The Henna Wars(39)

“Jess was upset. She … was never really a fan of your idea, but she wanted to try it because you were so excited, you know? But you have to admit, you were pushing us out a little bit. It felt more like your thing than ours.”

“Is this supposed to be an apology?” Because it was sounding like a defense of Jess instead.

Chaewon sighs and the sound reverberates around the phone line. “I am sorry but I just want you to understand that—”

“I have to go, Chaewon. I have a lot of things to do.”

“Oh … well. Okay. I’ll see you at school tomorrow?” I’m not sure if that’s an invitation to sit with them at lunch and in the classes we share together; I’m not sure if I want it to be.

“Sure, see you.”





16

WEDNESDAY MORNING, DESPITE REASSURING MYSELF THAT the Junior Cert means next to nothing, I feel anxiety clawing away at my insides. Today is the day we get our results.

For once, Priti doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even try to lean on me and do ghesha gheshi—which roughly translates to invading my personal space. Her favorite hobby.

Instead, she smiles at me brightly when we board the bus and makes pleasant conversation about nothing.

“Can you stop being so weird?” I burst out, interrupting Priti in the midst of a tirade about her English teacher that I’d only been half listening to.

“I’m not being weird. This is called having a con-ver-sa-tion.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “Yes, but you’re not being your usual annoying self and that’s weird.”

“Hey!” She lightly punches my shoulder. I barely feel it. “I take offense to being called annoying.”

“Would you rather I called you irritating? Like an itch I can’t scratch? A—”

“Delightfully quirky company.” Priti breaks out into a smile. “Or, just delightful is fine.”

“Yeah, okay, dream on,” I say dryly, but at least this is more the Priti I know.

“You are nervous though, right?” She narrows her eyes like if I wasn’t, that would be committing treason against our Asian heritage. I think it kind of would be.

“I am a little nervous,” I admit after a moment’s hesitation. Ammu didn’t say anything as I left the house this morning, but I noticed she had taken out the jainamaz, or prayer rug, and actually said a few prayers last night.

I can’t quite shake the hypocrisy of that—but I guess we’re all hypocrites about one thing or the other. I feel like her silence spoke volumes. It always does.

I put Ammu out of my mind once we’re in school and our entire year is being called into the hallway to receive our results. We’re all lined in up in our class order. An anxiety-ridden Flávia is standing to my right. She’s on her own since she didn’t go to St. Catherine’s last year—her results must have been mailed separately. But since they’re all sent by the Department of Education, she’ll be getting hers at the same time as everyone who did the Junior Cert last year. She’s muttering something to herself under her breath. A prayer, maybe? But it’s not in English. I’ve never heard Portuguese before, but I assume that’s the language she’s praying in.

My heart skips a beat, only because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Flávia look so vulnerable before. Since Sunny Apu’s wedding she’s carried an air of confidence around her. Today she looks different.

She catches my eye a moment later and I turn away before I can watch her expression harden at the sight of me.

Ms. McNamara, the head of our year, spends so long speaking about the exams and how a good result is important but not everything that it gives my body enough time to work up a sweaty panic. By the time she hands me my envelope with a smile faker than the knock-off Calvin Klein handbags for sale in Bangladesh, my hands are drenched in sweat. I don’t know if she notices. My hands are shaking as my fingers hover over the seal. People around me are already opening theirs, already taking breaths of relief. Instead of making me less nervous, their relief makes my anxiety rise.

I catch a glimpse of Flávia scanning over the piece of paper with her results on it, her eyes wide open.

I look away. There’s a flutter in my stomach. To think that a piece of paper can hold so much sway, and cause so many emotions in so many people.

I pull open my own envelope with my heart feeling like it’s going to burst out of my chest.

The words are a blur in front of my eyes at first before they finally come into focus.

Math – C

History – Β

French – Β

Irish – C

English – A

Home Economics – A

Business – A

Geography – A

CSPE – A

Science – Β

I can’t imagine how my parents will feel about it—it feels like the two Cs are glaring at me—but I feel the stress and anxiety leaving my body.

Before I can even react properly, before I can even look up from my results paper, somebody throws their arms around me and squeezes me in a tight hug. The hug is warm—like being cuddled in a blanket during a cold winter night—and the person hugging me smells faintly of vanilla and cinnamon mixed together.

“Sorry,” Flávia breathes when she finally lets me go. I’m trying to navigate my emotions—somewhere between adoration and annoyance.