The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  Priti pops into the hallway almost as soon as classes end. She races over to my side and gives my hand a squeeze.

  “Has anybody been giving you trouble?” Her voice is serious. It’s so unlike her that I burst into a fit of giggles.

  “What are you going to do if they have been?” I chuckle. “Send your henchmen after them?”

  She rolls her eyes, but smiles. She’s looking at me with those wide eyes again, like she can’t quite believe I’m smiling and laughing.

  “I’m glad you’re okay, Apujan.”

  “I’m made of sturdy stuff,” I assure her, and with her at my side it doesn’t even feel like a lie. “Can you help me pack up?”

  We put the almost-full henna tubes away into my bag and roll up the banner. Priti shoves the blue money box that Ms. Montgomery supplied each of us with at the bottom of my bag. It barely makes a noise—since it’s nearly empty.

  And then it’s over. As Priti and I shuffle out of the hallway I can feel everyone’s eyes peering at us, curiosity flickering in their gazes. I hold my head up high, even though their stares make me want to curl up into myself or, at the very least, pick up my pace.

  But I don’t. Priti links our fingers together, like she knows exactly what’s going on in my head, and the warmth of her—her presence itself—carries me out of the hallway.

  “Where have you been?”

  Ammu and Abbu are standing at the entrance to the main hall, with Principal Murphy right beside them.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, even though everything is already piecing together in my head. The text went out to everyone at school. Of course Principal Murphy found out. Of course she decided to call my parents.

  “Your Principal told us.” Abbu begins, before trailing off and shooting Principal Murphy the angriest glare I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen Abbu so angry before. He’s usually the calm and collected one; Ammu is the one who is freer with her rage. But now, it seems like both of them are emanating anger, feeding off each other’s fury. Though Principal Murphy towers over both Ammu and Abbu in her high heels, she suddenly looks small next to them.

  “Nishat, why didn’t you come to me immediately?” she asks urgently.

  I shake my head, unsure what she wants me to say.

  “Why didn’t you go to her?” Ammu turns to glare at Principal Murphy, who visibly shrinks under her gaze.

  “Come on, Nishat, Priti. We are leaving.” Ammu turns, the urna draped around her neck dramatically turning with her and almost hitting Principal Murphy square in her face. She looks both taken aback and impressed as Ammu walks away, heels clicking against the tiled floor of the hallway. Abbu casts a long look at Principal Murphy before following Ammu.

  Priti links her fingers with mine and gives my hand a squeeze as the two of us hurry behind our parents.

  The car ride home is completely silent. Abbu doesn’t even put on Rabindranath Sangeet. Priti keeps glancing at me like she’s worried that I’m going to break down into tears at any moment. I just look out the window, trying not to let myself think of what’s going to happen once we get home.

  I thought I was ready for this. I thought I wanted Ammu and Abbu to stop with the silence about me being a lesbian, but I’m not. The silence is better than this—than the rage I saw from them in the school. What if they make a drastic decision? What am I supposed to do?

  The car slows as we pull into our neighborhood. I hungrily take in the houses and trees and playground that pass by, like this is my last glimpse at the world around me.

  “Priti, up to your room,” Ammu says as soon as we’re inside.

  “But—” Priti begins, but the glare Ammu shoots in her direction shuts her right up and she shuffles up the stairs. She mouths something to me from the stairs that looks like “I love you,” but it does nothing to quell my nerves.

  Ammu and Abbu march into the kitchen, and I follow behind, even though they don’t call me in.

  “What are we going to do about this?” Ammu asks Abbu. She’s standing beside the glass door overlooking the backyard with her hands on her hips, like the garden will have an answer for her if Abbu doesn’t.

  “I don’t know.” Abbu takes a seat on the kitchen table and buries his head in his hands. He looks broken in a way I’ve never seen before.

  “Well, we have to do something, we can’t just let it be.”

  “I know we can’t.”

