The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  Still, it’s not as if I have a choice. I can’t really decline her clothes or I will catch pneumonia. So I slide into her cramped bathroom, staring at myself in the tiny mirror over her sink with a hollow feeling in my stomach.

  Both the t-shirt and the pajama bottoms are a little too tight, making me feel uncomfortable and itchy in my own skin. They also make me look horrible, worse than my tatty maroon uniform ever did. And that’s saying something, because our uniform has the superpower to make every person who wears it look unattractive. Except for Flávia. Obviously.

  The thought of stepping out of the bathroom and facing her looking like this sends my heart plummeting. But then I remind myself that I shouldn’t care anyway. I’m supposed to be over her. We’re not even friends, really. We’re just trying to call a truce, and who knows how long that will even last. Maybe this will be good. Maybe exposing myself as an unattractive lump of potato will make me get over Flávia.

  But when I walk out of the bathroom I forget all about the dull clothes clinging to me, because in front me is Flávia Santos wearing a hot pink unicorn onesie.

  She looks, to put it frankly, ridiculous.

  I burst into a fit of giggles. Unwillingly. The laughter bubbles up all the way from my stomach, spilling out of me in big, ugly guffaws that echo across the room. No matter how much I try to bite it down, it won’t stay down.

  I should probably feel self-conscious, but I don’t.

  Flávia turns at the sound of my laughter. To my surprise, she grins.

  “It’s not that funny,” she says, once my giggles have finally subsided. She reaches up and runs a hand over the silver unicorn horn at the top of her onesie. “It’s cute, right?”

  “Why are you wearing that?”

  She shrugs. “You seemed … I don’t know, self-conscious about changing into those. I thought me wearing this might put you at ease.” She avoids my eyes as she says this, like admitting she wants to put me at ease is too much vulnerability for her. It does make my heart soar in a way I definitely don’t want it to. Because the whole getting-over-Flávia thing is not supposed to go like this. She’s not supposed to make me feel at ease.

  “I need to take a picture.” I reach for my phone and turn the camera to her, but her hands fly up to cover her face.

  “No way, you are not taking a photo of me like this.”

  “Come on, I won’t show anyone!”

  “Nope. No way. Not happening.”

  I put the phone down and heave a sigh.

  “Fine, fine. I won’t take a photo.”

  She lets her hands drop and flashes me a smile. Before she has the chance to move another muscle, I pick up my phone and snap a quick photo.

  “Hey!” she cries, lunging toward me to take the phone out of my hands. I dodge, slipping out of her grasp and climbing onto the bed. I stand up tall, on my tip toes, and raise the phone above me. It almost touches the ceiling.

  Of course it’s pointless, because Flávia climbs up after me and she’s at least a few inches taller than I am. She towers over me.

  “I promise I won’t show anyone!” I say again.

  “I definitely don’t believe you!” She lunges for the phone. Both of us topple onto the bed. The phone slips out of my grasp, crashing onto the floor, but I barely register it because Flávia is on top of me. Her face is inches away from mine. Her hair brushes against my chest, still damp from the rainwater.

  “S-sorry,” I mumble. She shakes her head. I can see every bounce of her curls. And when she stops, I can make out the flecks of gold in her eyes.

  She inches closer until there’s barely any space between us.

  “Hello?”

  Chyna’s voice makes Flávia jump off of me as if I’m a house on fire. Chyna pushes the door fully open just as I manage to sit up. Flávia looks at her with wide eyes and a flush on her cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice comes out a little breathless.

  Chyna seems to take us in for a moment, and I’m not sure what she sees. Her expression doesn’t change. She turns to Flávia and says, “Why are you wearing that?”

  Flávia shifts uncomfortably, not looking Chyna in the eye. “My uniform got wet in the rain and I wanted to be comfy.”

  Chyna doesn’t look like she’s completely buying it. Buying us, looking like we’ve been caught doing … what? I can’t imagine what Chyna is thinking.

