The Henna Wars(46)

“You didn’t say that when I bought out Raj Uncle’s shop.” I know my voice is rising, and I can feel the anger palpitating through my body. It’s been simmering inside of me since Flávia sent me that text. Maybe longer.

“That was different.” Priti’s voice is soft. It seems the angrier I get, the more vulnerable she becomes. “You know it was different. That was just … something small. She’ll barely notice that.”

“So it was a terrible idea and you just went along with it?” I’m almost shouting now.

“Apujan …”

“Stop!” I turn away from her. “You know what she’s doing is wrong, Priti. And she’s trying to sabotage me and my business at every turn. Playing games with … with …” My heart, but I don’t say that. “my mind, our culture. She stole from us. She went to a wedding and saw the pretty henna and decided it was something she could have. She barely knew anybody there. She shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Just because she did something wrong doesn’t mean you should do something wrong too, Apujan. I know you’re better than that.”

I shake my head. “I’m not.”

I expect her to say more. To try and change my mind. But she doesn’t.

The bed creaks as she stands and shuffles out the door. The room feels too empty, too silent, in her sudden absence.



On Monday morning, I wake bright and early feeling weird and jittery about the opening showcase. I have everything prepared—my design book, more henna tubes than I could possibly need, even a haphazard banner that declares NISHAT’S MEHNDI in bright, bold orange lettering.

I’m as prepared as I’m going to get, but there are still butterflies in my stomach, making me feel sick with worry. I may be prepared for the competition, equipped to take down Chyna and Flávia, but I’m no longer on speaking terms with my two best friends and last night I successfully managed to piss off Priti.

On the bus to school, we’re both quiet. The silence between us is especially palpable amidst the throngs of people on the bus with us; their voices are a steady reminder that Priti and I are not talking.

For the entire journey I keep thinking I should say something, but I don’t even know what there is to say. I want to tell Priti about all the nerves that I’m dealing with. She’s the only person who would be able to make me feel better, I’m sure of it. But I don’t say anything, knowing that she won’t be sympathetic.

Not today, anyway.

We split up silently at the school gates. Priti doesn’t even bother to glance back at me, though I watch her weave through the crowds. She pushes past Ali, to her locker. Neither of them so much as glance at each other; they don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence.

I feel like someone has punched me in the gut. I was so caught up with what happened at the party, with Flávia and the henna stuff, that I somehow completely missed what was happening with my sister.

She spent most of her weekend in my room, which isn’t exactly unusual, but she was more excitable than usual. I chalked it up to her trying to make up for our last fight, or even for what happened at the party, though she didn’t know what actually happened.

I’m tempted to blame Chyna and Flávia for this, too. After all, if it wasn’t for them trying to sabotage me, to distract me, to take from my culture, I would be more focused on my sister. Or I hope I would, anyway. But I know that isn’t an excuse. Priti should always be my priority. And right now, I don’t even know how long she and Ali have been fighting. Or why.

If I go through with my idea to steal Flávia’s henna tubes, I’ll just be making things worse with Priti. I have to put that out of my mind. I have to swallow my pride and apologize to Priti.



The rest of the day goes by in a flurry. I don’t know if it’s just that I’m jittery and projecting it onto everyone else, but there’s a buzz of excitement in the air. This is the first time we’ve ever done something like this in our school, and it seems like everybody is excited about it. After all, they’ll all reap the benefits from our businesses during the last class of the day.

At lunchtime, there isn’t as much ruckus in the room as usual. Instead, hushed whispers travel through the air, like we’re all trying to keep our plans a secret from each other. Maybe we are. Maybe we should be. The last class of the day is Business, but instead of heading to room 23, our usual classroom, we all shuffle into the hall. Our hushed whispers suddenly spill into laughter and chatter as everyone begins to examine each other’s stalls.

I see Chaewon and Jess hurry over to theirs, digging fairy lights out of their bags and beginning to set it up. Chyna and Flávia’s stall is right beside theirs, with henna tubes spread out on the table in front of them. The two of them begin to hang up floral arrangements; pink, white, and purple blossoms will adorn their stall by the time they’re done. I have to laugh at the irony of them decorating their stall in sakura, while lifting from Bengali culture, like all Asian cultures are somehow interchangeable.

At my stall at the very end of the hallway, I tape up the bright orange banner I made and lay out my design book and henna tubes on the table in front of me. It’s not much, but it’ll do, I think, as I look around at everyone else in the main hall.

Emma Morrison and Aaliyah Abdi are selling handmade jewelry in the stand opposite mine. They’ve been making their own jewelry for forever. Emma catches my eye when I look over; she offers me a small smile that seems fake, then ducks to whisper something to Aaliyah. Aaliyah’s eyes open wide and she steals a furtive glance at me.