  I stand in the kitchen doorway, feeling my heart getting slower. Abbu and Ammu’s words seep into my skin like poison. To them, I might as well not be here. I’m simply a problem that needs a solution. To think, just weeks ago I was sitting in this very kitchen trying to find the words to tell them the truth, to reveal myself to them. I was hoping to be accepted. To be loved. But here we are again, after weeks of silence and shame.

  Finally, Ammu turns to me and lets out a sigh. Her eyes take me in from head to foot.

  “Why didn’t you tell us, Nishat?” Her voice is heavy with unshed tears. “How long?”

  I shake my head, unsure what exactly she’s asking. Does she know about Flávia? Does everyone know about Flávia? Is that what this is about? My lesbianism isn’t just a concept anymore, but a solid thing in the form of her? Something I made into reality because I gave too much weight to my heart?

  “How long have the girls in school been speaking about you like this?” Ammu asks. “Principal Murphy told us about the text. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  I can only blink at her, astonished. That’s what she’s angry about?

  “T-today. They found out today.”

  Ammu’s brows crease. “Found out …”

  “About me. That … I’m a …” I’ve never been more afraid of saying those words aloud than I am now, but I manage to choke them out somehow. “… a lesbian.”

  Ammu crosses her arms over her chest. “Because someone told them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who?”

  I hesitate for a moment before shaking my head.

  Ammu throws her hands up in frustration. “There has to be some way to find out, right?” She turns to look at Abbu, her eyebrows raised. “Now, it’s the school. Soon, it’ll be everyone in the neighborhood. Then, we’ll be getting phone calls from Bangladesh. We have to put a stop to this.”

  My heart twists again. Ammu is afraid of everyone finding out about me, not worried about me at all.

  “I’ll talk to Sunny, maybe she can give us some suggestions, nah?” Abbu says. Ammu nods enthusiastically, like this is the best idea.

  I drift out of the room as the two of them continue to discuss their options. They don’t even notice as I stumble out of sight and up the stairs, rubbing at my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. Why did I expect more, even for a moment?

  Priti is waiting on my bed when I open the door. She looks up, her eyes filled with concern.

  “Apujan, what did they say?”

  I shrug. “They’re trying to stop more people from finding out.”

  “Oh.” Her lips downturn into a frown. “That’s good, right? You don’t want more people to know?”

  What I want more than anything else in the world is to feel like being myself isn’t something that should be hidden and a secret. What I want is for my parents to be outraged that someone betrayed me, not ashamed of my identity.

  But I just shrug and collapse onto my bed, looking up at the ceiling and wishing this day would end.

  20

  I BARELY SLEEP ALL NIGHT. I DON’T KNOW HOW I’M GOING to deal with going to school and facing everyone the next day. It was bad enough during the showcase, with everybody asking questions that were none of their business, staring at me like I was a thing of curiosity and not the same person they’d gone to school with for the past four years.

  Priti obviously catches onto my nervousness, because when she comes into my room that morning, she looks me straight in the eye and says, “Are you feeling okay, Apujan?”

  “I’m fine, Pr
iti,” I say.

  “But … are you sure you aren’t feeling a little sick? Because I’m sure Ammu and Abbu will let you stay at home if you are.” She gives me a toothy grin, like she’s thought up the best idea possible. Like I haven’t considered staying home today instead of facing school.

  But I’m not sure which is worse—staying home with Ammu and everything she said yesterday, or going to school with judgmental Catholic schoolgirls. I suppose Catholic schoolgirls are better than dealing with Ammu alone in our house.

  “I’ll be okay, Priti,” I reassure her. I try to give her a grin of my own, but it must come off as more of a grimace because Priti doesn’t look like she believes me.