  Her eyes drift from a guilty-looking Flávia to me, and she says, “Nishat,” with a grim nod of her head.

  “Chyna,” I mumble.

  “I’ll be downstairs …” She toes the doorway like she’s waiting for an invitation to stay. “Auntie said I could come over for dinner….”

  “Oh.” Flávia doesn’t say any more—doesn’t try to stop Chyna or anything. A moment later we hear Chyna’s footsteps on the stairs, the wood creaking underneath her weight.

  Flávia brushes a lock of damp hair away from her eyes and heaves a sigh.

  “Sorry.”

  I’m not sure what exactly she’s apologizing for. For trying to kiss me again? For Chyna interrupting us?

  I’m afraid to ask, so I just shrug and say, “It’s okay.”

  24

  CHYNA IS IN THE SITTING ROOM, WITH HER SHOES OFF AND her legs crossed on the couch. She’s watching a rerun of America’s Next Top Model like it’s the most interesting thing to ever exist.

  It’s actually strange to see her like this—so domestic. It almost reminds me of back when we were friends. During the first few days of secondary school, Chyna had this nervous energy about her. Like she didn’t quite know where she fit in, or what her role was. I thought that all dissipated after Catherine McNamara’s birthday party, but watching her now, I think that maybe it didn’t really. Maybe Chyna just got really good at hiding it.

  “Does she come here often?” I whisper to Flávia at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Every once in a while.” Flávia’s lips are pressed in a thin line like she’s not very impressed with Chyna for being here. “I have to go talk to my mom, can you give me a minute?”

  I can’t exactly say no, even though the last thing I want is to have to spend time alone with Chyna of all people, but I nod my head.

  Flávia slips away toward the kitchen and I gingerly make my way into the sitting room. The episode of America’s Next Top Model is from a few years back—I remember the faces of most of the contestants, but I’ve forgotten their names.

  “I can’t believe you still watch this,” I say, before my brain reminds me that engaging in conversation with Chyna is not something I want to do.

  Chyna turns to look at me with her lips pressed together in a frown.

  “I can’t believe you’re here, hanging out with my cousin.”

  I roll my eyes and take a seat on the couch next to her. “You know, I knew Flávia way before I knew you.”

  “Yeah, so she’s said. The world has a funny way about it, doesn’t it?”

  Funny is definitely one way to put it. I shift around in my seat, watching the screen in front of me but not really taking anything in.

  I can hear Flávia and her mom in the other room, but their words are barely audible—not that more volume would help, since I don’t speak a word of Portuguese, and as far as I know neither does Chyna.

  “I hate it when Flá and Auntie talk in Portuguese,” Chyna mumbles, confirming my suspicions. “You know when someone is speaking in another language right near you and you’re paranoid they’re speaking about you?”

  I have to smile at the irony of that, because Chyna doesn’t really have any qualms about speaking about other people in a language they most definitely understand.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes, maybe. Flávia and your Auntie are probably just more comfortable speaking Portuguese than English with each other.” But also, Flávia probably is discussing Chyna with her mom. And Chyna probably knows that too.

  “Why are you here?” Chyna turns to me with a frown on her lips. I’m s
urprised the question didn’t come sooner. “What are you doing with my cousin?”

  “Chy, that’s kind of a rude question,” Flávia mumbles from the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. “Nishat and I are friends, I was helping her with something.” She doesn’t look at me when she says this and I feel my stomach plummet.

  “You had to help her with something in your unicorn onesie?” Chyna asks.

  “I told you, I wanted to be comfy. Don’t act all high and mighty like you don’t have an ugly polka dot Minnie Mouse one. At least mine is cute.”

  “You have a Minnie Mouse onesie?” I’m already trying to figure out how I can get a picture of that. I know Priti, Chaewon, and Jess would all appreciate it.

  Chyna shoots me a glare and says, “Flávia bullied me into buying it.”

  Flávia crosses her arms over her chest and scoffs, “As if.”

