The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  “We watch the movies every Christmas when they’re on TV.”

  I can’t imagine it—Flávia and Chyna sitting in front of the TV marathoning Harry Potter of all things. I still only see Chyna as the girl who’s been tormenting me and my friends for the past three years.

  “It’s funny because in my old school, when the girls sometimes said mean things to me because I’m Black, Chyna would get so angry. And now I’m not sure if she was angry because she knew it was wrong or because … it was me and I’m the exception to her rule. And is that good or is that bad?”

  I definitely can’t imagine Chyna having any kind of a moral compass when it comes to things like race, but I furrow my eyebrows and try to work through it. Try to work out what Chyna saw in me the first day we met, and then later at the party when everything fell apart.

  “Maybe it’s both?” I offer.

  “Isn’t that a paradox?”

  “Maybe … sometimes people don’t see the things they do as wrong, but they can see the wrong in what other people do—especially if it’s done to someone they care about,” I say. “When it happens to someone else, it doesn’t feel as important as when it happens to someone we love.”

  Flávia thinks about it for a moment, with a frown on her lips that makes my heart do somersaults. I try to ignore them.

  “I think I want to tell her. About me. Us. If there still is an us.” She doesn’t look at me as she says this, and she shuffles her feet around like she’s really afraid there might not be an us. Like I could have forgotten about her and me and us in just the past few weeks. Like I haven’t been thinking about her almost every single day.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I know.” She turns to me and takes my hand in hers and I feel electricity pulsing through me. “It’s just … I don’t feel so afraid of it anymore. Like … my mom keeps telling me the news from Brazil, and the things that our president says about women, and Black and gay people, you know? And then these past few weeks, I’ve seen you up against what seems like the entire world. Or at least like half the population of our school. And you never let it phase you. I don’t want to be … the kind of person that lets things pass by. I want to be the kind of person that does something, and stands for something.”

  “And you’re standing for … coming out?” I ask.

  “I’m standing for … me. For you. For us, I guess.”

  It doesn’t seem like much. But sometimes just being yourself—really, truly yourself—can be the most difficult thing to be.

  33

  PRITI HAS HER HEAD BURIED IN HER BOOKS WHEN I GET home, but as soon as I catch sight of her through the crack in her door she perks up. Like she’s been waiting for any sign of me to distract herself from studying.

  “I heard Chaewon and Jess won!” she exclaims, bouncing on the bed. “I’m sorry it wasn’t you.”

  I lean against her doorframe and say, “It’s not a big deal. It wasn’t like I thought I was going to win.” Even though there was that small inkling of hope still inside me. “Something happened … after the awards, though.”

  “Oh?” Priti leans so far forward in her bed that I’m surprised she doesn’t fall off the edge. “Something good or bad?”

  I shrug because I’m still making up my mind about it. “Flávia says she’s going to come out to Chyna.”

  “Whoa.” Priti sits back, eyes wide. Like she’s trying to process and can’t quite make heads or tails of it all.

  “Yeah.” I sit down beside her, trying to process as well. What does this mean? What will it mean?

  “She must really like you.”

  I turn to Priti with a frown. “What? She’s not doing this for me.”

  Priti looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe me, but says, “Oh, okay,” in the most unconvincing voice I have ever heard.

  “You really think it’s because of me?”

  “I think it’s not not because of you.”

  “Do you think she’ll be okay?” My heart feels heavy at the thought of Chyna’s reaction.

  Priti crawls close to me and leans her head against my shoulder. “I think no matter what happens she’ll have you, and her mom, and her sister.”

  I wait anxiously by my phone for the whole evening. It feels strangely like that fateful day when I decided to tell Ammu and Abbu about me, and I realize that now I have to tell them about Flávia too.

  When I wake up the next morning with my phone still cradled next to me, I have one new message from Flávia.

  Can I come over?

