The Henna Wars(44)

“I just want to finish these designs. The showcase is getting close,” I say.

I’m in the middle of drawing a particularly intricate pattern when Priti leans down beside me.

“Your eyes are all bloodshot, Apujan. Are you okay? Did you get any sleep?”

“I’m fine, Priti,” I growl. “Can you just leave me alone and let me do this?”

She purses her lips and crosses her arms over her chest before slipping out the door wordlessly, which is astonishing for Priti, whose favorite thing is annoying me with all her talking.

But as much as I know I shouldn’t be taking my anger and frustration out on my sister—aka the only person in the world who seems to care about me lately—I can’t seem to help it. So instead of going down to breakfast, or making amends with Priti, I go back to my notebook. My only solace these days.



Priti and I barely talk the rest of the day on Saturday, but on Sunday morning I’m the one knocking on her door. Priti looks up from her math textbook with a frown on her lips—but she doesn’t look angry at me, really. Just angry at math.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry … about yesterday.”

Priti shrugs. “I guess the party wasn’t what you expected it to be?”

“It could have been better,” I say. I definitely don’t want to rehash how Flávia made a fool out of me to Priti. Not after all of her warnings.

“Whatever happened—”

“Isn’t important.” I cut her off and throw my arms around her. It feels good to be so close to somebody who actually loves and understands me.

“Ammu asked us to Skype Nanu, by the way,” she says when I finally let go of her. “She wants you to give her the good news about your results.”

“She called it good news?” I balk at the phrase, but Priti nods enthusiastically, a small giggle escaping her.

“You did well, Apujan. Ammu and Abbu are proud of you.”

Even though all evidence points to that, it’s difficult to wrap my mind around it.

“Come on.” Priti slips her phone out of her pocket and clicks into Skype. It’s still early, so it should be late afternoon in Bangladesh. I hope we catch Nanu before her daily nap.

She picks up after the first ring, as if she has been waiting by the phone for this call. At first we can only see a close-up of her nostrils. Priti and I exchange a glance, trying to stifle our giggles.

“Nanu, you have to move away from the camera,” Priti says into the phone. “We can’t see your face.”

Her face gradually comes into focus as the camera moves farther away. It’s still at an angle, but I figure it’s the best we’re going to get.

“How are you, Jannu?” she asks, a smile wider than the River Shannon stretching across her lips.

“We’re good, Nanu!” Priti chirps happily. “Apujan is really good, she has good news for you.” Priti aims the phone toward me so that I’m in full view. Heat rises up my cheeks as I awkwardly wave my hands in front of me.

“Hi, Nanu, how are you?”

“How are you? What good news?” Her eyes are bright with hope.

“Well, I got the results from my Junior Cert.”

“Junior Cert?”

“The … O levels?” They’re the equivalent of the Junior Cert in Bangladesh. “I did … well.” Before I can say more, Priti pulls the phone away from me.

“Apujan did amazing!” she exclaims. “She got five A’s!”

“Five A’s! Mashallah!” Nanu says, like five A’s is all she’s ever hoped and prayed for me in life. “Congratulations! Congratulations!”

My cheeks are on fire, but there is also a glow in my chest. It feels warm and nice and fluttery. It means a lot.

After we say our goodbyes to Nanu, Priti throws open my wardrobe and begins to sift through the clothes.

“Looking to borrow something?”

“Uh, no. Finding you the perfect outfit.” She’s smiling secretively and it makes me highly suspicious.

“The perfect outfit for what, exactly?”

“You’ll see.” I’m not sure I want to see, but Priti pulls out a gold and red salwar kameez, with sparkling beads threaded throughout in floral patterns. If it was a little more dazzling, a bit fancier, it could be mistaken for a wedding dress.

“I have to put this on?” I want to be my usual grumpy self about it, but the dress is pretty enough to make me excited.

“You have to put it on.” So I do, curiosity building up inside me the entire time.

“When do I figure out what’s happening?”

“Be patient,” Priti says as she lines my eyes with kohl and paints my lips a dark red. She insists on taking a billion pictures too, with my henna-clad hands laid out in front of me or held out in front of my face. I feel like I’ve stepped into a full-on henna modeling shoot by the time Priti has taken what must be the hundredth photo.

Maybe that’s what this is? Promo!

“Maybe you should be in these photos. If this is going up on my henna Instagram.”

Priti shoots me a playful glare and says, “Do you ever stop thinking about that competition, Apujan? I can’t just want to take some nice photos of you?”