30
“APUJAN!” PRITI’S VOICE CUTS THROUGH THE THRONG OF people darting around the hallway, eyes hungrily taking in everything that’s on offer. She’s grinning from ear to ear—until she takes in my sad, trashed stall.
“What happened here?” she asks.
I’ve been trying to clean it up. I successfully wiped up the spilled henna and cleaned up the trashed fairy lights, but there are still bits of glass and shredded crepe paper lying about. The slashed banner I folded up and slipped into my bag. It can’t be salvaged, but the idea of throwing it away makes my heart hurt.
“Someone trashed my stall,” I say. People passing by have been giving me sympathetic looks, but apparently they’re not sympathetic enough to offer to help.
“Ali?” Priti whispers.
I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe. It doesn’t even matter.”
“You should tell Ms. Montgomery.” She looks around, but Ms. Montgomery hasn’t returned from her lunch break yet. “Ok—Ms. Grenham. Ok—”
“No,” I cut her off firmly. “What are they going to do?” Priti doesn’t know that I’ve been late to P.E. almost every day since being outed because now I have to change after all the other girls have left. She doesn’t know the things I hear them whisper about me sometimes. She doesn’t know that there’s nothing to be done about it all—just like nobody ever called out Chyna for all of the awful, racist things she has done, nobody is going to face consequences for their homophobia in this school.
“Apujan.”
“Just leave it,” I say.
She frowns, before casting a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you’re going to have a choice, Apujan. Ammu and Abbu are here.”
“What?”
When I look up and follow her gaze, I can make out my parents weaving their way through the crowd, sticking out like sore thumbs. Ammu is wearing a green and red saree, one that I’ve only ever seen her wear on Noboborsho, the Bengali New Year. Abbu has opted to go traditional too, with a collared off-white Panjabi with a subtle black and gold design along the edges. They both look far too fancy for a regular school function; I can see some of the other kids, and a lot of the other parents looking at them with raised eyebrows.
If this was any other day, I might be embarrassed, but right now I actually feel a swell of pride and joy. Their fancy outfits are an obvious show of support.
They stop in front of my stall with frowns on their lips and exchange a quick glance with each other. Speaking in that unique, exclusive language they’ve always had.
“What’s this?” Ammu asks. “This is your stall?”
I know she doesn’t mean it as an insult, but I wince.
“It’s …” I’m not sure how to string the words together to tell them what happened, but before I can try, Priti chimes in.
“Somebody destroyed it!”
“What?” Abbu asks, one eyebrow raised.
I shoot Priti a glare. “I came back from lunch and all my stuff was … gone.”
Abbu and Ammu share another look. Then, to my surprise, Ammu steps forward and plops herself down on the chair I have set up for customers. She looks small and uncomfortable—like she really, really doesn’t belong, especially in her saree.
“Well?” She looks up at me. “Aren’t you going to do my mehndi?”
I grab one of the only henna tubes that hasn’t been slashed and begin to weave henna patterns into her hands while Abbu goes for a stroll around the hall with Priti.
“I’ll scope out the competition!” Priti says with a little too much delight in her voice, while Abbu shakes his head, like he’s not quite sure how he got stuck with her.
“Does this happen often?” Ammu asks after so much time has passed that I’m drawing flowers at the edge of her fingertips, and her palm and forearm are already covered in henna.
“Henna?” I look up to see her staring at me a little too intently.
“No, not henna.” She nods at my bare table. “The thing that happened to your stall.”
“Oh.” I take hold of her palm again and draw a flower on the tip of her ring finger. “Not this specifically.”
“But other things?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I feel the prick of tears in my eyes and blink them back. I don’t want to be having this conversation with anyone, least of all Ammu when it finally seems like we’re reconciling our relationship in some way.
Silence hangs between us until I finally finish her henna. Then she stares at her hands like it’s the first time she’s seeing them.
“You know your Nanu will try to make a museum out of your henna designs when she sees your handiwork, right?”
I bite down a smile, but I can’t help the way warmth spreads all over me.
“You like it?” I ask.
“It’s beautiful,” Ammu says.
I’m somewhere between relief and sadness when the day finally comes to an end and I can pack up my things and head home.
“You know, the other businesses aren’t as original as yours,” Abbu tells me in the car, between Rabindranath sangits.
“And not as talented either,” Ammu adds with a nod toward Abbu.
“They’re obviously very jealous of you to have done what they did,” Priti says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out the window. She’s probably talking about Ali. But I doubt any of it was because of jealousy.
“It doesn’t matter,” I sigh. “Only a few more weeks …” Considering the way my customers had swiftly dwindled from few to none, I seriously doubt I’m in the running to win. No matter how original my idea is, or how talented I apparently am.
To my surprise, a few minutes after we get home, the bell rings. When I swing the door open, Flávia is standing in the doorway, her face flushed from the cold.
“Hey …” she says. I saw her out of the corner of my eye a few times during the showcase today, but our stalls were so far apart, and after I found my stall trashed I couldn’t face going up to hers.
“Hi.”
