The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  It’s the only picture from the night that I really love.

  And then I see a comment below the photo from Flávia’s account, and my smile widens.

  Nice henna—your sis did a great job!

  It’s the last day of summer and I’m spending it thinking about Flávia Santos, a girl I’m probably never going to see again. I’m pathetic.

  The sun is shining outside, as if taunting me for being the kind of person who spends more time fantasizing about an unattainable girl than living her life.

  “I don’t want to go back to school,” Priti groans, slipping into my room and plopping herself down onto my bed. Unlike me, she’s spent most of the day with her head buried in her books, at Ammu’s insistence. She’s a year younger than me, which means that this school year will be her first state exam. Every Irish student has to do them in their third year of secondary school.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” I tell her.

  She groans again, and turns to face me with a frown on her lips. “You’re so lucky to be going into Transition Year. Getting to do fun stuff. Trying different things. Getting work experience.”

  “Yep, lucky …” The truth is that while the rest of the girls in our year have been bubbling with excitement at the idea of Transition Year, I’ve been feeling a sense of dread ever since I decided to go ahead with it instead of skipping ahead to Fifth Year. Transition Year is meant to be a year of doing practical things, of getting work experience and exploring the world around us, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the world yet. I much prefer stressing over exams.

  “So, feeling prepared for your Junior Cert?” I know this will get a rise out of Priti. It always does.

  She groans and buries her face in her hands, like I’ve just said the worst possible thing.

  “Please, please don’t start,” she says. “Please, for this entire year, never bring up exams at all. I’ll have enough of that from Ammu.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “So what do you want me to do when it’s June? Just not speak to you at all?”

  “You can speak to me,” she says. “But just … not about exams. You can just avoid it. Pretend there are no exams. Pretend that I’m off for the summer with you, too.”

  “Okay, okay. No exam talk. Even though you didn’t exactly let up on that last year.”

  “Are you nervous?” Priti asks then, looking at me with wide eyes. “About the results?”

  I try to bite down the anxiety bubbling in the pit of my stomach and just shake my head. If I show my nerves now, Priti will be even more nervous going into the year than she already is.

  “What’s done is done. Nothing I can do about it now, so there’s no point being nervous, is there?”

  We spend the night ironing our school uniforms and getting them ready to go in the morning, sighing complaints about each and every thing we can think of to do with school.

  As I’m in the bathroom brushing my teeth before bed, Priti leans against the doorway.

  “You’re not going to … try and get somewhere with Flávia, are you?”

  My mouth is full of toothpaste, so I just shrug.

  “Because … I saw the comment she left on my Instagram photo and her Instagram profile and—”

  I turn to glare at her, spitting out my toothpaste.

  “Have you been stalking her?”

  “It’s Internet stalking, it doesn’t count!”

  “Priti, I saw her at that wedding and I’ll probably never see her again,” I say definitively, even though I’ve spent countless hours thinking about her since I saw her comment last night. The truth is, I did a little bit of Internet stalking of my own, and Flávia is definitely living in the vicinity. I even came up with a few scenarios where I could casually “accidentally” bump into her. I’m not serious about it—I don’t think. But I’m not going to tell Priti about that.

  “It’s just, she seems like bad news to me.”

  “You don’t even know her.” I stuff the toothbrush into my mouth once more, hoping that’s the end of that. But of course it’s not.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time … perusing her online presence.” Priti nods proudly, like this is an admirable skill everybody should possess. “And I’ve learned a lot. Like … did you know that she had a boyfriend before?”

  I frown. “And?” I try to be nonchalant about it, but the information sends my heart into a tizzy. Maybe she still has a boyfriend?

  “So she’s most likely straight.”

  “Priti. There are more sexualities than gay and straight. Just because she had a boyfriend doesn’t mean anything.” Although it can mean a lot.

  “I’m just saying that she’s dated before. You haven’t. And she dated a boy. I’m pretty sure you’re not looking to date any boys and you just don’t seem compatible and she’s probably straight and I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” She’s breathing hard when she finishes, eyebrows furrowed in anger.

  I’m not sure whether I should be mad or touched by her overwhelming concern.

  “Nothing’s going to happen anyway. You’re worrying for nothing,” I say even as my heart sinks a little at Priti’s words. She’s most likely straight. I had no reason to doubt that she was; taking my hand at the wedding was nothing. Straight girls do that all the time. That’s why being a lesbian is so confusing.

  But I had that inkling of hope, and now I feel it wither away to nothingness.

  5

  I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO THE TRICKLE OF RAIN outside my window. It’s a pleasant sound on mornings when you can wake up lazily, listening to the steady hum of the rainwater beating against your windowsills. But when there’s a looming school year ahead of you? There’s nothing pleasant about it.

  When I eventually get up from bed to get into the bathroom, Priti is already inside.

  I rap my knuckles on the door as loudly as possible.

  “HURRY UP!”

  There’s a low groan from inside the bathroom and I wonder for a moment if maybe Priti fell asleep inside. That image makes me feel a little better about having to get up at seven o’clock.

