The Henna Wars(67)

“Can I come in? Are you … busy?”

I blink my eyes a little too fast to make sure that she’s really here. I didn’t notice her in the picture Chyna had uploaded to her Instagram, but I can’t imagine her not there. But here she is.

“Nishat? I can … come back later?” She looks over her shoulder, like if I say the word, she’ll turn around and leave.

“I’m not busy,” I say, patting the empty space beside me. She slides into the booth.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I saw your posts on Instagram … I thought I would just come down, maybe get some henna on my hands.” She lifts up her palm as if to show me that she came prepared. Both her palms are surprisingly free from henna, though there are bits of faded red blobs and smudges, probably from applying it to other people. None of the stains look fresh.

I take hold of her palm, and run a finger over it.

“How come you don’t have any henna on your hands?” I hold out my own palm, covered in dark brown henna. I also have henna designs all over my feet and ankles, and all the way up to my elbows. I’ve become my own canvas in this business venture.

“I’m not great at putting henna on myself, so I haven’t really tried much.”

“Right …”

I grab hold of my design book and hand it to her. “These are my designs, but … I don’t know if it’s a good idea to give money to your competition.”

She shrugs. “I’ve had worse ideas.”

She reaches over and begins to flip through my book. I peer at her closely, unsure how to ask about Chyna and her party.

“You’re really good, Nishat.” She pauses as she flips through the book, running her hands over the pages and tracing the designs with the tips of her fingers.

“I thought I didn’t get art—that I’m not an artist.” My words come out a little more resentful than I mean them to. But Flávia looks up with a smile.

“Have you ever had a moment when you feel like your tongue is saying words that you have no control over, and afterwards you wish you could take it all back?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Once or twice.” I’ve definitely said and done some things I’m not proud of—especially recently.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” Flávia sighs. “It was … I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really thinking when I said those things …” For a moment I’m sure she’s going to say more. Instead, she points to one of my drawings and exclaims, “I want this one!”

I edge closer, peering over her shoulder.

It’s one of my most intricate designs. I’ve only attempted it once on myself, and it’s since faded away. It has the base design of a peacock—one of the most common ones in Bangladesh.

“I don’t have any designs like this, you know,” Flávia says as I reach for my henna tube. “All of mine are a bit plain Jane. I don’t know why people come to me and not you.”

I pause, unsure how to respond to that. If I should respond to that. I take hold of the henna tube and begin to weave the design together on her hands. A few minutes of silence pass between us, with Flávia watching my work closely and me trying, and failing, to only think of the design at hand.

“Flávia …” I pause in the middle of my work, lifting my head to meet Flávia’s eyes. “Why aren’t you at Chyna’s house?”

Flávia frowns. “Why would I be at Chyna’s house?”

“I’m sure you know about her party.”

Flávia’s face falls. “How do you—”

“She put it on her Instagram.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence that hangs heavy in the air between us for a moment. Then, Flávia heaves a sigh, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, in a voice that sounds so sincere that it pulls my heartstrings a little too tight. “Chyna is … she’s so adamant about winning this thing. She’s been getting carried away.”

Except this has always been Chyna. She’s been “getting carried away” with things her whole life.

“How can she even do henna without you?”

Flávia glances at me hesitantly. “She … has stencils.”

“Stencils?” My voice comes out more high-pitched than I intend it to. Nothing should shock me at this point, not even that people in our school would go to a “Holi party” thrown by a white girl who applies henna with stencils. Not after everything.

Still, it does.

“I told her that I wasn’t going to her party and … that was her solution.” Flávia shrugs. “I know it’s … bad. The whole thing is …” She shakes her head again, like she can’t put into words how bad it really is.

“And you didn’t tell her that she shouldn’t? That the whole thing was offensive?” I know Chyna’s not really the type of person who listens to reason, or who does something because other people tell her to. But Flávia obviously means a lot to her. She backed off after she caught me with the henna tubes because of Flávia. And the way the two of them were with each other in Flávia’s house—casual and free. Chyna listens to her—more than she listens to anyone else, anyway.