The Henna Wars(43)

Ammu opens the door with a frown before I can grab the keys from my handbag.

“Where have you been? It’s almost one o’clock, I’ve been calling you.”

“Oh … I was … at the party. Remember?” I’m sure I told Ammu about the party, even if it was a mumbled throwaway comment because we can barely be in the same room with each other anymore.

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have taken the bus to come home. Why didn’t you call us?”

I shrug, because we both know why I didn’t call. I think she’ll reprimand me some more, that she’ll punish me somehow for coming home on the late bus which, according to her, is “dangerous.” But she just sighs and shuts the door behind me.

“Where’s Priti?”

“She’s already asleep,” Ammu says. “It’s really late.”

“I know … am I not allowed to celebrate my results?”

Surprisingly, she smiles. Ammu and Abbu haven’t been angry about the results. Maybe they had low expectations, like me being a lesbian means my results matter less, or negates the Asian expectation of getting straight A’s. Or maybe they just had low expectations of me from the start.

I don’t know whether I should be grateful or annoyed that they haven’t given me a hard time about the results. But they seem kind of … satisfied. Which my parents rarely are.

“You are allowed to celebrate, shona.” The endearment surprises me. Sends a jolt through me. “I’m … proud of you. You did well.”

I blink at Ammu like she’s sprouted several tentacles. Honestly, it would be less surprising if she had sprouted several tentacles.

“You’re …”

“You’re focusing on your studies. You did well. Just … that’s what you need to keep doing.” She smiles at me, but I read between the lines. You need to keep focusing on your studies and stop being a lesbian. I want to tell her that I didn’t make the choice she thinks I’ve made. That I can never make the choice she thinks I’ve made. But the words won’t come out. Because Ammu said she’s proud of me. She’s actually speaking to me. Having a conversation that’s not about how I’m bringing shame to the family. How I’m wrong. How I need to do better.

So I just nod and turn away, blinking back tears.

All of my joy from the party has disappeared as I change into my pajamas and wipe the makeup off of my face. I feel like my heart, which was soaring just moments ago, has been sliced open, and I can only put it together when I make a choice. If I want my family to be my family, if I want my Ammu and Abbu to love me, the choice can’t be Flávia.

My phone buzzes on my bedside table. Two messages. I bite my lip, wondering if I should click into it. But my heart is already beating a mile a minute and my fingers move of their own accord.

Flávia: hey

Flávia: would it be okay if you maybe don’t mention what happened at the party tonight?

Flávia is typing …

Flávia is typing …

Flávia is typing …

Flávia: I just got caught off guard

I stare at the screen for a moment, unsure what exactly is happening. Just an hour ago, I was floating on cloud nine. I felt like the happiest girl in the world. Like everything was going right for once in my life. Now …

My hand hovers over the on-screen keyboard but I’m not sure what there is to say to that. I’m not sure how she expects me to respond.

I won’t mention it, I type out, against my better judgment.

I stare at the message for a second, feeling shame bloom inside me once more. Lately it feels like that’s all I am to everyone—some secret they have to hide away. I thought that coming out to my family, at least, would negate some of the shame.

I guess I was wrong.

So I hit send, feeling an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, growing deeper and darker as I stare at my phone. I clasp it so tightly in my hands that my fingers become pale.

Flávia: thanks



“Knock, knock!”

“You know it’s not knocking when you just say the words knock knock, right?”

“You’re supposed to say who’s there.”

I turn around in my chair to glare at Priti, who apparently has the same sense of humor as a child in Montessori.

“Do you want something? I’m kind of busy.” I turn to my desk without waiting for her answer.

“I’ve been calling you down for breakfast for like the past fifteen minutes. What are you doing?”

The truth is that I never went to bed last night. I felt too wired, with too many thoughts running through my head. It was overwhelming. Instead of going to bed, I began to pour my heart and soul out in the form of henna patterns.

There’s something oddly relaxing about the repetitive patterns—the curved lines and circles and the knowledge that this is something that’s mine, something important.

All of that led to the worst realization of all.

Last night wasn’t about me and Flávia at all. That almost-kiss had to be about exactly this—getting me freaked out and anxious, and maybe even further infatuated. All so I’d decide to give up, or at the very least be distracted.

But I’m not going to feel ashamed and heartbroken because Flávia thinks I’m someone she can play with. I won’t give her the satisfaction. So I spent the rest of the night creating more designs for the Monday showcase.