Written by Rachelle Hernandez. Graphic by Ananya Panchal.
I’ve always wanted to have a tea party. A proper one, with porcelain teacups, hot tea with two sugar cubes and a splash of milk, flowers hanging from the ceiling, and teacups floating high above an Alice in Wonderland-like gathering below. I imagined the dresses, the little cakes, and the whole ridiculous production. Ever since I knew I’d be moving to Savannah, I’ve imagined having it beneath the oak trees in Forsyth Park.
Growing up, my two best friends were boys. And while I loved them dearly, they didn’t quite fit the picture I had in mind. So I did what any perfectly reasonable little girl would do: I dressed them in wigs and dresses and had them sit across from me, pretending to drink tea. They were remarkably patient about the whole arrangement for two boys who had done absolutely nothing to deserve such treatment. I suppose friendship requires a certain degree of sacrifice.
The trouble was, that wanting a friend and actually making one were two entirely different things. I’d spent my freshman year at SCAD online before arriving in Savannah as a sophomore, and I’d gotten rather comfortable keeping to myself.
Then came international student orientation week. Place a highly anxious, painfully introverted girl with questionable social skills—and a face that looks perpetually displeased with the world— among students beaming with the light of a thousand suns, and you’ve got yourself an unfortunate weather forecast: lighting, thunderstorms, and a considerable chance of humiliation.
I had every intention of staying in my room. There was a trip to Tybee Island, which I immediately ruled out because I hate the ocean, and don’t even get me started on sand. There was also a karaoke and dance night. Though frankly, I would have preferred to throw myself into the Savannah River.
My brother, however, insisted I go. So I dressed up, because I’ve long believed a good outfit can convince people of things that are simply not true, confidence being one of them.
I pictured meeting another Latina, someone who spoke Spanish, understood my jokes, and perhaps could finally teach me how to be a proper one. I’ve often been described as an off-brand Latina, owing to my lack of a Sofía Vergara accent, my reluctance toward hot sauce, and a pair of incredibly stiff hips that refuse to sway to the rhythm of any Hispanic music. But she’d know what to do with me. We’d become friends and someday have tea parties in Forsyth Park. Just you watch.
I spoke to a grand total of zero Hispanic people. I did, however, meet a group of Korean girls who practically radiated light. We had lunch together, but never saw one another again. A promising beginning.
Later, I met a group of girls from India and Singapore. They were funny and welcoming, and for a moment I began to reconsider my opinion of orientation.
Then we got into an elevator. One of the girls asked where I was from. By then, my conversational repertoire consisted of my name, age, major, and country of origin, and I’d exhausted the first three.
“El Salvador,” I said, proudly and without a single stutter.
There were smiles, questions, and the beginnings of an actual conversation from everyone except one girl. She had long black curly hair, a round baby face, black-rimmed glasses, and an expression of such profound displeasure that I nearly apologized for my country’s existence. I was offended. What had El Salvador ever done to her? What had I ever done to her? I had barely spoken, which, considering the circumstances, should have been appreciated. The audacity. Her name was Anya, and I was absolutely certain she hated me.
Two days later, she invited me to Tybee Island. Naturally, I was suspicious. I called my brother to report the incident, explaining the elevator, the expression, and the disrespect.
He laughed. “Wait, what did she actually say to you?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing?”
“Well, not really. But you should’ve seen her face!”
“Ray, you do realize that’s exactly what you look like when you meet new people, right?”
I hadn’t called him to discuss my face.
“You’re shy, you barely talk, and you always look annoyed. Half the time people think you’re judging them when you’re just standing there.”
I found his sudden interest in defending a complete stranger deeply concerning, but unfortunately, he had a point.
I wondered how many people had met me and gone home to complain to their brothers, so I went to Tybee. There was no extraordinary moment on that beach, no sudden confession of our deepest secrets or running into the ocean holding hands like two women in a coming-of-age film. Anya was quiet, a little difficult to read, and apparently just as uncomfortable socializing as I was. We talked, we laughed, and at some point, I forgot to be suspicious of her.
I’ve since discovered that Anya is even more introverted than I am, which I hadn’t thought possible. She likes long floral summer dresses and those peculiar little glow-in-the-dark figurines called Smiskis. She studies industrial design, something I knew embarrassingly little about before meeting her. I’d always thought of art as something you could hang on a wall, read in a book, or admire from a distance. Anya makes things. She takes ideas and gives them shape and purpose. She cares about what we throw away, what we could reuse, and whether we need half the things we buy. She’s made me look twice at objects I would otherwise have walked past.
I think she’ll change the world someday. I don’t exactly know how, and I doubt she’d agree, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
She also takes pictures of people when they aren’t looking. Sometimes I’ll catch her with her phone raised, photographing someone laughing or an afternoon spent doing nothing particularly important. Both seemed so ordinary I wouldn’t have thought to remember them. I’ve never asked her what she does with all those pictures. I like to imagine she keeps them somewhere—little pieces of days that might otherwise disappear.
She listens just as carefully as she captures. Even when I’m talking about something entirely ridiculous. She doesn’t seem to mind the silences either. Which is fortunate because between the two of us, there can be quite a few.
She has a peculiar habit of believing in everyone except herself. She’ll tell you how talented someone is, how beautiful, how deserving of every good thing in the world, and then look genuinely bewildered when you suggest the same might be true of her. It’s rather irritating, especially because she’s beautiful, and I happen to think her curls are lovely, even when she insists on straightening them. I wish she could see herself sometimes, perhaps through one of those photographs she’s always taking, though I suspect she’d find something to criticize there, too.
She’s also funny in ways I don’t think she always intends to be, thoughtful without making a production of it, and she has a way of giving people her time as though there couldn’t possibly be anywhere more important for her to be.
I think about that elevator sometimes, about the girl with the curly hair and black-rimmed glasses looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else, and me standing there in my carefully chosen outfit, privately declaring war on a complete stranger over an expression I couldn’t interpret.
I wonder what she thought of me. Perhaps she went home that afternoon and complained about the girl from El Salvador who wouldn’t stop staring at her. I suppose I’ll have to ask her.
I still haven’t had my tea party with the porcelain cups, the flowers, and the two sugar cubes. But I think I’ve finally found the girl I’d want to invite.
And Anya, with her summer dresses, her love of flowers, and her kind heart, would never say no to a tea party.
