The Henna Wars(66)

Janet seems to consider this for a moment, turning her hand round and round to get a good look.

“Umm … the back of my hand.”

“Okay, can you put your hand palm down and flat on the table?” I ask.

Janet does exactly as I instruct her—wordlessly—and I get started. Catherine spends the entire time leaning forward in her chair and watching the process with wide eyes. Halfway through, Priti even snaps a few photos for the Instagram account.

When I’m finished, Janet looks at her hand with a smile on her lips. I’m smiling too, because the design came out exactly as it looks in the notebook.

“You’ll have to keep it like that until it dries off. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, probably even less, but the longer you keep it on, the more the color will set.”

“And how do I take it off of my hand?” she asks. “Is there like … a special chemical or something that I should use?”

I bite down a smile.

“Just brush it off over a sink. It might stain a bit—the sink, I mean—but it should wash off. Try not to wash it off with water. Your hand. Not the sink. You should wash the sink with water.”

“Okay.” Janet looks like she doesn’t completely understand me. “Can I take a photo for Instagram?”

“Sure! But could you tag me in it?”

“Of course.” She grins, fishing around in her pocket for her phone. “Your turn, Cat.”

Catherine and Janet exchange seats. Catherine is still unsure, I can tell by the way she’s glancing back at Janet. “How long does it take to go away?” she asks.

“Well, assuming you let the color set properly, a few weeks. But if you don’t like it and decide to wash it off, the color won’t even have a chance to set.”

That seems to convince her, because she nods her head.

“Do you want to look at my designs again?” I ask.

She quickly shakes her head and says, “I want the same as Jan’s, is that okay?”

“Sure. Same place?”

She nods and I lay her hand on the table too, palm down. She giggles when I touch her hand with the henna tube.

I bite down another grin as I settle into the work. I get lost in it.

Fifteen minutes later, Catherine is admiring her hand the same as Janet, and I’m trying not to beam with pride.

“That’ll be fifteen euros each.” They both pay up happily, mumbling their thank yous and admiration.

I’ve known Catherine and Janet for years, and have never felt anything but nonchalance or even occasional dislike from them. This is the first time anything resembling respect has been aimed at me from my fellow classmates. If I’m honest, it feels good. For once, my classmates are actually admiring my culture instead of scoffing at it.

I mean, what I love about Bengali culture is much more than henna or the food, but those are things we can share here meaningfully.

I see Catherine and Janet off to the entrance of the restaurant, waving goodbye with the brightest smile I can muster while looking around for signs of any more customers.

Well, I had two. That must mean that more are on their way.

But when I slip back into the booth, Priti is staring at her phone with a look of such blazing anger that I know something is wrong immediately.

“Priti?”

She whips her head back to look at me, her face softening. “Apujan …” She shakes her head. “I think I know why you’ve had no customers.”

“Racism and homophobia?” I say jokingly, but Priti only manages a weak smile.

“I mean …” She shrugs as she holds her phone up for me to see. It’s a picture on Instagram of a garden filled with people. There’s something familiar about it: the place and the people. There are so many of them that their faces blur together at first, but I pick them out: almost all of them are girls from our year. They’re wearing white t-shirts, and they’re covered in paint. Reds and blues and pinks. And there, front and center, is Chyna. Her blonde hair is floating around in wisps. The red of the paint stains her cheeks starkly against her pale skin.

The caption reads, holi party with henna tattoos!!!

I can only shake my head. This is a new low, even for Chyna.

“Holi isn’t even for months and months,” I say.

Priti sighs. “You think Chyna knows that? You think she knows anything about Holi other than the colors and an opportunity to get more people to pay for her henna?” There’s a sinking feeling in my chest as I slip back into my seat, leaning back and letting out a deep sigh. Priti nestles up to me and says, “Don’t worry, we’ll get them.”

But I’m just not sure anymore.





27

PRITI TAKES THE BUS HOME, BOOK BAG IN TOW. SHE insisted she wouldn’t leave me here to mope around by myself, but I promised her that if nobody else showed up in the next hour, I would get Abbu to drive me back home.

But with Priti gone and the booth empty except for me and my henna tubes, everything feels more overwhelming. Chyna is in her house, celebrating something that isn’t hers—that she doesn’t even understand in the slightest—and she’s using it all for profit while I’m here hoping that a third customer shows up before the hour is up.

“Hey!”

When I look up, Flávia is peeking through the curtain.