  “Maybe don’t scream at me in the morning,” Priti croaks at me a few moments later, peeking her head into my bedroom. Her hair is a right mess. Wisps of it stick up every which way, and her eyelids are still drooping with sleep.

  “Sorry.” I grin.

  Ammu looks at us with pursed lips when Priti and I finally stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  “Did you even iron your skirt?” she asks Priti instead of wishing us a good morning. “It’s all wrinkled up!”

  “I ironed it, I promise!” Priti cries defensively, looking down at the plaid skirt and trying to smooth out the few wrinkles with her hands. “It just … got a bit wrinkled when I put it on, is all.”

  Ammu doesn’t look like she believes her, but her eyes skip over Priti and her semi-wrinkled skirt onto me. She seems to take me in for a moment, and I wait for the criticism that’s custom in our house. But it never comes. She turns away instead and allows us to reach for our bowls of cereal and milk.

  I’ve never felt so horrid for not being criticized before. It feels like a slap in the face—like the ultimate criticism is this sudden lack of criticism.

  I feel a lump rise to my throat as I stuff spoonfuls of cereal into my mouth. It tastes like cardboard. For a moment, I wonder if that’s to do with the fact that we’ve spent all summer eating the breakfasts of Maharajas and now are back on a Western diet of cereal; I already miss waking up to the smell of porotas or khichuri, and eating all together in the kitchen like messy Desis, getting our hands down and dirty.

  Now, I wonder if we’ll ever have that again. Not just because the summer is over, but because of my revelation.

  Priti and I almost miss the bus, and have to run to catch it before it leaves the stop. We’re both panting as we slip onto a bus that’s full to bursting.

  “Should we try upstairs?” Priti asks in a deflated huff as the t
wo of us squeeze our way through the crowd.

  “Priti …”

  “I know, I know.”

  We eventually manage to squeeze into a corner with a handrail within reach. The bus gives a lurch as it starts up and I almost fall onto the lap of the guy sitting in the corner seat. Priti grabs me and I give him a sheepish look.

  “I’m so sorry.” He shoots me a sleepy glare before going back to staring at his phone.

  “This is the bane of my existence,” I whisper to Priti as soon as the guy turns away.

  “Buses? Falling on people? Crowds?”

  “All of it!” I cry. “But … school. And getting there like this,” I wave my hand around, but only in a small circle because I’m afraid I’ll accidentally poke someone and I don’t need any more glares from strangers this morning. “I’m so over it.”

  “We just started it, gadha,” Priti says.

  “Don’t call me a gadha.” I shoot her a glare but she just rolls her eyes. Instead of replying, she edges closer to me and lays her head on my shoulder. Despite the fact that Priti had a weird growth spurt a few years back where she actually grew taller than me, I managed to outgrow her eventually. We’re still almost the same height but I have a few inches on her. I wear them with pride.

  I’m tempted to push Priti off of me now since I’m not really in the mood to have 128 extra pounds on top of me this early in the morning, but knowing how Priti gets in the morning—cranky, like really, really cranky—I decide that I’ll leave her be. I make the mental note to not let this become a habit.

  Instead I put my arm around her shoulder and lean back against the railing. I watch the trees and buildings and people rush by outside the window, trying my best not to think about the way Ammu seemed to avoid my eyes this morning.

  Something like regret weighs heavily on me, but it’s not regret, exactly. It’s something adjacent to it. Shame, maybe? Or the regret that something didn’t happen the way I wanted it to, that things had to turn sour. Or in this case, silent.

  As soon as we slip into school, Priti waves goodbye and runs off, no doubt to find Ali and fill her in on all of the wedding shenanigans. I watch her disappear down the hallway, weaving through crowds of girls wearing the same checkered maroon uniforms, her bag swinging behind her. Before I have a chance to turn around, somebody has wrapped me in a tight embrace.

  “Nishat!” A familiar voice squeals in my ears. I turn around to find two delighted faces staring back at me. There’s Chaewon, with her dark black hair at least a few inches longer than I remember it to be. Beside her stands Jess, with brand-new bangs that cover half of her face. It feels like I haven’t seen them for an eternity, even though it’s only been a few months.

  “Hey!” I muster up the brightest smile I can offer at this time of the morning.

  “We missed you!” they say in almost perfect chorus. Then I do smile, because I’ve missed this. Chaewon and Jess, joined at the hip to the point that they’re finishing each other’s sentences.

  “I missed you too,” I offer. “I have to go by the lockers and dump all of these books.” I point at the giant bag swinging from my back, filled to the brim with all of my books. Maybe that’s what’s weighing on me, instead of the regret adjacent thing?

  “We’ll meet you at the assembly, okay?”

  “Sure.” Waving goodbye, I head toward the lockers. There are chattering girls in every single corner of the school. Leaning against lockers and walls, catching up with delighted squeals after a summer spent apart. All girls Catholic schools aren’t always the most exciting places to be, but there’s something enthralling about being back here and seeing everyone again after a whole summer. I bite back a smile as I swing open my locker door. I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to tell Chaewon and Jess. If I’m going to tell them anything. Now, with that regret adjacent feeling inside of me, I don’t know if I want to tell them at all. I don’t know if I can stand to lose my family and friends all at the same time.

