The Henna Wars(56)

Flávia looks taken aback. She looks around like she’s waiting for Ms. Kelly to step in and tell me to stop being mean to her in French. I’m pretty sure Ms. Kelly doesn’t care if we’re insulting each other—so long as we’re doing it en fran?ais.

“Non, tu es méchant,” she says.

“Wow, original,” I whisper.

“Et … tu es un balourd.”

I don’t know what that means but it sounds meaner than méchant so I look at her with wide eyes. How dare she call me a balourd!

“Well, tu es un batard,”

“Tu es un imbécile.”

I’ve run all out of French insults that I know, but I don’t want to let Flávia have the last word.

“Tu es une commère.”

Flávia frowns. “Je ne suis pas.”

“Oui. Tu … as dit … aux gens que … je suis une lesbienne,” I say, before dropping my voice to a whisper and adding, “You’re the only person in this whole school who could have even suspected my sexuality. Don’t pretend.”

She blinks at me in silence for a moment. I have to say, she’s a phenomenal actress, if nothing else.

“You think I sent the text?” Her voice is soft and low, like she’s genuinely surprised that I think this.

“You, or Chyna. She’s always happy to spread gossip about me. Or anyone.”

Flávia shakes her head. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I would never do that. And … I didn’t tell Chyna anything. Not about us …” she trails off, holding my gaze for a long moment. That word “us” hangs between us heavily. As if there was an us, is an us, could be an us.

She looks away, back at her desk. She stares at the wooden desktop where girls from the last few years have scratched in their graffiti: Their names, random doodles, math equations obviously meant to help them cheat.

“I’m sorry.” At least she has the decency to look slightly ashamed. Her head is bowed down low. I thought I would feel proud for finally confronting her, for making her feel some shame, but I don’t. Instead, discomfort settles into my stomach. Making her feel shame doesn’t undo what’s happened. It doesn’t change the shame I’ve been feeling for the past month … for my whole life, really. It doesn’t change anything at all.

“Look … you have no reason to believe me, but I could never do that to someone else. Maybe it was Chyna, but she didn’t find out from me, I promise. I’m sorry if it was her, though. And I’m sorry … I’m sorry for yesterday.”

I don’t want to believe her. I shouldn’t believe her. After everything else, I have no reason to believe her. But her words, the “someone else” echo in my head. I could never do that to someone else.

She’s looking at me, eyes wide with expectation and a vulnerability in her expression that I’ve never seen in her before.

Against my better judgment, I nod my head, and my lips form the words, “I believe you.”





23

FLáVIA APPROACHES MY LOCKER TENTATIVELY DURING lunchtime. I’m still grappling with my decision to believe her. To forgive her. Because I’m still convinced that Chyna had something to do with the text, and Chyna is still Flávia’s cousin and business partner.

But of course my heart starts to beat faster just at the sight of her and her hesitant smile.

“Hey.” She leans back against the locker next to mine, warm brown eyes boring into mine. I look away.

“Hi.”

“So … I was thinking. I could help you out with your henna business.”

“I’m your competition.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to help because you pity me,” I say.

When I look up, she’s tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes trained on the wall opposite her instead of on me.

“That’s not why I’m offering,” she says. “Just … I’m pretty good at the whole art thing, or so I’ve been told. And … I want to help. Like with the decorations and stuff for your stall.” Her eyes finally return to mine, and a small smile spreads across her lips. Her cheeks dimple, and my heart starts beating a little too fast once more.

“Sure. That would be …” I trail off, unsure exactly what it would be. It would be weird and strange, but nice maybe. She’s offering—extending—an olive branch. Should I take it? “That would be nice.”

There’s a slight hesitation before she nods her head and says, “Great. How about you come around after school today?”

“Today?”

“Is that … a problem? Do you have plans?” She seems to be asking genuinely, obviously unaware that my plans on most days consist of homework, Netflix, and hanging out with my sister. I’m not exactly a social butterfly.

“No, no plans. I can do that.”

“Oh.” Flávia stands up straight now, her eyes blinking a little too rapidly like she wasn’t expecting me to actually take her up on her invitation. “Great! So … we can walk there together? It’s not too far from the school.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She looks at me for a moment too long, like she’s trying to figure something out. Then she smiles brightly. “I’ll meet you by the entrance, yeah?”