  Still, the two of us change into our school uniforms and pile onto the bus, Priti casting wary glances at me the entire time like she’s afraid I’m going to have a breakdown at any moment. Inside, I am having something of a breakdown. There’s panic bubbling in my stomach at the very thought of stepping into the school again, but I try to bite it down. There’s nothing to be done about it, and I don’t want to hide myself away. I don’t want anyone to think I’m ashamed. I’m definitely not.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Priti asks me at the entrance of the school, edging close like she’d attach herself to me if she could.

  “You want me to ask my teachers if I can have my little sister tag along with me all day?”

  “You can say that I’m like your emotional support … sister,” Priti says.

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “If people can have emotional support dogs, why can’t you have an emotional support sister? Bengali culture doesn’t like dogs so that’s just discrimination!”

  “Priti … I’ll be okay. I can take care of myself.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince Priti or me, but saying it out loud gives it some solidity.

  “Okay,” Priti finally concedes. “Come find me if you need me, okay?”

  “Okay,” I promise.

  Priti leans over and gives me a quick hug before disappearing into the school.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can hear the chatter of girls milling around the entrance and hanging around their locker doors, getting ready for class.

  “Hey.”

  I almost jump from surprise. When I turn around, Jess and Chaewon are looking at me with wide eyes.

  “We were waiting at your locker yesterday after school. We … wanted to talk to you,” Jess says.

  “But you never showed up?” Chaewon says it like it’s a question. One that I don’t want to answer.

  I cross my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the fact that my heart has picked up speed, like it’s putting itself into defensive mode without my permission. “I had to rush home.”

  “We just …” Jess and Chaewon share a look. Then, Jess murmurs, “Nishat …” at the same time that Chaewon asks, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying not to let my voice waver.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t come to you when … when the text went out,” Chaewon says, avoiding my gaze and looking at Jess instead. “We weren’t … we weren’t sure about …” She shakes her head, like it’s not important.

  “Look, whoever sent that out, they’re awful,” adds Jess. “Whether it’s true or not.” There’s a question hanging there, but I try to ignore it. “If you decide to go to a teacher, Chaewon and I have your back, right?”

  “I’m not going to a teacher,” I say. “I’m not … I’m not ashamed of it. It’s who I am. I’m comfortable being a lesbian. I’m just … I’m not a spectacle.”

  Jess and Chaewon nod simultaneously, pity written all over their faces. I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. Then, Jess says, “So did you really try to make a move on Chyna at her birthday party? Because I thought you had better taste …”

  “Jess!” Chaewon slaps her lightly on the shoulder and looks at me with concern. But Jess is smiling as she rubs her shoulder.

  “I’m joking, relax. Obviously I know Nishat has better taste than that.”

  I actually feel a laugh bubble up inside me. This is the Jess I know.

  Chaewon rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but now she’s smiling too.

  Jess steps forward and links her arm through mine. “We’ll be like your bodyguards today.”

  “Yeah, you two are really scary. A skinny white gamer and a tiny East Asian protecting a tiny South Asian.” I roll my eyes.

  Chaewon steps up and takes my other arm. “Three people are better than one.”

  I have to admit that having them by my side does make me feel a little safer. Their presence beside me makes everything feel normal, like yesterday didn’t happen at all—even if for just a minute.

  But yesterday did happen. It couldn’t be any more obvious as the three of us step into the school building, and the whispers start. The stares follow us. We’re a spectacle. I’m a spectacle.

  And it doesn’t stop. All day—at my locker, in classes, at lunch—it feels like there’s a spotlight over me. In the classes that I share with Chaewon and Jess at least I can sit with them. But in the ones where they’re not there, the other girls avoid me like they’re afraid of me.

  My despair turns into a boiling hot anger the longer the day progresses. It simmers and sifts inside me until I feel like I’m about to explode. In English class, I poke a hole through my notebook from pressing down on the paper too hard as I scribble. Mr. Jensen looks at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. All I can think is, of course he knows too. Everybody knows. And if they’re not being blatantly homophobic, they’re looking at me with this pity, like I’m a kicked puppy. Like they can’t do something to help me.

