The Henna Wars(82)

“I guess that was Chyna apologizing?”

“That was an apology?” Chaewon asks, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. “I think it’s the most I’m ever going to get.”

Even Chyna’s non-apology apology can’t ruin my good mood because when I wave goodbye to my friends and slip into French class, Flávia is sitting in a corner. She has her bag propped up on the seat beside her, and she’s absentmindedly twirling a curl around her finger.

When she sees me, her face breaks out into a smile.

Dimples and all.

Warmth spreads through me at the sight.





34

FLáVIA HAS A THING FOR PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES. IT’S possibly the most white girl thing about her. So when she drags me into Starbucks one afternoon after school and buys me one of those spiced coffees, I have to pretend that I hate it, even though I secretly kind of love it.

I scrunch up my nose with every sip I take, until Flávia rolls her eyes and says, “I bet if I come here tomorrow, you’ll already be in a corner cradling a mug of pumpkin spice latte.”

“I can’t believe you think I have such bad taste.”

“You’re a real food snob, you know that?”

I shrug. “I can’t help it. It’s the Bengali in me.” She definitely never complains about me being a food snob when she’s having dinner at my house.

But now she pokes me in the ribs and says, “Admit it. You kind of like it.”

A fresh flurry of butterflies flutters through my stomach. I don’t think Flávia realizes what her touch still does to me.

“Okay, I guess it’s not that bad,” I concede.

She grins, and I reconsider whether she does know exactly what her touch does to me. I don’t have much time to think about it though, because in the next moment she’s looped her arm into mine and is resting her head on my shoulder.

“We should study,” she sighs. That’s the excuse we gave both of our parents to venture out for the afternoon. Neither of us make an effort to reach into our bags, though; I’m not even sure what books I have in mine.

Instead, I lean into her and we watch the way the cars and buses and the Luas zoom up Westmoreland Street. The sunlight begins to dim slowly.

“I want you to do my henna.” Flávia’s voice startles me out of my reverie. She sits up and says, “You never did it. That one time—I got henna all in my hair and you never finished.”

“You’re realizing this now?” It’s still only been a few weeks, but it feels like an eternity has passed since the competition finished, since our first kiss, since Flávia and I began our more or less public relationship.

She frowns and turns all the way around so we’re directly face-to-face—like we’re in the middle of a serious discussion and not just talking about henna.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” she says.

“About henna?”

“About … yes, henna. Kind of. I talked to your friends and your sister and—”

“Behind my back?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Nishat. It’s a good thing. Think of it as a present.”

“Are you feeling okay?” I wonder if this is a side effect of pumpkin spice lattes. They do have a very strong scent.

Flávia just smiles. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jeans and taps it for a minute before thrusting the screen toward me.

“I didn’t know when was the right time to show you, but … I think we’re ready.”

The Instagram page that I disabled after the business competition stares me in the face, but I barely recognize it. The profile picture is brand new. In bright red cursive handwriting it reads Nishat’s Mehndi, with the same written in faded Bengali script in the background.

“Jess helped me with the design and we even set up a website. And your sister says your dad will let you use his restaurant again.” There’s this bright gleam of hope in Flávia’s eyes that I’m not sure I understand.

“My business kind of failed miserably last time,” I say. “I’m not—”

“But you like doing it. Love it, actually.” She says it like it’s a fact. “Your sister thinks so. So do your friends. And last time things went up in flames because of us.”

“But—”

“You’re really talented, Nishat.” Flávia leans forward and cups my face with her hands. I feel myself flush. Feel the bloom of warmth in my chest. “And everyone should see that.”

“I do still have leftover henna tubes,” I admit.

“And you have an entire catalog of original henna designs.”

I think of the design book collecting dust in the back of my bookshelf.

“Maybe,” I say finally.

It must be enough for Flávia, because she leans forward and presses her lips to mine. But it’s such a brief kiss that when she pulls away I’m still leaning into her and nearly topple over.

She’s too busy digging into her schoolbag to even notice. For a second, I’m afraid she’s going to pull out her French book and insist that we get serious about school. But she pulls out something totally unexpected—a tube of henna.