The Henna Wars(26)

“Of course we have five hundred people at school,” she says. “I can’t believe how bad you are at math.”

I scroll through the comments. Each of them makes my heart beat faster and faster.

Omg, when are you starting up?

How much will it cost for one tattoo?

What other designs do you have?

So excited!

So pretty!

Love it!!!

I feel elated. Or … I feel like I should feel elated. This is what I wanted. I’ve been anticipating this moment since Priti opened up the Instagram account last night. But with Ammu’s stony silence in the back of my mind, all I can feel is that hole in my heart getting bigger and bigger. I keep scrolling through the comments, reading them over and over and over again, hoping that they’ll somehow fill it.

My fingers brush against the top of the screen and before I know it I’m on Priti’s Instagram feed. And then I see a photo that makes my heart stop.

Priti snatches the phone out of my hand before I can stare for too long. She knows me too well. She must have recognized the look on my face.

“Holy shit.” Her voice is low, but still one of the ladies beside us shoots her a glare that she doesn’t even notice. “I can’t believe her.”

Priti puts her hand on my shoulder, a calming presence that I can barely feel for once. “Apujan,” she says. “It’s not a big deal. She doesn’t even have as many likes as you.”

“It’s nicer. So much nicer.”

“That’s just … she’s used to it, you know. She’s probably been taking pictures of her art for ages. She has hundreds of posts. She has a bigger following than you.” Priti’s voice is gentle and soothing but it doesn’t make me feel better in the slightest. Whatever happiness I’d talked myself into feeling is gone. Disappeared into thin air.

“She’s going to do better than me,” I say. “She already has a customer base and I have nothing.”

“It’s not a competition,” Priti says.

“That’s literally exactly what it is! A competition!”

“Yes, but—”

“And she’s going to win.”

“But is winning really that important?”

I know Priti agrees with me. There’s no way I’m going to beat Flávia. It doesn’t matter that I have authenticity on my side.

By the time we make it into school, I’ve already burned Flávia’s photo into my head. I can’t stop seeing it—hands linked together, their henna weaving together like webs. Hand to hand to hand. In a circle. The patterns sharp. All edges. So different from my mandala full of circles and flowers and leaves.

I jostle open my locker, feeling emptiness growing inside of me, wider and wider with every minute. But I’m not going to break down—not today.

I catch sight of Flávia out of the corner of my eye. She has her phone open, and I can see the photo splashed colorfully across her screen. There are people gathered around her. Their faces are wide with appreciation and glee. There’s Chyna, and all her friends. I wonder if it’s their hands in the photo, or if it’s other people’s. The hands in the photo are all pale, flushed a light pink—probably from the chill that’s set in.

“When will you get started for real?” I hear Chyna asking.

Flávia smiles. “As soon as I get my supplies. I need to make a trip to the Asian shop in town.”

The Asian shop in town. Like there aren’t multiple, each selling different brands. Some better, some worse. Glitter henna. White henna. Regular henna paste.

Suddenly, it’s like there’s a light bulb illuminated in my head.

That’s my advantage. I know henna. Even in the areas I don’t, I know the people who do. There’s no way Flávia is going to take advantage of my culture because of Chyna’s popularity, because she has white friends who’ll make her henna look chic and adaptable to Western culture.

I might not be able to get Ammu to look me in the eye anymore, but I am going to beat Flávia’s henna business. Come hell or high water.





11

BY THE TIME THE WEEKEND ROLLS AROUND, I HAVE A battle plan at the ready. And I haven’t shared it with anyone—not even Priti.

Saturday afternoon I stroll into the house with an armful of henna tubes, and Priti looks at me with raised eyebrows.

“Isn’t this a little … ambitious?” she asks.

I shrug. “Raj Uncle gave me a discount.”

“Probably because you bought up the entire shop.” She pauses, looks at the smile stretched across my lips, and says, “Why did you go to Raj Uncle’s shop?”

“Well, I heard Flávia speaking to some of her friends last week. I figure Raj Uncle’s shop is the only one she knows.”

“So you decided to buy up all of his henna?” Priti’s voice rises by an octave. She rubs the bridge of her nose, the same way that Abbu does when he’s annoyed but doesn’t want to show it by shouting at us. “You know that’s not going to work, right? He’s just going to place another order for more henna. It’s really not that difficult.”

“I know. I’m not that thick. But it is going to slow things down for her, and by the time she’s figured out that it’s going to take her at least a few days—if not weeks—to get the henna tubes she needs, I’ll hopefully have already taken some of her customers.”