  By the end of the day, I am a mixture of emotions: relief that the day is finally over, and anger at having experienced it at all. When I get to my locker, I’m in a rush to leave this oppressive place behind. Sure, home isn’t exactly a safe haven, but at least Priti is there and she has my back.

  As I’m stuffing books into my locker, I see Chyna and Flávia out of the corner of my eye. Chyna is waving her hands around in wild gestures as she speaks to the rest of her posse. Flávia has her back against a bunch of lockers, her eyes cast down low. Her expression is unreadable. But the sight of her, instead of filling me with the jittery excitement of a crush, reignites my simmering anger.

  I guess Flávia can sense me too, because after a moment she looks up and catches my eye. All I can think of is the last time we were together—at the party on her couch. How she smelled. How she leaned forward. How I almost let her kiss me.

  I turn away and slam my locker door shut, trying to bottle up the anger and despair battling inside me. Trying to ignore Flávia’s gaze boring through me.

  “Nishat Ahsan?” It’s Ms. Grenham—the school guidance counselor and health teacher. She ushers me over from the end of the hallway with a frown on her lips.

  “Um, yes. That’s me.” There’s a waver in my voice that I try to bite down.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Um, sure,” I say, even though the last thing I want to do is talk to Ms. Grenham about anything. And of course I have a feeling that I already know what it’s about.

  “Please, follow me.”

  She leads me into her office around the corner, where we take seats opposite each other with her cluttered desk between us.

  I try to give her my best smile, hoping that will deter whatever conversation is about to come, but she just considers me with a frown on her face, like I’m a problem she can’t quite solve.

  Ms. Grenham is not exactly everyone’s favorite teacher. For a guidance counselor, she often seems very unapproachable. She walks around with her eyebrows knit together, like she’s having the worst time of her life. I’ve never really dealt with her before though.

  “So, Nishat,” she begins slowly, taking me in. I shift in my seat, and the chair creaks under my weight. I stare at the poster behind Ms. Grenham’s head—it says “The Wor
ld is Your Oyster” and has a picture of an oyster smack bang in the middle. It’s only one of several motivational posters hung all over her office. They look especially odd against the bright orange walls, like the office is trying a little too hard to be happy. It just makes me feel out of place.

  “Principal Murphy said you were having some trouble. Your parents brought it to her attention.” She leans forward. “I hope you know that the school has a zero tolerance policy. If someone is bothering you, they’ll be dealt with seriously.”

  I already know what their zero tolerance policy is actually like. Everyone who’s spent the last few years being harassed by Chyna knows.

  “I’m fine.”

  “There was a message sent around about you. Do you know who sent it?” Ms. Grenham slips a phone out of her pocket and shows me the bright screen with a screenshot of a text on it. It’s exactly as Priti described it—the words dripping with a kind of hatred I never imagined someone could feel for me. For a moment, all I can wonder is, could the Flávia at the party really have sent this message?

  “It’s not important,” I mumble, ducking my head and not meeting Ms. Grenham’s eyes. “It was probably just a joke or something.”

  “In ill taste,” she insists. “I can’t help you, Nishat, if you don’t help me.”

  I can’t stand the way she says my name: Neesh-hat, like I’m a niche hat.

  “I just think it’s better if we forget about it,” I say. “It’ll be yesterday’s news soon.” There will be somebody else to taunt soon enough. I know how the food chain here works. Plus, I already know that the most Ms. Grenham will do is give Chyna and Flávia a slap on the wrist. I’m pretty sure I can do better than that.

  Ms. Grenham doesn’t seem particularly impressed by my decision, but she nods anyway. “If that’s how you feel.”

  I take that as my cue to leave. I mutter a quick “thank you” and slip out of her office quickly. I’m turning the corner toward the main hallway when Priti almost runs into me. She shoots me a glare and I notice that she’s huffing like she’s been running.

  “Where have you been?” Her voice has that high-pitched quality it always gets when she’s angry. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”