The Henna Wars(63)

When Flávia catches my eye by the lockers I know exactly how. Priti is right. I’ve been so caught up with Flávia and the competition and everything else that I’ve forgotten to pay attention to the important things.

But as Flávia approaches me with a brown shopping bag clutched in her hand, I’m not sure I regret any of it.

“This is for you,” she says as she hands me the bag. Our fingers brush as she does it. I try to tell my body to shut up, to not react, but obviously—obviously—my heart isn’t very good at listening to me. It beats a million miles a minute.

“What is it?”

“Open it.” She nods encouragingly.

A furled white poster paper sticks out of the top of the bag. I pull it out and unroll it—and almost gasp aloud.

It’s a banner.

It has NISHAT’S MEHNDI written in colorful letters in the middle, and below it even has some words in Bengali script. It’s carefully done so that it looks sharp and geometrical—not like the rounded and soft letters that my Bengali handwriting usually is.

The background is a mishmash of bright colors, and on one side there’s a drawing of joined hands with henna winding down the palms.

It’s far better than anything I could ever have done.

There’s something lodged in my throat. I think it’s my heart.

“This is beautiful,” I breathe.

Flávia just shrugs like it’s no big deal. It’s definitely a big deal. It’s a huge deal.

Trying not to steal too many glances at Flávia, I slip the banner into my locker. When I close my locker though, we catch each other’s eye. She smiles, dimples and all, and I can’t help the grin that spreads out across my lips too.

“So, um.” She brushes back a curl that’s fallen in front of her eyes. “Yesterday with Chyna … I’m sorry about that. Her parents are away a lot so she comes over to ours or my dad’s, but …” She shakes her head like she’s not sure if she wants to finish that thought. “Do you … want to come over this weekend? We could … work on our French homework?”

The yes is on my tongue, pushing its way out, before I remember that this weekend I’m supposed to set up my henna shop at a booth in Abbu’s restaurant. He agreed to let me set up shop for a few hours on Saturday and Sunday, in the hopes that my customers could also become his customers. After all, if they’re interested in getting henna, maybe they’re also interested in eating authentic South Asian food.

“I want to but … I’m busy this weekend.” I’m unsure if I should mention the henna shop or not. I’m still not sure where we stand, but no matter what, our competition still hangs over us uncomfortably.

“Oh.” A flash of hurt appears in her eyes but disappears so fast that I’m not sure if I just imagined it.

“I’m opening up the henna shop this weekend.” The words slip out of me unprompted. I know I shouldn’t tell her. She’s my competition. But obviously my heart prefers her, so the words are out and I can’t take them back.

“Oh.”

Silence hangs between us for a moment too long. It’s thick with everything that’s already been said and done, everything we can’t change. It’s broken by the loud trill of the bell.

“I should …”

“Yeah.”

She catches my eye and gives me a smile that’s half guilt and half apology. I smile back.



When I get home from school that day, Ammu surprises me by knocking on my door. At first I’m convinced it’s Priti, coming to figure things out. But then Ammu leans her head in.

“You want to talk to Nanu?” she asks, holding up her phone. I can make out Nanu’s face on the screen.

“Yeah!” I leap out of my chair to grab the phone. Ammu smiles and leaves me to settle into bed. I prop the phone up in front of me.

“Assalam Alaikum,” I say.

“Walaikum Salam,” Nanu says. Her voice sounds weaker than I remember, but maybe I’m just projecting. “Your Ammu said you were worried about me.”

“Because Priti told me you’re sick,” I say, my voice taking on a chiding tone. Really I’m trying to keep it from breaking, because Nanu looks sick. She looks paler and thinner than I remember her, and there are bags under her eyes. As if she hasn’t been sleeping properly.

“Only a small thing,” Nanu says reassuringly, though it doesn’t reassure me at all. “The doctors say everything will be okay, Jannu. You have nothing to worry about.”

Obviously that doesn’t stop me from worrying, but I don’t let that show on my face. I want to ask her more questions, find out exactly what’s wrong, even if that means I’ll spend the next several hours on WebMD learning the worst possible outcomes of whatever it is.

But before I can ask anything else, Nanu leans forward, a smile lighting up her face. She asks, “How’s your henna business? Your Ammu has been telling me a lot about it.”

“She has?” I ask.

“She said you’ve been working very hard.”

I try to bite down a rush of tears.

“Well … it’s been going okay.” I shrug. “I’m going to work from Abbu’s restaurant this weekend.”