  Ammu and Abbu are in the sitting room, their eyes glued to the TV. When I peer around the door, I expect them to be watching a Bollywood film on Star Gold, or an Indian natok on Star Plus. What I don’t expect is for them to be watching the Ellen DeGeneres Show as if their lives depend on it.

  “You want to watch, Nishat?” Ammu pats the empty seat beside her, but doesn’t take her eyes off the TV. On screen, Ellen DeGeneres is interviewing Ellen Page. It’s probably the gayest thing in this house—and my parents are willingly watching it.

  “Um, no …” I mumble, looking from the TV to Ammu and back. “Can I … Ammu …” I’m not sure how to phrase the question. Flávia is on her way over and we only get one chance to make a first impression. “Is it … okay if I have a girlfriend?”

  Ammu finally looks away from the TV, her eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together. She exchanges a glance with Abbu before asking, “Is it the girl from the wedding?”

  “What wedding? What girl?”

  “You know.” Ammu waves her arms around as if that’s an explanation. “Your sister showed me a picture. From the wedding. The Brazilian girl.”

  I have never loved Priti as much as I love her right at this very moment.

  “Flávia … yeah. She’s … coming over.”

  “Now?” Abbu sits up straight, like he is very unprepared for this.

  “Yeah, now. Is that … okay?”

  Abbu frowns at me, before turning to Ammu. “What will we feed her?”

  “Can she eat spicy food? Is she staying for dinner?” Ammu actually turns the TV off and adjusts her urna over her chest. “What do Brazilians eat? She’s not one of those … vegetarians, is she?” Vegetarians are the bane of existence for most Bengalis since most of our food is full of meat.

  I try to gulp down the lump forming in my throat and shrug. “I don’t think she’s a vegetarian. She might stay for dinner.”

  “She has to,” Abbu decides at the same time that Ammu shakes her head and traipses into the kitchen, clearly distraught about what she’s going to feed Flávia.

  I text Flávia as soon as Ammu and Abbu have disappeared into the kitchen.

  Me: You’re not vegetarian are you?

  Flávia: nope, why?

  Me: My mom is freaking out about what she’s going to feed you. It’s a Bengali thing

  Flávia: freaking out about food?

  Me: pretty much!

  By the time Flávia rings the bell, Ammu has started prepping an entire feast and I’m not sure if I should be proud or embarrassed. I’m a little bit of both as I introduce a flustered Flávia to my parents.

  I manage to drag her upstairs and away from their awkward, prying questions as soon as they’ve exchanged hellos and shaken hands.

  “We have a lot of homework to do,” is what does the trick. Because studying—of course—comes before everything else.

  “Your parents have really come around,” Flávia says once we’re up in my room. “Are they really going to feed me dinner?”

  “If I let you go home without having dinner, I think they would disown me,” I explain. “You don’t come to a Bengali person’s home and leave without eating.”

  “This is a perk I can get used to.” Flávia grins, before leaning forward and taking my hand in hers. “Also … all the other stuff, I guess.”

  I have to smile too, but tentatively because the question I’ve been wanting to ask since I got her text is still
bugging me. “Was Chyna … I mean, did you tell her? Is she …?”

  Flávia sighs. “Chyna is … coming around.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means … we’re working it out.”

  I want to ask her a thousand more questions. I want her to give me a blow-by-blow about her conversation with Chyna; I want to know everything. But then Flávia leans in and presses her lips to mine, and I don’t care about any of it anymore.

  Monday dawns as dreary and dull as most Irish mornings. There’s a constant drizzle of rain that makes it look as if it’s not morning at all. Still, I couldn’t feel more elated if I tried. I can’t stop smiling, even as I pull my heavy French book out of my locker.

  “Hey.”

  At the sound of Chyna’s voice, I drop said French book right onto my toes.

  “Ow. Um, hi.” I pick up the book, trying to massage my toes through my shoes and definitely looking like a misshapen pretzel or something.

