The Henna Wars(48)

“Yes.” Priti is nodding her head frantically. “That makes sense. It must have been her. We should go to the principal. Tell her everything. I’ll show her the text and they’ll be suspended, probably. I mean, this is a hate crime!”

“No. That’s not going to make anything better.” The thought of telling someone about this feels almost as bad as the fact that it happened.

“Whoever did this deserves to be punished, Apujan,” Priti says in a grave voice.

I shake my head. It’s not that I don’t agree with her, but these kinds of things are rarely punished. It’s not as if the horrendous things said about me and Priti over the years were ever met with any consequences. The teachers couldn’t have failed to hear the whispers in the hallways, like horrid secrets the girls carried with them, spilling them with glee into each other’s ears. But nobody ever bothered to put a stop to it.

Telling the principal would just make everything worse. What if Ammu and Abbu got dragged into it? Would they even stick up for me? Or would they agree with whatever the text said? Would they be ashamed that so many people know now?

I can imagine their faces, red and blotchy from anger and tears—with the shame that has been brought onto our family. Shame that I have, ultimately, made the wrong choice.

I stand.

“You should go back to class,” I say.

“What are you going to do?” Priti stands up too.

“I’m going to go back in there and show them that I don’t care. That … I’m stronger than them.” I’m still blinking back tears. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them at bay. But I want to stand there and look Flávia in the eye. I want to hold her accountable for everything. And I won’t give any of them the satisfaction of me going home. Of appearing weak.

“Are you sure?” Priti asks in a whisper, like speaking too loudly will break me. “Do you want me to come with you?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got this.”

“I love you, Apujan,” she whispers. “And I’m so damn proud of you. I hope you know that.”





19

WHEN I WALK BACK INTO THE MAIN HALL, I DON’T THINK anybody expects it. They turn to stare, their eyes boring into my sides as I walk past with my head held high, telling my tears to keep back until I’m safe at home.

I slip inside my stall and behind the table. I can hear people whispering as time passes—too slowly. Girls shuffle by my stall, their gaze averted as if lesbianism is something they can catch. There are a few girls who make their way over throughout the afternoon to show their support. Frowns settle on their mouths as they take the seat opposite me and let me apply henna to their hands.

“I’m sorry,” they say, pleading with me with their eyes. “Whatever they’re doing, saying, it’s horrible.” Some of them even encourage me to report it. To go to the principal’s office. They have the text saved to their phones, they say, and will show it to her to support me. I thank them, blinking back tears. I don’t even know their names. They’re not even in my year.

Some of them even tell me they’re queer, though they whisper it, afraid that someone will overhear. I don’t blame them.

A few of them only come to find out the gossip.

“So, any idea who might have sent that text?” asks Hannah Gunter. She’s in our year, and is chummy with Chyna, so I’m sure she has an even better idea than me. “Is it true?” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

“Weirdly, my business is not gossip,” I say. “If you want henna, I will give you henna. If you want gossip …”

She heaves a dramatic sigh, but plops down anyway and thrusts her hand out to me.

“Someone said you made a move on Chyna at her birthday party. That that’s why you left so abruptly. Because she rejected you,” Hannah says as I squeeze henna into her hand. I try not to let the rage boiling inside of me spill into my henna art. A too-tight squeeze could ruin the whole design.

“I can honestly say I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is all I offer Hannah. She seems disappointed, and thankfully doesn’t say any more for the rest of the time she’s at my stall.

It’s when the showcase comes to an end that I finally feel relief, tinged with bitterness. As everyone around me begins to clean up, I slump down on my chair, trying not to let the despair of it all hit me, even though it comes at me in waves.

Priti pops into the hallway almost as soon as classes end. She races over to my side and gives my hand a squeeze.

“Has anybody been giving you trouble?” Her voice is serious. It’s so unlike her that I burst into a fit of giggles.

“What are you going to do if they have been?” I chuckle. “Send your henchmen after them?”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. She’s looking at me with those wide eyes again, like she can’t quite believe I’m smiling and laughing.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Apujan.”

“I’m made of sturdy stuff,” I assure her, and with her at my side it doesn’t even feel like a lie. “Can you help me pack up?”

We put the almost-full henna tubes away into my bag and roll up the banner. Priti shoves the blue money box that Ms. Montgomery supplied each of us with at the bottom of my bag. It barely makes a noise—since it’s nearly empty.