life. Didn’t I trust myself enough to forge my own path?
“I can put you in touch with some friends who work at those two Toronto schools,” Nilusha said. “Just talk to them. Explore your options.”
I had no idea what I’d tell Mom and Dad, but this was just research right now. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Excellent.” She held out the plate of churros to me again. “Now, tell me what happened with tha
t garden-oriented boy. I’m in a problem-solving mood—maybe I can help there, too.”
I chuckled, took a churro this time, and dipped it into my chocolate. “Okay. I guess I’ll start from the beginning.”
Nilusha and I spent the rest of the afternoon dipping churros into hot chocolate and talking about how Rowan and I went from dreading the sight of each other to spending hours talking under the stars. She couldn’t really help me figure out what he was thinking or help me decide if I should fight to keep our relationship in Toronto, but this was the first time I’d really told someone how I felt about Rowan, and it was nice to say aloud how much he meant to me.
Nilusha smiled. “He sounds utterly lovely. And now I miss Didier. There is something so affirming about being with someone from outside your industry who still respects your abilities, you know? It’s too bad mine lives in Paris.” She exhaled. “It’s those quiet moments that really feed your soul.” She took a big bite of her churro drenched in chocolate. “That, and chocolate, of course.”
I agreed, licking the chocolate off my fingers.
I eventually headed home, taking the streetcar and then hopping on the subway, and got there as Dad and Samaya were setting the table for dinner. I could hear Mom in the kitchen.
“Hey, I thought you and Mom were going to be out until late tonight.”
“Your mother came home early from Hamilton so she could make you dinner, and I’m officially taking the weekend off. I’ve barely seen my firstborn all summer.” He kissed my forehead. This was really rare—all the Janmohammads at home for dinner.
Mom brought the food to the table. She’d made my favorite, her famous kuku paka—East African chicken in coconut gravy. I poured a big ladleful on top of the basmati rice on my plate.
“So how was the photo shoot today?” Mom asked.
“It was fine.”
“The profile is tomorrow, right?”
I nodded. “I’m meeting Dasha at that gelato place at Queen and Spadina at one.”