  “Hey, Nishat,” a familiar voice mumbles from beside me. When I turn, Flávia is opening up the locker right beside mine.

  I blink.

  Did I fall asleep? Did I hit my head on my locker somehow? Did my heavy bag cut off the blood flow to my brain?

  “Um. Hi. Why … are you here?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I can feel the heat rising up my cheeks. For once I’m glad for my dark skin, which somewhat obscures what would otherwise be a red face.

  She smiles. The dimple makes an appearance.

  My heartbeat escalates more than should be humanly possible.

  “I just started here. Did I not mention that?”

  No, she hadn’t mentioned it. If she had I’d have thought about it nonstop, I’m pretty sure.

  “What … are …” I’m in the middle of blurting out another nonsensical question when the crackle of the intercom interrupts me. Principal Murphy’s nasally voice fills the hallway.

  “Good morning. All students should proceed to the main hall for assembly. We’ll begin at eight-thirty sharp. Any latecomers will receive a late slip. Thank you.”

  Short and sweet, that’s Principal Murphy’s style.

  “We should probably …” Flávia gestures with a nod of her head. Except she’s nodding in exactly the opposite direction of the hall.

  “Do you … know where the main hall is?”

  It’s her turn to look flustered. I notice a bloom of pink in her dark cheeks and it sends goosebumps across my skin. She shakes her head.

  “I thought maybe I could pretend not to be such a newbie.” She chuckles.

  “It’s okay. Follow me.” I begin to lead the way, weaving through crowds of excited schoolgirls who are also shuffling toward the hall. My heart is still beating a little too fast and I’m trying to tell it to stop hammering, to stop getting its hopes up, to stop feeling … well, feelings.

  When we enter the hall alongside a trickle of other girls, I spot Priti almost immediately. She’s in a deep conversation with Ali but looks up and catches my eyes as soon as I walk in. Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline at the sight of me. Or—probably—at the sight of Flávia by my side. I’m not looking forward to whatever she has to say later, but right now I don’t really care that much.

  From the other side of the hall, Chaewon and Jess wave me over. I’m about to sidle over to them but Flávia’s voice stops me.

  “I better go join my cousin over there,” she says. And, to my surprise, she points right at Chyna Quinn. Now, my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. How can Flávia, beautiful perfect Flávia, be related to Chyna Quinn of all people?

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yeah, you know her?”

  I have a million anecdotes that I can offer her but I bite my tongue.

  “Kind of. We’re in the same year, I mean.”

  “Well, my mom said she would show me around today.” Flávia shrugs like she has no choice in the matter. “I’ll catch you later though?” And then she shoots me a smile that makes me go weak in the knees and forget all about Chyna Quinn. I nod, dumbfounded, and watch Flávia drift toward my mortal enemy.

  “Who was that?” Chaewon asks when I join them, after my legs have finally solidified again.

  “Flávia,” I say, a little more breathlessly than I should. I clear my throat, and repeat it again in a deeper voice that makes me sound a little like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. “Flávia.”

  “That … doesn’t tell us anything,” says Jess.

  “We used to go to school together. Way back when.”

  “And now she’s here?”

  Yes, she’s here and I think I’ve fallen in love with her. I smile and nod like my stomach isn’t doing continuous somersaults. Thankfully, our conversation is cut short by Principal Murphy tapping her microphone, sending a loud crackle throughout the hall. Slowly, everyone comes to attention. Heads turn to the front as all the chatter comes to a halt.

  “Welcome to the new school year,” P
rincipal Murphy begins with a tight-lipped smile. My gaze strays toward Flávia, standing side by side with Chyna Quinn, and I wonder what exactly this new school year will have in store for us.

  6

  CHYNA QUINN WASN’T ALWAYS MY MORTAL ENEMY. IN fact, once upon a time, we were friends. Kind of.

  On our first day of secondary school, as we all flitted into this new place with butterflies in our stomachs, Chyna and I found each other. Fate—or the school administration—had decided to stick our lockers next to each other.

  As we both got down on our knees to jerk open our lockers, murmuring our combinations to ourselves under our breaths, our eyes met. We exchanged a nervous smile.

  She was braver than me, unsurprisingly. She stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Chyna!” in the brightest voice I’d ever heard.

  “Nishat.” And that was how I survived my first day in secondary school without my little sister. I was navigating an uncharted sea, but with Chyna by my side, all of it felt easier. We developed an easy friendship that was confined to school grounds, but it blossomed like any new friendship does.

  The problem was that we didn’t really have much in common, other than a shared anxiety of being friendless in a new school environment where we didn’t know a soul.

  Our school also suffers from lack-of-diversity syndrome, which basically means that in First Year I could count on both hands the number of people in our entire school who weren’t white. To be accepted by Chyna—beautiful, porcelain-skinned, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Chyna—felt like starting secondary school off on the right foot.

  “So I got invited to Catherine McNamara’s birthday sleepover,” Chyna told me during our second week. It wasn’t surprising, considering she’s always been more outgoing than me, more talkative, more charming, more everything positive. “And she was really exclusive about who she was inviting.” Chyna looked smug about it, like tween party invites were akin to winning Oscars.