She gives me a hesitant smile and says, “You know it wasn’t Chyna. She was with me the whole day today.”
I shake my head. “Come inside.” I step aside to allow her through, and close the door behind us.
We stand at the threshold, taking each other in like maybe this is the last time we’ll be able to. It feels far more dramatic than it should, and all I’m really thinking about is that day in her house and how she said goodbye to me in her doorway by brushing my hair behind my ear. I feel goosebumps erupt on my skin just at the thought.
“Tea?” I push past her into the kitchen.
“Sure.”
I put the kettle on and pick out two mugs from the cabinet, getting them ready with tea bags.
“Do you want to sit?”
Flávia looks at the stiff wooden chairs against the dining table and nods. She slips into one, looking out of place and uncomfortable. I bring the tea to her, and take my place on the opposite side of the table.
“So …”
“So …”
She cradles her mug in her hand, but doesn’t take a sip. I didn’t even ask her how she likes her tea, I realize. I just made it the way I make it for myself. I should have asked. Now she’ll have a horrible cup of tea that she can’t even drink and maybe that’ll be the only thing she’ll remember about me and our relationship. I’ll be the girl she kissed who smelled like henna and made her horrible tea and made her sit in a terribly uncomfortable chair through an even more uncomfortable silence because conversation was too difficult for her.
“I think—” I say at the same time that she says, “I’ve been thinking—”
We both pause. Catch each other’s eye. Smiles spread across our faces simultaneously.
Flávia reaches her hand across the table until her fingers find mine. She laces them together. Our hands fit perfectly together. Hers is still cold from outside. Mine is warm from the tea.
“I’ve been thinking about what happened today a
nd … I’m sorry. I should have come to you. Spoken to you. Texted you. Something. I mean, it wasn’t Chyna, but she wasn’t exactly sad about it. She’s been saying stuff about you for a long time now.” She grips my hand tighter. “It’s just that I’ve been so afraid they’ll all turn around and do the same to me if I speak up. That they’ll know. I’m … not ready for anyone to know yet.”
I exhale. My decision pieces together in my mind, like a puzzle finally coming together.
“I understand.”
“You do?” She raises an eyebrow.
“I do, but …”
She sighs. “There it is.”
“I just don’t think I can deal with it right now. Not with everything going on and … with Chyna being your cousin … I just … I can’t pretend and hide. I can’t sneak around for you. I can’t—”
“I’m not asking—”
“I know.” I cut her off because I do know. Flávia should tell them when she’s ready. When she wants to. When she thinks it’s her time. She should tell them for her, not for me. But that doesn’t change how I feel. I can’t take back the fact that Ali has outed me. I don’t want to take it back. And to go into hiding with Flávia would be a step back, not a step forward. “I just can’t deal with it, I guess. Being with you but … having to deal with them. When they don’t know. And the things they’ll say … about me and my family. I can’t take it.”
She nods. Her hand squeezes mine for a moment. The warmth of her spreads through me.
Then she pulls back her hand. The distance between us seems miles long all of a sudden. It’s unfathomable that just a moment ago we were touching.
“I get it.” There’s a waver in her voice I wish I couldn’t hear. “I should go.”
“Flávia.”
“You’re right. Please don’t say anything else.” She gets out of her chair, and I watch. There’s nothing else I can say, really. Reassuring her wouldn’t make things better. And it wouldn’t be honest.
“Can I …” She stops and looks me in the eye. “I want to pull out of the competition. Everything that’s happened … it’s all wrong. I see it now and I should have seen it before. You were always right and I always knew it. I just … I didn’t want to see it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to win because you let me,” I say. “I want to win because I earned it.”
“Even if everything is stacked up against you?”
I shrug. “Even if everything is stacked up against me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She hesitates for a moment, taking me in. I think she’s going to protest. Or say something. But she doesn’t. With a wave of her hand, she turns and disappears from sight. I hear the front door click open and shut, and only then do I start breathing normally again. My chest hurts so much with all the anxiety I’ve been holding in.
I stare at the full mug of tea Flávia left behind. Untouched.
All I can think is that at least she won’t remember me as the girl who makes terrible tea.
31
“WHAT DID SHE WANT?” PRITI ASKS WHEN I COME upstairs and slump down on my bed, taking a deep breath, like that will make the events from the past few weeks disappear from my mind.
“We … broke up.” It feels strange to say it aloud. Especially since I never really said aloud that we were together. Our relationship was shorter than Kim Kardashian’s last marriage.
“I’m sorry.” Priti lies down on the bed next to me and wraps her arms around me. It’s super awkward because half her body is on me, but it’s a nice gesture, I guess.
“Thanks,” I mumble, extracting myself from her slowly. “But you don’t have to pretend that you’re not happy about it.”
Priti turns to me with a frown. “I’m not pretending,” she says, like I’ve accused her of doing something horrendous. “I know I was resistant to her, but …” Her shoulders rise in a shrug. “If she made you happy … that’s the most important thing.”
I sigh, and turn to my side so Priti and I are face-to-face. “She’s Chyna’s cousin.”
