The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  “Oh, cool,” I said, trying not to sound deflated but definitely, one hundred percent sounding deflated.

  “She said I could bring a friend.”

  “Oh, cool!”

  She grinned and I grinned and I felt like we were going to be friends forever and exchange friendship bracelets and, if we added two more people to our gang, do a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants thing. Even if I had to be the token person of color. I was down to be the token POC.

  But of course good things don’t last for long, and friendships built on shaky foundations tend to fizzle out quite fast. So before we got to the stage where we were wearing friendship bracelets and exchanging magic pants, we were at Catherine McNamara’s birthday party together.

  It was my first secondary school party and only my second sleepover, because Ammu and Abbu are way overprotective and slow to trust white people.

  I was all nerves and texted Chyna at least fifteen times before the party started.

  What are you wearing?

  What should I wear?

  What are you bringing?

  Do you think my gift is boring?

  Did you tell Catherine that you’re bringing me?

  Are you sure it’s okay for me to come?

  She only responded to about five of my texts, but I couldn’t really blame her for that.

  Chyna was already at the front door when I arrived, ringing the bell and waving at Ammu while she backed out of the driveway with one eye on me the entire time.

  “Hey,” Catherine said after flinging open the door. She was smiling at me tight-lipped, and I immediately knew the answer to half of my texts. Chyna hadn’t told Catherine she was bringing me. It wasn’t okay for me to come.

  But I was there already, my hands full of bags, my Ammu already halfway home, and there was nothing I could do. So I swallowed my pride and stepped inside, mumbling a half-hearted, “happy birthday!” and thrusting a present into Catherine’s hands.

  Chyna fit into the party like the final piece in a puzzle. I fit into the party like somebody really bad at puzzles had tried to super glue a piece in out of frustration.

  For a while I hovered around the edges of the party, watching Chyna be the life of it.

  I texted Priti, pretending that my phone was the most interesting thing to ever exist.

  This party is awful, I want to leave!!!

  Priti texted back, you have to stick it out, it’s your first party with those girls!! YOU’LL BE OKAY!

  I squeezed in next to Chyna mid-conversation.

  “Hi!” I tried to be bright and bubbly like I’d seen Chyna be with other people. On her, it was charming. On me? Pathetic, maybe. That’s what I gauged from the way everyone in that room looked at me, with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

  “Oh, this is … Nishat.” Chyna was smiling the exact same sort of smile as the others. She waved a hand at me as if everybody couldn’t see me clearly. As if my brown skin didn’t set me apart like a question mark in a sea of full stops.

  “Nesha, hi, I’m Paulie,” a girl with bright red hair said, sticking out her hand like we were middle-aged moms and not twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.

  “Uh, hi. It’s Ni-shat.”

  “Neesha.”

  “Nishat.” I tried again.

  A wrinkle appeared on her forehead, like pronouncing my name was a difficult math problem she couldn’t quite get right.

  “Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” Chyna was already pulling me up and away from the crowd of girls before I managed to reply to her. She pulled me into a corner of the hall, right by the door. I remember seeing a reflection of the sunset on Chyna’s face—gold and orange and red.

  “I think you should go.”

  I frowned. “You invited me here.”

  “It was a mistake. I thought it’d be okay but I think Catherine just said I could bring a friend to be nice.”

  “But I’m already here.”

  “Yeah, well, you can make up an excuse and leave. Tell Catherine you’re feeling sick, I’m sure she’ll get it.”

  “What about you?” I asked. I didn’t think both of us could pretend to be sick and get away with it. “You’ll tell her you need to go with me, to make sure I’m okay?”

  Something passed over Chyna’s face. A shadow, or maybe just the sunlight on its way down. But there was a shift. Not just in her expression, but in the air around us.

  “I’m not coming with you.”

  “Why not?” But even as I asked it, reality was dawning on me. Chyna had found her place, and her place here didn’t—and couldn’t—include me. I was being thrown out into the cold. Literally, because it was about thirty seven degrees outside despite it being September.

  “I can’t go. That would be impolite.”

  “Oh,” I said, even though it made no sense. “I guess I’ll call my mom and—”

  But Chyna was already turning around, already slipping into the sitting room, already grinning like she was glad to be rid of me.

  As I called Ammu to pick me up, I could hear Chyna recounting the story that made her fit right into that clique of girls.

  “So why is your name Chyna?” It was redheaded Paulie that asked the question. “I’ve never met anyone with such a unique name before.”

  I would have rolled my eyes into the back of my head if my hands weren’t shaking as the ring-ring-ring of the phone kept fading in and out with no indication of Ammu picking up anytime soon.

  “My mom went to China after she finished university, to teach English. And that was where she met my dad. They stayed there for about a year, dating, so it was like the place where they fell in love, and they decided to name me after it.”

  There was a round of awwws, and Chyna’s face lit up.

  “Have you ever been?” Catherine asked.

  “Not yet, but Mom and Dad promised that someday soon we’ll go so I can see for myself!”

  “That’s so exciting.”