  Chyna directs her glare to Flávia this time and says, “Shut up.”

  Flávia, in turn, crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue. I let out a giggle. Not just because it’s kind of adorable and reminds me of Priti, but because I would never have expected Flávia and Chyna to act like this when they’re alone together. They always seem so reserved and serious—especially Chyna. Even when Chyna and I were friends—brief as that relationship was—we never messed around like this.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner, Nishat?” Flávia asks.

  My watch says it’s already seven o’clock. I asked Priti to tell Ammu and Abbu where I was going, but I’m sure they’re wondering about me. I don’t really want this strange evening to end, but I’m also not entirely sure that I want to sit through a dinner with Flávia, her mother, and Chyna.

  “I should probably get going, actually.”

  “I’ll walk you to the door,” Flávia offers. We walk out of the sitting room in silence. I’m keenly aware of her presence beside me; of our arms nearly touching, and the sound of her breathing. The sound of mine.

  We swing by her bedroom, where she picks up my still-damp school uniform and slips it into a plastic bag for me.

  “Will you be okay going home in that?”

  “I don’t really have much of a choice.” I shrug.

  “Maybe my mom can give you a lift? So you don’t have to get the bus all by yourself, I mean.”

  “I don’t want to bother her at dinner time. Thanks, though.”

  At the doorway, a heavy silence hangs between us. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say or do. I don’t know whether this will end like the party or not; whether I should be annoyed or elated.

  Flávia clicks the door open but before I can slide out, she steps close. Her fingers tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, brushing against my skin and sending a jolt of electricity through me.

  “You’ll text me when you get home?” she asks.

  And the thing is, even though this is something that countless people have asked me to do—my sister, Chaewon, even Ammu—this feels different. Flávia’s voice is laced with so much concern, her eyes sparkling with something like hope, that even though it’s a familiar request everything about this moment feels brand new.

  I gulp down the lump forming in my throat, and nod. She smiles and I slip out the door.

  It’s only when I arrive home that I realize we never even worked on the decorations for my henna booth.

  Priti is waiting in my bedroom, a math book open in her lap. She doesn’t look happy, though whether that’s because of me or math is hard to know.

  “Hey.” I try to be as nonchalant as possible, like I haven’t been out for hours at Flávia’s house. Like this isn’t an unusual occurrence.

  “What took you so long?” Priti sounds distinctly like Ammu.

  I shrug, and this just seems to agitate Priti further.

  “Apujan, you’re supposed to be careful. You can’t just …” She takes a breath and shakes her head. “You don’t remember what Flávia and Chyna did to you?”

  “It wasn’t Flávia.” I can’t help the small smile that appears on my face as I say her name. I want to tell Priti more. I want to tell her about going to her house and meeting her mom and the unicorn onesie, and the almost-kiss. But what if nothing comes of it?

  “How can you possibly know that?” Priti’s voice is laced with suspicion.

  “Because. I know,” I say. “Can you trust me? Flávia and I are … working things out.”

  Priti doesn’t look impressed. She purses her lips and picks her book up from the bed, standing. She’s shorter than me, so she can’t exactly tower over me, but it feels like she does as she looks at me with disdain blazing in her eyes. “She’s given you no reason to trust her, Apujan,” she insists. “You can’t possibly have forgiven her so easily.”

  I shrug again, because there’s really nothing else I can say. “Look, she’s …” I’m unsure how exactly to finish that sentence. “… not what you think.” I finish awkwardly. “We’re working it out. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “If you’re going to act like a lovesick fool, Apujan, don’t come crawling to me when things go wrong.” With that, she turns on her heels and disappears. My bedroom door slams closed behind her.

  I feel all the excitement from the past few hours slip out of me as she leaves. I sink into the bed where she left her impression, and find that apparently she’s also left her phone behind. The screen is open to her text messages with Ali. Before I can slip out of it, the texts catch my eye; I scroll through them, trying to wrap my mind around what Priti and Ali are talking about.

