The Henna Wars(41)

Is that the only reason I got invited? Why Flávia called a truce? I try to ignore those thoughts. I’m here, after all. There’s nothing I can do about it now.

I see Flávia’s lips move but the sound gets drowned out by the music, which seems to be getting louder and louder with every passing second.

I shake my head to indicate that I didn’t hear what she said. She grabs my hand, sending a jolt through my entire body, and drags me out of the room. We weave through the house—the hallway littered with people, the kitchen almost as full as the sitting room—and finally slide into a small, deserted room.

The room has a few bookshelves pressed against the wall, a small desk in one corner, and a cozy-but-beaten-down couch in the other corner. It’s so small that it can barely fit the two of us in with the furniture.

“It’s the study. Well, technically it’s a store room my mom converted into a study.” Flávia’s voice seems too loud without the booming music in the background. “Sorry, I didn’t think we could have a conversation in the sitting room.”

She clicks the door shut and strolls over to the couch. Settling herself into the cushions, she raises her eyebrows toward me.

I shuffle over too, wondering why exactly she brought me here. What kind of conversation is she looking for? Our last conversation wasn’t exactly sunshine and daisies. Plus, I’m pretty sure we could have had a conversation in the hallway, or even the kitchen. Sure, they were crowded, but the music wasn’t as loud and there were plenty of people talking there.

This setting—the two-seater couch, the deserted room, the closed door—it all feels too intimate.

When I’m settled into the couch beside her, Flávia is still watching me in a way that’s disconcerting. I don’t know what the expression on her face means. It’s unreadable—to me, at least.

“So … let’s get it out of the way.”

My stomach sinks. Was this truce not a truce at all?

“Were you happy?” she asks.

“W-what?”

“With your results? Were you happy?”

“Oh.” I let out a breath. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” She smiles.

“Well, it’s nothing to write home about but it’s not, you know, bad,” I say. “Were you happy?”

She shrugs and finally looks away from me.

“It wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but I guess it’ll have to do.” She sounds disappointed.

“What did you get?” I lean forward, trying to catch her eye.

“You can’t ask that!” she says with a slight laugh. “That’s like … against the rules of polite society.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” I can see her thinking about it.

“Okay, tell me yours.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath, wondering why I offered to do this. “Two Cs, three B’s, and five A’s.”

“Five A’s!” Flávia exclaims, a smile breaking out on her lips. “That’s kind of amazing. You should be proud.”

“Thanks,” I mumble as a blush creeps up my neck. “And you?”

She sighs. “Three A’s, three B’s, and four C’s.”

“And you’re disappointed with that?”

“Did you not hear the number of C’s?”

“Did you hear the number of A’s?”

She smiles again, though it’s hesitant this time.

“My mom isn’t exactly … thrilled.”

“Oh?”

She leans back in the chair. “Just … she has this thing about showing up my dad’s side of the family. I guess because … I don’t know, they never really liked her and I think it’s a race thing. Like they assume that because my mom is Black and Brazilian, and still has an accent, she isn’t smart enough or good enough or whatever. So she always wants me to do better.”

“Than who?”

“Than … well, everyone, really. But especially better than that side of the family.”

“So … Chyna?”

She nods, turning to meet my eyes. Her lips are pulled down in a frown.

“I didn’t, though.”

“Chyna did better than you?” I don’t mean it to come out as surprised as it does, but it does make Flávia burst into a fit of giggles, so that’s something.

“She’s pretty smart, you know.”

I shrug. “Just … she makes a habit of … I don’t know, not putting in an effort?”

“She does. I mean, she likes to act like she doesn’t care but honestly, Chyna cares a lot about this stuff. She wants to be a lawyer, you know? It’s all she’s wanted since we were kids.”

I can see that. Chyna is definitely good at manipulating the truth, at making people see her side of the situation, no matter how wrong or twisted it is. It makes me a little terrified to think of her as a lawyer. She’d be a white Annalise Keating; all the manipulation and amorality but none of the pushback from white people. Chyna would one hundred percent get away with murder, and she probably wouldn’t even have to try that hard. Of course, I don’t say any of this to Flávia. To her, I say, “You and Chyna must be pretty close, huh?”