  Chyna doesn’t seem very sympathetic to my plight, unsurprisingly. She’s looking around as if to make sure nobody’s watching us have this conversation. It’s only five minutes until the bell rings, so everyone is too busy to pay attention to our corner of the hallway. Except for Chaewon and Jess, whose lockers are only a few away from mine. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see their attempts at inconspicuously eavesdropping.

  Chyna takes a deep breath and, with a pained expression on her face, says, “I wanted to tell you that it’s okay that you’re dating my cousin.”

  “Oh.” She’s still avoiding my eyes and I wonder if Flávia put her up to this. “Well … thanks.”

  She finally catches my eye and her lips press together in a frown. “I probably shouldn’t have said what I did on Friday …” She trails off as the sound of the first bell fills the air around us.

  “I should …” Chyna is already shuffling away from me, putting visible distance between us like I’m contagious with something she’s afraid of catching.

  Chaewon and Jess make their way over almost as soon as Chyna is out of sight. Their eyes are bulging out their sockets.

  “What was that?” Jess asks, as if she just witnessed something otherworldly. She might as well have.

  “I guess that was Chyna apologizing?”

  “That was an apology?” Chaewon asks, eyebrows raised.

  I shrug. “I think it’s the most I’m ever going to get.”

  Even Chyna’s non-apology apology can’t ruin my good mood because when I wave goodbye to my friends and slip into French class, Flávia is sitting in a corner. She has her bag propped up on the seat beside her, and she’s absentmindedly twirling a curl around her finger.

  When she sees me, her face breaks out into a smile.

  Dimples and all.

  Warmth spreads through me at the sight.

  34

  FLÁVIA HAS A THING FOR PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES. IT’S possibly the most white girl thing about her. So when she drags me into Starbucks one afternoon after school and buys me one of those spiced coffees, I have to pretend that I hate it, even though I secretly kind of love it.

  I scrunch up my nose with every sip I take, until Flávia rolls her eyes and says, “I bet if I come here tomorrow, you’ll already be in a corner cradling a mug of pumpkin spice latte.”

  “I can’t believe you think I have such bad taste.”

  “You’re a real food snob, you know that?”

  I shrug. “I can’t help it. It’s the Bengali in me.” She definitely never complains about me being a food snob when she’s having dinner at my house.

  But now she pokes me in the ribs and says, “Admit it. You kind of like it.”

  A fresh flurry of butterflies flutters through my stomach. I don’t think Flávia realizes what her touch still does to me.

  “Okay, I guess it’s not that bad,” I concede.

  She grins, and I reconsider whether she does know exactly what her touch does to me. I don’t have much time to think about it though, because in the next moment she’s looped her arm into mine and is resting her head on my shoulder.

  “We should study,” she sighs. That’s the excuse we gave both of our parents to venture out for the afternoon. Neither of us make an effort to reach into our bags, though; I’m not even sure what books I have in mine.

  Instead, I lean into her and we watch the way the cars and buses and the Luas zoom up Westmoreland Street. The sunlight begins to dim slowly.

  “I want you to do my henna.” Flávia’s voice startles me out of my reverie. She sits up and says, “You never did it. That one time—I got henna all in my hair and you never finished.”

  “You’re realizing this now?” It’s still only been a few weeks, but it feels like an eternity has passed since the competition finished, since our first kiss, since Flávia and I began our more or less public relationship.

  She frowns and turns all the way around so we’re directly face-to-face—like we’re in the middle of a serious discussion and not just talking about henna.

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” she says.

  “About henna?”

  “About … yes, henna. Kind of. I talked to your friends and your sister and—”

  “Behind my back?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Nishat. It’s a good thing. Think of it as a present.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I wonder if this is a side effect of pumpkin spice lattes. They do have a very strong scent.

  Flávia just smiles. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jeans and taps it for a minute before thrusting the screen toward me.

