The Henna Wars(80)

“Chyna likes Harry Potter?” I don’t know why that’s the most shocking thing to hear—but it really is. I would never have thought someone like Chyna could be a Harry Potter fan.

“We watch the movies every Christmas when they’re on TV.”

I can’t imagine it—Flávia and Chyna sitting in front of the TV marathoning Harry Potter of all things. I still only see Chyna as the girl who’s been tormenting me and my friends for the past three years.

“It’s funny because in my old school, when the girls sometimes said mean things to me because I’m Black, Chyna would get so angry. And now I’m not sure if she was angry because she knew it was wrong or because … it was me and I’m the exception to her rule. And is that good or is that bad?”

I definitely can’t imagine Chyna having any kind of a moral compass when it comes to things like race, but I furrow my eyebrows and try to work through it. Try to work out what Chyna saw in me the first day we met, and then later at the party when everything fell apart.

“Maybe it’s both?” I offer.

“Isn’t that a paradox?”

“Maybe … sometimes people don’t see the things they do as wrong, but they can see the wrong in what other people do—especially if it’s done to someone they care about,” I say. “When it happens to someone else, it doesn’t feel as important as when it happens to someone we love.”

Flávia thinks about it for a moment, with a frown on her lips that makes my heart do somersaults. I try to ignore them.

“I think I want to tell her. About me. Us. If there still is an us.” She doesn’t look at me as she says this, and she shuffles her feet around like she’s really afraid there might not be an us. Like I could have forgotten about her and me and us in just the past few weeks. Like I haven’t been thinking about her almost every single day.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” She turns to me and takes my hand in hers and I feel electricity pulsing through me. “It’s just … I don’t feel so afraid of it anymore. Like … my mom keeps telling me the news from Brazil, and the things that our president says about women, and Black and gay people, you know? And then these past few weeks, I’ve seen you up against what seems like the entire world. Or at least like half the population of our school. And you never let it phase you. I don’t want to be … the kind of person that lets things pass by. I want to be the kind of person that does something, and stands for something.”

“And you’re standing for … coming out?” I ask.

“I’m standing for … me. For you. For us, I guess.”

It doesn’t seem like much. But sometimes just being yourself—really, truly yourself—can be the most difficult thing to be.





33

PRITI HAS HER HEAD BURIED IN HER BOOKS WHEN I GET home, but as soon as I catch sight of her through the crack in her door she perks up. Like she’s been waiting for any sign of me to distract herself from studying.

“I heard Chaewon and Jess won!” she exclaims, bouncing on the bed. “I’m sorry it wasn’t you.”

I lean against her doorframe and say, “It’s not a big deal. It wasn’t like I thought I was going to win.” Even though there was that small inkling of hope still inside me. “Something happened … after the awards, though.”

“Oh?” Priti leans so far forward in her bed that I’m surprised she doesn’t fall off the edge. “Something good or bad?”

I shrug because I’m still making up my mind about it. “Flávia says she’s going to come out to Chyna.”

“Whoa.” Priti sits back, eyes wide. Like she’s trying to process and can’t quite make heads or tails of it all.

“Yeah.” I sit down beside her, trying to process as well. What does this mean? What will it mean?

“She must really like you.”

I turn to Priti with a frown. “What? She’s not doing this for me.”

Priti looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe me, but says, “Oh, okay,” in the most unconvincing voice I have ever heard.

“You really think it’s because of me?”

“I think it’s not not because of you.”

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” My heart feels heavy at the thought of Chyna’s reaction.

Priti crawls close to me and leans her head against my shoulder. “I think no matter what happens she’ll have you, and her mom, and her sister.”

I wait anxiously by my phone for the whole evening. It feels strangely like that fateful day when I decided to tell Ammu and Abbu about me, and I realize that now I have to tell them about Flávia too.

When I wake up the next morning with my phone still cradled next to me, I have one new message from Flávia.

Can I come over?



Ammu and Abbu are in the sitting room, their eyes glued to the TV. When I peer around the door, I expect them to be watching a Bollywood film on Star Gold, or an Indian natok on Star Plus. What I don’t expect is for them to be watching the Ellen DeGeneres Show as if their lives depend on it.

“You want to watch, Nishat?” Ammu pats the empty seat beside her, but doesn’t take her eyes off the TV. On screen, Ellen DeGeneres is interviewing Ellen Page. It’s probably the gayest thing in this house—and my parents are willingly watching it.