The Henna Wars(30)

They don’t respond, probably too busy living their lives and actually enjoying themselves.

I consider leaving the party as I scroll through my Instagram feed, barely paying attention to the pictures. Ammu and Abbu said they would swing by to pick us up later, but I’m sure I can just wander around outside until that time comes. We’re in the middle of Dún Laoghaire, one of the poshest neighborhoods in Dublin. I doubt I’ll be in any danger if I wander by myself for a while.

I’m pulling out my phone to text Priti about leaving, even though I’m still angry with her for bringing me here and abandoning me, when the sitting room door swings open. The loud blare of music that had been drowned out by the closed door spills out again. Along with Flávia.

I freeze, like that will somehow make me vanish. I’m far enough away that I think she’ll miss me, especially in the dimness of the hallway and with me wearing clothes that don’t exactly make me stand out. But she spots me almost instantly.

I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest at the sight of her face breaking out into a grin, and the way her curls bounce wildly as she hurries over and sits down right next to me on the narrow staircase. I’m too aware of the fact that our arms are pressed together and our legs are touching; I’m so distracted that I must miss the first time she says “hey.”

“Nishat?”

“H-hi.” I mumble, looking toward the door and not her.

This is just infatuation. It’s nothing. It means nothing.

“I saw you open the door. How come you didn’t come in?”

I shrug. “There are a lot of people in there.”

“Well, duh. It’s a party.”

When I don’t reply, she heaves a sigh.

“It’s not exactly your type of party, then?”

“I guess not.”

“So what is your type of party?”

I think about it for a moment. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been to my type of party, and really I’m not sure if parties are my thing at all. But if I was going to throw a party there would be real Desi food everywhere. There would be samosas and fuchka and shingara and dal puri and kebabs.

“There would be better food at my type of party,” I say.

She laughs. It’s a small and jittery laugh, but still feels too loud in the empty, dimly lit hallway.

“You’re right. The food here is awful. Though I think there’s talk of pizza, and obviously some birthday cake. There’s even some brigadeiro that I made special for today.” She takes a sip from the plastic cup she’s nursing in her hands.

“Brigadeiro?”

She nods. “It’s a Brazilian dessert. You have to try it. We’re going to have it after we cut the cake.”

“I’m not sure I’ll last that long.”

“You’re thinking about leaving already?” Her eyebrows shoot up. From where I’m sitting—too close to her—I can make out the dark browns of her eyes and the freckles that are almost hidden away.

“I don’t really know a lot of people here.”

“So it’s like me at that wedding.” She smiles. “You kept me company there, I can keep you company here, if you want.” She bumps her knee to mine and it sends a jolt of electricity through me.

“That’s okay … thanks.” My voice must come out drier than I intend it to, because she frowns.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

I don’t mean to say it, really, but when she asks that question it’s like she opens the floodgates.

“Yes. You’re starting your own henna business for class.”

Surprisingly, she smiles.

“What, you’re afraid of a little friendly competition?”

“No.” It comes out more defensive than I mean it to. “But … it was my idea. It’s my culture. It’s my thing.”

“It’s a type of art—that can’t be a person’s thing.” She furrows her eyebrows together like this conversation is too much for her to fathom.

“It’s not just a type of art. It’s a part of my culture. Just because you went to one wedding that was South Asian, where you didn’t even know anyone, by the way, doesn’t mean you just get to do henna now.”

“It’s art!” Her voice has risen significantly. “I’m sure watercolor was also part of some particular culture once, but now we all do it. That’s what art is. It doesn’t have arbitrary boundaries.”

“That’s not how it works. It’s not the same thing.”

“Is this why you ran off the other day when I showed you my henna tattoo? Because you were annoyed I had, what, borrowed from your culture? You were offended?” She sounds offended at the idea of me being offended.

“Yes!” I say. “I mean … no. I was upset because … henna is important to me.”

“How important can it be? You said you only started trying it for the wedding!”

“That’s just something I said.”

Flávia shakes her head. “Look, I get that you’re defensive and don’t want to compete and all, but … this is how art works. I think you don’t really get it because you’re not an artist.”

I have a million thoughts screaming in my head. Nasty thoughts that I have to swallow down because I know I’ll regret voicing them.