  “I didn’t know when was the right time to show you, but … I think we’re ready.”

  The Instagram page that I disabled after the business competition stares me in the face, but I barely recognize it. The profile picture is brand new. In bright red cursive handwriting it reads Nishat’s Mehndi, with the same written in faded Bengali script in the background.

  “Jess helped me with the design and we even set up a website. And your sister says your dad will let you use his restaurant again.” There’s this bright gleam of hope in Flávia’s eyes that I’m not sure I understand.

  “My business kind of failed miserably last time,” I say. “I’m not—”

  “But you like doing it. Love it, actually.” She says it like it’s a fact. “Your sister thinks so. So do your friends. And last time things went up in flames because of us.”

  “But—”

  “You’re really talented, Nishat.” Flávia leans forward and cups my face with her hands. I feel myself flush. Feel the bloom of warmth in my chest. “And everyone should see that.”

  “I do still have leftover henna tubes,” I admit.

  “And you have an entire catalog of original henna designs.”

  I think of the design book collecting dust in the back of my bookshelf.

  “Maybe,” I say finally.

  It must be enough for Flávia, because she leans forward and presses her lips to mine. But it’s such a brief kiss that when she pulls away I’m still leaning into her and nearly topple over.

  She’s too busy digging into her schoolbag to even notice. For a second, I’m afraid she’s going to pull out her French book and insist that we get serious about school. But she pulls out something totally unexpected—a tube of henna.

  She lays it on the table in front of us and looks at me with her dimpled smile. “Okay. I’m ready for a Nishat original.”

  “Flávia.”

  “Please?” She looks at me with big, round puppy-dog eyes, and it’s not like I can say no to those.

  I grab hold of the henna tube and begin to squeeze a pattern into Flávia’s palm while she beams at me as if this is the best day of her life. It feels kind of surreal: The warmth of her hand. The tenderness of her gaze. The way the setting sun illuminates her face.

  The fact that I’m weaving my very culture into her skin.

  This is one of those moments t
hat I want to bottle up and keep with me forever. Not because it’s extraordinary, or because it’s the kind of thing you would find in a Bollywood movie.

  But because it’s the kind of moment I could never have dreamed of having in a million years.

  acknowledgments

  A BOOK IS ONLY AS GOOD AS ALL OF THE PEOPLE WHO come together to make it into a reality, and I feel lucky to have many incredible people in my corner.

  Thank you to my amazing agent, Uwe Stender, for believing in me and this story, and for your endless enthusiasm and support.

  Thank you to my brilliant editor, Lauren Knowles, for all of your hard work in making The Henna Wars into what it is today. A huge thank you to the incredible team at Page Street: William Kiester, Ashley Tenn, Molly Gillespie, Tamara Grasty, Lauren Davis, Lauren Cepero, and Lizzy Mason.

  I definitely would not be here without my very own team Avatar: Alyssa, Shaun, April, Kristine, and Timmy. Thank you for all of the years believing me in me and my writing, and for shaping me into the person that I am today.

  Go raibh míle maith agaibh to Amanda and Shona, for putting up with reading my writing since I was a teen, and for the tea, cake, and tapas. And to Gavin for letting me vent to you endlessly, for being a supportive friend, and an amazing person.

  This book would not exist without my incredible and talented friend Gabhi, who was the first person I turned to with the idea. Thank you for shouting at me to go and write the book, for always believing in me, and for everything you have done to shape this book into what it is.

  To my Bengali Squad, Tammi and Priyanka: I don’t know what I would do without the two of you. I can’t thank you enough for all of your help throughout this entire process. For holding my hand from first draft all the way until now, and for always knowing the perfect Bengali word when I’m stuck.

  To my brilliant and talented friend, Faridah: Thank you for putting up with all of my venting and anxiety, and always believing in me and this book. Thank you also for putting up with the creepy Jack Nicholson gif (it’s not going away anytime soon, sorry).