The Henna Wars(57)

Before I know it, I’m meeting Flávia by the gates of the school like we’ve been friends for a long time.

When I told Priti about my after-school plans earlier, she looked at me like I had suddenly grown two heads. Surprisingly, though, she didn’t protest.

“This is some … keep your enemies close kind of thing, right?” she said.

“Sure.” I’m not sure if I meant it. I’m still not sure what I’m doing here, walking side by side with Flávia in overwhelming silence. The only sound is the rush of wind, getting louder and stronger until, ten minutes into the walk, the gusts give way to a downpour.

“Shit.” Flávia pulls an umbrella out of her backpack, spreading it open in front of us. It’s astonishing that she thinks an umbrella will hold up against all this wind and rain, like she hasn’t been living in Ireland her whole life. But instead of saying anything, I huddle in close to her under the small umbrella. I breathe in her scent—vanilla and cinnamon—mixed with the smell of freshly fallen rain.

Our shoulders press against each other, and even though it’s impossible to be touching, really, underneath the layers of our school uniform, it feels oddly intimate. I can feel every movement of her body, vibrating against me. I’m sure she can feel mine too.

Her hands on the umbrella handle tremble. She’s nervous. The realization sends a jolt of electricity through me.

Walking side by side on this deserted road, with the wind whispering all around us and the rain obscuring our vision, feels like we’ve stepped into our own private universe. Like the students and teachers we left behind at school don’t exist anymore. Like our destination is just an idea, not an obligation or something that holds any weight. Like everything in the world has fallen away to make space for this moment, for the rhythmic breathing of the two of us, side by side. Despite the cold, the rain, and the damp, the warmth of Flávia’s body is a palpitating thing next to me. The heat of her is stronger than any Irish sun.

Emboldened by the moment, my body moves of its own accord. My hand reaches out to find hers. Our fingers link together, under the cover of rain and wind.

Flávia stops in her tracks. She’s been staring ahead this whole walk, but now she turns to me. Her honey-brown eyes bore into mine.

This is it. This is the moment. Possibilities surround us, thrumming in the wind, whispering in the rain.

But before either of us can make a move, the wind gives a loud howl and turns our umbrella inside out.

The rain that felt like part of the outside world, cocooning Flávia and I inside, is suddenly too present. It’s seeping into our clothes, weighing down our sweaters and soaking our white cotton shirts on the inside.

Flávia struggles against the wind, trying to bend her umbrella into the correct position again, but it’s futile.

“It’s not going to work.” My voice barely carries through the wind and rain.

Flávia shakes her head, like she doesn’t quite want to believe me.

“We’re going to have to run,” she says. “Like … fast.”

She looks at me with a hint of a smile on her lips before taking off with the broken umbrella still clutched in her arms. I follow as fast as I can, cursing the wind and rain in my head.

When we get to the house, both of us are soaking wet. Flávia closes the door behind us while I try not to drip water onto the carpet, even though that’s near impossible.

“I’ll get us something to dry off,” Flávia says. She’s smiling as she takes me in. Both of us are weighed down by our wet wool sweaters, but taking them off would only reveal our see-through white shirts. I don’t think I’m ready for Flávia to see that much of me.

“M?e cheguei!” Flávia shouts, seemingly to no one. A voice floats over from the kitchen, strangely similar to Flávia’s.

“T? na cozinha!” the voice says. It’s the first time I’ve heard Portuguese being spoken, and it sounds both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It’s like a strange mixture of European languages I’ve been hearing for most of my life.

Flávia slips off her shoes and beckons for me to do the same. Once I do, she waves me over toward a doorway at the far end of the hallway, her light footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet as she moves.

The last time I was here, it was dark and loud and full of people. Now, in the dim daylight, Flávia’s house looks completely different. For the first time I notice the bright blue paint on the walls, and the odd, otherworldly pictures that line the hallway.

“Hey, Mom!” Flávia exclaims. I slip through the doorway to find a woman whose features resemble Flávia’s. She has the same sharp bone structure, wide eyes, and dark hair. When she smiles, there’s even a dimple on her cheek.

“Oi filha, who’s your friend?”

“It’s Nishat. We’re working on something together for school, so I invited her over.” It’s a statement, but the words come out like she’s asking for permission.

Flávia’s mom’s smile brightens. “Nice to meet you, Nishat.” Permission granted, I guess.

“Nice to meet you too,” I say in the most polite voice I can muster.

“é essa a garota de que você te me falou?” Flávia’s mom says.