Fake Me To Church

Chapter 4.2 - Picture Worth a Thousand Girls

- AHMED -

I'd never been so angry in my life. Who does she think she is? I raged inside my mind.

I retrieved a key from my pocket, ready to unlock my bicycle from the rusted rack where I'd left it, when I heard a familiar voice calling my name:

"Ahmed? Is that you?"

I turned. "Irina? What're you doing here?"

She paused. "I—I was just...out for a walk." Her eyes darted away. "Trying to clear my head after...what happened last night."

"Oh," I whispered, shivering with the blitz of the icy air. 

"...What about you?" she asked hesitantly. "Kinda far from Gilded Pearl, isn't it?"

I lowered my head.

Irina reached out and placed a single hand on my shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Madame Caroline." I sighed, eyes still glued to the pavement. "I had my interview with her today, if you can even call it that."

"Oh, no," Irina sighed. "Ahmed, what did she say?"

"What didn't she say? She basically called my parents liars and said my adoption was just some stupid political stunt."

"Wow." Irina shook her head. "That's rough."

"Yeah, I know." My fists balled by my side. "It's just...what if she writes something terrible about James and Katherine? What am I gonna do?" I lifted my head to face Irina again, feeling once more that all too familiar welling of fresh tears at the bases of my eyes.

"Hey, listen to me," Irina tried. "Relax, okay? Madame Caroline's a gossip. She always has been. Half the people in this town don't even take her seriously..."

"And what about the other half!?" I wailed. "This is so—"

"The other half," Irina cut me off, "are just as deranged as she is. You can't let their opinions scare you."

Silence was my only response, Irina glancing away for a moment before turning back to me.

"This is going to sound weird," she began. "But...have you ever tried parmesan chicken pot pie?"

Both my eyebrows furrowed, narrowing my eyes. "What? No, why?"

"Is this your bike?" She motioned to the bicycle next to us, chain lock still strapping it to the loops of a metal rack.

"Yes, but I don't get why—"

"Follow me home."

"...What?"

"Follow me home. You rode here yourself, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Perfect! Then that means you can visit my house and try my world-famous recipe!"

I paused, immediately unsure.

"Oh, come on, Ahmed. You've had a crappy day; and in all seventeen years I've been on this planet, I've never come across even one problem that can't be solved with food."

I chuckled. "You seriously want me to come over?"

"Um, duh! That's why I invited you." She smacked me playfully on the arm, then sauntered over to her own car to get inside and drive away.

I followed behind her vehicle closely, the two of us navigating the winding asphalt road through school zones and traffic lights to arrive at the Gravestepper household. As I rode into Irina's driveway, I braked my bike, taking in the sweet harmony sung by bright blue songbirds perching in the nearby trees. Irina stepped out of her car seconds later, and I walked up behind her.