  Priti: I just can’t believe you could do something so sick. That you would stoop so low.

  Ali: I said I’m sorry, I don’t know what else I can do to make it better

  Priti: turn yourself in?? tell Ms. Grenham you sent it.

  Ali: I’ll be suspended, Priti. Maybe even expelled. I can’t do that.

  Priti: Then you shouldn’t have sent the text.

  “What are you doing?”

  I drop the phone onto the bed like it’s suddenly caught flames. It might as well have. That would probably be better.

  “You left your phone.”

  “So you thought that meant looking through it was okay?” Priti sounds angry but her eyes are moving nervously from my hands to where the phone has landed.

  “Was it Ali?” I ask.

  She looks away from me—somewhere above my head—clears her throat, and says, “Was what Ali?” Her voice is too controlled, too stoic.

  “Was she the one who told everyone?”

  “I thought you said it was Flávia. You said she and I were the only ones who knew.”

  “I said she and you were the only ones I told.”

  “Well, then—”

  “Priti.”

  She looks up, holding my gaze for only a moment before looking away. “I’m never going to forgive her for it, if it makes you feel better,” she mumbles.

  I take a deep breath, trying to process this information. It wasn’t Flávia. It wasn’t Flávia. It wasn’t Flávia.

  It was my sister.

  “How could you … why would you … tell her? That’s not your right.”

  Priti furrows her eyebrows together and leans away from me, like I’ve said something she wasn’t expecting. “How was I supposed to keep that to myself?”

  “So you just had to go and give your best friend a piece of gossip about me? Is that what it was?”

  Priti scoffs. “Of course not. But … you saw what was happening here. The tension, you being upset, Ammu being upset, Abbu being upset, nobody ever talking about it. It was all driving me insane. I had to talk to someone and it couldn’t be you or them. It’s a taboo subject. I couldn’t just keep it all bottled up inside.”

  “You had no right to tell her. And then to lie about it, to pretend it was Flávia—”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I know. I was upset and I knew you would be mad and I thought if you could just believe it was Flávia for a little while at least … y
ou wouldn’t be so mad. I thought I could sort it out, get Ali to fix it.”

  But her words barely register in my head. All this time I suspected Flávia, and my sister was lying straight to my face. She knew exactly what was going on and she was letting Flávia take the blame for it.

  “I can’t believe you hate Flávia that much. That you would let me hate her for nothing.”

  Priti frowns. “That’s not …” she shakes her head, her eyes settling into a glare. “You really don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “You’re so obsessed with this girl who doesn’t even care that you got outed to the entire school. You don’t even care about what’s been happening here. With us. With me. Ali and I have been on the rocks for weeks. Weeks. And of course I couldn’t tell you about it because oh no, poor Nishat is dealing with so much. We must all walk on eggshells around her, in case she gets too upset. And Nanu is sick, which you would know if you actually bothered to keep up with her on Skype like you used to before you got too smitten with some girl who doesn’t even care about you. Who was obviously just using you to win this stupid business competition.”

  “She wasn’t …” The words get stuck in my throat. Not that Priti is listening anyway. She has sprung up and is pacing around the room, her hands on her hips. She looks strikingly similar to Ammu.

  “You want to know something? Ammu and Abbu are doing everything they can. They have been ever since we got here, but you can’t see it or appreciate it. They may have messed up after you came out to them, but they just want to be able to look people in the eye when they go back to Bangladesh. Is that so, so wrong?”

  There are tears pricking at my eyes, and despite me trying my best to stifle them, they somehow manage to sneak out until Priti blurs in front of me. My little sister doesn’t sound like my little sister at all.

  When she stops, turns, and sees me rubbing at my eyes, I expect her to come to her senses. That’s how it usually goes with us: we get angry, we say things we don’t mean, but then we come back to ourselves. Go back to our rhythm. To being sisters who are there for each other no matter what.