  Ammu finally picked up the phone. She agreed to swing back around and pick me up, though she didn’t sound happy about it. Surprisingly, Catherine came to see me off, though she still wore that tight-lipped smile.

  “Shame you couldn’t stay, we were going to watch a horror movie,” she said, turning the lock so she could open the door. “I guess it’s bound to happen though, with the food you eat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Chyna said … you know, because Indian people eat so much spicy food, you had …” She leaned down to whisper the next words, like they were a dirty secret. “Some digestive issues.”

  “I don’t have … I’m not …” But my words got lost because the next minute Catherine had opened up the front door and was pushing me out with a cheery wave of her hand.

  That was how the rumor that my father’s restaurant gave people diarrhea started, and spread around the whole school.

  It was also the last day Chyna and I were friends.

  7

  I DON’T HAVE ANY CLASSES WITH FLÁVIA IN THE MORNING. At lunchtime I watch out for her, but when I catch her sitting down with Chyna and her posse I quickly put an end to my roaming eyes.

  Chaewon and Jess share one of their curious looks, and I’m sure that it’s about me, but I pretend not to notice.

  At the end of the day, the three of us stroll into our Business class. Even though it’s only the first day of the school year it already feels like we’ve been here forever, and I’m restless for the end-of-school bell to ring.

  “The front?” Chaewon asks, resting her bag on the row of tables right in front of the teacher’s desk—the seats that everybody detests but Chaewon adores for some reason.

  Jess is already sidling into the back row, apparently done with sitting through teacher scrutiny at the front of the class. Chaewon purses her lips tightly but she doesn’t complain. The two of us slip into chairs beside Jess, pulling our Business books out of our bags.

  “Which teacher do you think we’ll have for Business?” Jess leans
forward on her desk to whisper to us as a slew of students trickle in, the sound of their chatter filling up the room.

  “Ms. Montgomery, maybe?” Chaewon asks hopefully. Ms. Montgomery used to teach us Business back in First Year, and she always had the most creative ways of teaching. She made us think about everything practically instead of just making us read through the book and do exercises. Her classes were always just … fun. Although that was something First Year Business could afford to be. First Year was when exams seemed impossibly far away.

  “I bet it’ll be Ms. Burke, though.” Jess scrunches up her face as she says this. “Open your boooks, girls,” she adds in a high-pitched voice, imitating Ms. Burke’s country-tinged accent and causing Chaewon and me to burst out into a fit of giggles.

  “Settle down.” Ms. Montgomery’s voice comes from the front of the room. The three of us manage to stifle our giggles and look up with smiles still tugging at the corners of our lips. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon,” we chorus back.

  Ms. Montgomery smiles and slides behind her desk.

  “Well, Transition Year Business … this is the best time to put your practical skills to use.” She raises an eyebrow like she’s challenging us. “So you guys can put your books away for the moment.”

  The entire class exchanges glances with one another. This suddenly feels like a Defense Against the Dark Arts class in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. All that’s left is for Ms. Montgomery to whip out a boggart.

  As I’m bent down, trying to stuff my heavy Business book into my bag, I catch a glimpse of the dark brown curls that have suddenly become so familiar to me.

  Flávia.

  In this class.

  She’s sitting quite a few rows in front of us, though. Suddenly I regret not siding with Chaewon.

  “Did your head get stuck to your bag or something?” Chaewon whispers, poking me in the ribs. I sit up, feeling a blush creep up my neck once more.

  “—and so,” Ms. Montgomery is mid-speech, but doesn’t seem to have noticed my lack of attention. “We’re going to spend a significant portion of this year working on a business project.” She puts more emphasis than necessary on the word project, like it’s something fancy instead of something we’ve done for pretty much every class we’re a part of.

  “And we have some real businesses involved, offering prize money.”

  That has everyone’s attention. There’s a palpable shift in the mood of the class. While before it was Ms. Montgomery droning on about something, now it’s Ms. Montgomery droning on about something that has prize money.

  She seems to sense our increased attention, because there’s a smile tugging at her lips as she peers down at us. She pauses for a beat. A long beat. Like she’s trying to draw out the suspense.

  “So we’ll be developing our very own businesses,” she says. “Groups or individuals. It’s your business, so you have to make the decision. And it will count for a large percentage of your Christmas exams.”

  The class breaks out into a groan as she says this, but the ghost of a smile remains on Ms. Montgomery’s lips. Because, of course, she’s still holding back the information that we really want to know.

  “The prize money … donated by the sponsors hosting this competition will be …”

  We’re all holding our breath. Well, I am, at least. But I can feel the anticipation of my classmates in the air.

  “A thousand euros.”

  “A thousand euros is a lot of money,” Chaewon says by our lockers at the end of the school day. “Like … can you imagine winning that? You could do a lot with a thousand euros.”

  “I could buy all of the video games I want,” Jess says in a half whisper, like an endless supply of video games is her idea of heaven.

  “I think I’d put my money in a bank account and use it for when I really needed it, you know,” says Chaewon.

  Jess and I sigh simultaneously.

  “You have to be a little more creative than that. You have to treat yourself,” I say.

  “Yeah, you’re not allowed to be such an adult yet. All this talk of banks and saving,” Jess adds.

