The Henna Wars(25)

I wrinkle up my nose. “That’s a little cheesy, isn’t it? And it’s not just mine.”

“But it’s a preliminary name. And it’s cute, if a little cheesy.”

I think about it for a second. It does say exactly what it is; who is applying the henna. So I say yes and Priti does her magic and sets up the account.

Afterwards, she turns on all the lights in her room and holds her henna-decked hand out for me.

“You’ve got to take the photo if we’re using my hand,” she says, nodding at her phone.

“But … I’m no good at taking photos,” I remind her. “Remember that time we ran into Niall Horan and all I managed to do was take a blurry photo where you can barely make him out?”

“Don’t remind me …” She held a grudge over that for ages. Anybody would have done the same. But that’s how bad I am at taking photos—even the thought of proving to everyone that we had randomly bumped into Niall Horan didn’t make me any better. Or maybe it made me worse.

I pick up the phone and click a few quick photos. When I show them to Priti, she frowns.

“I think you have like tone deafness but for photography,” she says. “Picture blindness.”

“Wouldn’t that just be blindness?”

“Picture askew-ness?”

“Okay, I have picture askew-ness.” I smile and thrust the phone out for her. “Your turn?”

She shakes her head. “You have to do it if we’re going to get a decent picture.” That feels like a total paradox. “Look, just hold it straight and … try not to move.”

It’s easier said than done. I try to take a few more pictures. They don’t come out perfect, but Priti smiles when she sees them this time.

“I can work with this.” She clicks out of the camera and into the Instagram app. A few minutes later, she shows me the finished product. She’s changed the lighting so it looks brighter. The design stands out against everything else, stark and intricate and … dare I say it, kind of beautiful.

I try to tell myself that pride is a sin, but I can’t help the glowing feeling growing inside of me. I should be able to feel proud once in a while, right? Is that not something you earn after a whole lifetime of insecurity and secrets?

“Post it.” I watch as she hits the button and turns to give me a wide grin.

“I guess we’re open for business.”

I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement, good or bad, but I find myself not caring for the first time ever.



I wake up the next morning with all the fluttery feelings gone from my stomach. Instead, they’re replaced by a hole; it’s a type of panic I haven’t felt in a long time. My mind conjures the worst-case scenarios: nobody liked our Instagram post, or they all commented on how horrible my designs are.

“Have you checked your Instagram yet?” Priti asks when I come down for breakfast. Ammu eyes us both with some disdain.

“What is this Instagram tinstagram?” she asks with narrowed eyes. The only thing Ammu knows about social media is checking her Facebook for the latest photos from weddings and dawats and who knows what else. Mostly she likes to judge what everyone is wearing, even though she always tells us that we shouldn’t judge people.

“It’s just social media.” Priti rolls her eyes, even though Ammu definitely won’t know what that is. She narrows her eyes further, like she’s trying to process Priti’s words but it’s taking her a while to get there.

“You don’t need social media tedia.” There’s a frown on her lips. “Priti, you should be studying for your exams.” She turns her glare to me, like I’m responsible for Priti’s lack of focus—which, I guess I am—and says, “Don’t distract your sister. She needs to study.”

It’s the most that Ammu has said to me since I came out to her a few weeks ago, and it sends a jolt of pain through me that I hadn’t expected. I guess you never really get used to your parents treating you like you’re worth nothing.

“I know,” I say, staring down at my shoes at the same time that Priti exclaims, “I can study and do other things at the same time!” Priti’s voice drowns out mine, and I don’t think Ammu hears me at all. She doesn’t say anything else, turning away instead.

“So, did you?” Priti whispers to me as we’re heading out the door.

“Huh?” I’m still thinking about the fact that Ammu barely looked at me all through breakfast, like she couldn’t stand to. What am I to her now? A ghost that occupies her house?

“Your Instagram?” That snaps me out of my thoughts. “Have you checked it?”

“Not yet.” There’s a hole in my stomach, growing bigger and bigger with every passing second. “Have you? Is it bad? Don’t tell me.”

Priti pulls out her phone as soon as we’ve boarded the bus and made it through the throngs of people and into a corner. She thrusts the screen in front of my face.

523 likes. 97 comments.

“It’s not quite viral. But it’s proven to be pretty popular among the people from school.”

“We don’t even have five hundred people at school.” Clearly the wrong thing to say because Priti groans.