“Yeah, that part is weird,” Priti agrees, scrunching up her nose. “Is that why you broke up?”
I take a deep breath. “Not exactly, but it played a part. Mostly, it’s because Flávia doesn’t want to come out and … I don’t want to have a secret relationship. Plus, I can’t imagine being with Flávia when Chyna is saying awful things about me being a lesbian.”
“I’m sorry, Apujan,” Priti says again, laying her head against my shoulder. I pull her closer and close my eyes. “You know … you should tell everyone that Ali sent the text. You don’t have to protect her.”
“I’m not protecting her,” I scoff. In reality, I’m trying to protect Priti. It’s hard enough losing your best friend of many years to something like this. Letting it fizzle out into nothingness instead of blowing it up to the entire school seems like the better option.
“We’re not friends anymore, so you should tell everyone.” Priti says it confidently, but I can see the hurt behind her eyes. She hasn’t been quite the same these past few weeks.
“I think losing you as a friend might be the worst punishment she could ever have.”
“I can think of a few others,” Priti mumbles.
I roll my eyes. “I think we should put all of those shenanigans behind us. We were pretty terrible at them.”
“I told you you aren’t James Bond,” Priti says, nudging me with her shoulder. I have to laugh, because I’m not sure why I ever thought sneaking around and sabotaging Chyna of all people would actually get me any positive results.
Ammu calls me into her bedroom on Saturday morning. When I show up at her doorway, Ammu is sitting on her bed with a bottle of coconut oil and a hairbrush by her side. Abbu is on the rocking chair by the bed, reading a book about the Bangladeshi War of Independence.
“Come here.” Ammu pats the spot on the bed in front of her. When I scoot into position, she pulls me closer and begins running the hairbrush through my hair. It tugs a little at my tangles. It hurts, but only slightly.
When we were kids, Ammu used to brush my and Priti’s hair every night before bed. We loved it so much that we always fought about who got to go first, until Ammu worked out a system: we would each go first every other day, so it was always fair.
“When was the last time you put oil in your hair?” Ammu asks accusatorily, running her fingers through the strands. “Look, your hair’s gone all dry. Once it all falls out there’s no getting it back, you know.”
“My hair isn’t going to fall out, Ammu.”
“You never know. You have beautiful hair, like I had when I was young. And now, look.” I don’t know what she’s talking about, because Ammu’s hair is still long and thick and black as ink. “Don’t cut off your hair, okay?”
I frown. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes girls like you cut their hair short,” she says.
“Girls like … me?”
“You know.”
Lesbians. She’s talking about lesbians. There’s a weird comfort in hearing her—well, not say it exactly, but … recognize it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abbu fidgeting in his chair like he’s not really paying attention to his book.
“There are a lot of lesbians with long hair, too,” I say.
“Where? There’s that woman, you know? Helen DayJinnraas. Her hair is so short, she looks like a … a lesbian.” Ammu’s voice dips low when she says the word lesbian, like it’s not meant to be said aloud.
“Well, she is one. Her name is Ellen DeGeneres, by the way. And her wife has beautiful, long hair.”
“And her wife is a lesbian, not a bisexual?”
I turn around so fast at that that the hairbrush is left swinging from my hair, pulled out of Ammu’s hand.
“What are you doing?” She tries to get a grip of the brush again.
“Why do you know what a bisexual is?”
“I’ve been
reading.”
“About lesbians?”
“And bisexuals. And paansexuals.” She says “pansexual” like they’re people attracted to paan, the food, not people who feel attraction to people of all genders. “And … what is it called? Transgender. Like hijra, right?”
“Pansexual, Ammu,” I mumble under my breath, though I’m impressed she knows even this much.
“Paansexual, that’s what I said.” She finally turns me back around and puts the hairbrush away. For a while, we sit in silence; I’m trying to figure out what I should say next while she begins to part the strands of my hair to rub oil into my scalp.
When she’s finished, she pats me on the head like I’m a pet.
“You know, when I told your Nanu and Nana about me and your Abbu I didn’t understand why they were so angry. He had such great prospects in front of him. So did I. It made no sense. Later, I realized that I was supposed to have lied about it, that that would have made it better. If I had pretended I had never spoken to him before, never known him, that he was a stranger who I liked the look of and nothing more, then nobody would have spoken about us in hushed whispers like we were shameful. Amma and Abba would have been able to hold their heads up high, because I would have made the right choices.”
“You said you regret what happened. You feel ashamed.” That conversation is imprinted onto my mind and I’m not sure if I can ever forget it.
“I did. I do. I …” She trails off. “At the time, I didn’t understand. I thought I was supposed to be honest with my parents. I thought I had made all of the right choices, so why was I being punished for one wrong thing? I was angry, you know. At the wedding, wearing my red saree and mehndi and jewelry, I couldn’t be happy because I kept looking out at the sea of faces and thinking of what they were probably saying about me. I didn’t want you to go through that, Nishat.”
I push back the strands of my hair and blink up at her. I can’t wrap my head around her words.
“But that’s how you’ve been feeling anyway, isn’t it?”
The Henna Wars Page 22