  “You sound like you’re forty.”

  “Maybe even fifty.”

  “Saving up is important,” Chaewon mumbles.

  “Okay, but these are our fantasies, Chaewon. And fantasies can be anything you want them to be.”

  “I guess, if I was being wild,” Chaewon begins thoughtfully.

  “Really wild.” I nod encouragingly.

  “Like, really, really wild,” Jess adds.

  “… I would go on a holiday, maybe,” Chaewon says. “I mean, I’d want to go back to Korea. To visit, you know. But with a thousand euros … I’m not sure if that would be possible.”

  “You could go on a holiday to somewhere in Europe,” Jess chirps happily, somehow unaware that a trip to Korea would be far more than a holiday. Even though Chaewon and Jess are best friends who keep no secrets from each other, Chaewon catches my eye this time. Like this is a secret we’re sharing that Jess has no inkling of. It’s only a moment.

  Then Chaewon chuckles and says, “Yes, and I could bring the both of you, obviously.”

  “That would be the best holiday,” Jess agrees

  I’m thinking about how one grand would barely be enough for a trip to Bangladesh, too.

  Priti has after-school study, which Ammu and Abbu cajoled her into doing, even though she doesn’t really need it. She studies enough at home.

  But it means I get to wait at the bus stop all by myself The bright orange letters of the real-time screen announce ten minutes, eleven, then back to ten again in the space of just a few seconds. Dublin bus is as unreliable as ever.

  “Where’s your sister?”

  Flávia’s voice has the usual effect on me—it sends my heart into a rhythm that shouldn’t be humanly possible. What is she doing here?

  If she’s at the bus stop, she’s probably also waiting for a bus home.

  She slides onto the bench next to me, a question pasted onto her expression.

  Right.

  She asked me a question.

  “My sister and I aren’t always together.” I don’t know why my voice comes out defensive—apparently Flávia does something to me that makes my mind react in the strangest ways.

  “I know.” She chuckles, somehow not totally put off by my defensiveness. “Just … I feel like I haven’t seen you without her. Chyna says the two of you are joined at the hip.”

  I’m not sure how to feel about that—first, that Flávia has been asking Chyna about me, and second that she might believe whatever Chyna tells her.

  I cross my arms over my chest and glance at Flávia out of the corner of my eye, like that’ll tell me exactly what Chyna has been saying about me.

  “So … where is she?” Flávia asks after a moment.

  “After-school study. She’s doing the Junior Cert this year, so.” I shrug.

  “Wow,” Flávia says, leaning back against the glass on the back of the bus stop. “She must be just like you, huh?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t remember? When we were in primary school, your favorite thing was sneaking off into the library when we were supposed to be in the schoolyard.” She turns to look at me with amusement flashing in her eyes, and I can feel heat rising up my cheeks.

  I can’t believe she remembers that too. I’d almost forgotten.

  In primary school, I was so terrified of the other girls. They already made fun of me for my slight accent, and for the fact that it took me a few tries to understand them because of their accents. They also pointed out that my food was weird, and smelled bad (though how anybody can think daal smells bad is still beyond me).

  So instead of spending lunchtime in the schoolyard, hanging around by myself in a corner and alerting everyone to the fact that I was utterly alone and friendless, I would slip into the school library, hide behind a few bookshelves and bury myself in w
hatever I could find.

  “That was different,” I say to Flávia now, even though I don’t want to explain how it was different. I was just trying to find a safe place for myself in that school.

  Priti is just a nerd.

  Surprisingly, Flávia sighs and says, “yeah,” like she totally understands. “You know, it’s even worse outside of Dublin.” She says this like I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  Weirdly, I do. Because I don’t think it was easy for either of us in primary school, with our pronounced differences.

  “Like … if you think our school isn’t diverse, you should see the school I went to before.” She chuckles, but there’s a hint of sadness to it. I can’t imagine what it must have been like. Dublin is—weirdly—cosmopolitan. Maybe not so much in our little corner of it, but it is. If you go into town, the place is full of people from all parts of the world. A lot of them are Spanish students who love to block every doorway in existence—because apparently Spanish students don’t come here to study English or tour Ireland, they just come to stand in front of doors and inconvenience the rest of us. But there are people from other places too—from Poland and Brazil and Nigeria, and so many other countries.

  “That … must have been difficult,” I offer, but immediately I regret it. The words don’t sound like enough. Maybe they even sound a little condescending. Unhelpful.

  But Flávia shrugs. “It is what it is.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I say after a moment of silence passes between us.

  “Didn’t you already ask me something?” Flávia says, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes, but I have to smile. It’s the kind of joke I can imagine Abbu making.

  “Seriously, can I?”

  “Sure.” She sits up, like she’s ready for a serious question. She makes her face all scrunched up and somber. I have to bite back a smile.

  “Why did your mom take you away?” I ask. “Why … didn’t you stay here?”

  Flávia’s expression shifts—from mock serious to almost blank. Unreadable. My stomach plummets. I think for a moment that maybe I’ve asked a question that’s way too invasive and now Flávia will be annoyed with me.