“Oh.” There’s another lull. I chew my lip, wondering why exactly she’s calling. What it is she wants.
“What did … what did she say to you when you told her you wouldn’t have an idea for her until later?” I ask after too much silence has passed for it to be normal.
“Well …” Chaewon begins. “We actually did give her an idea.”
“Oh?”
“It was … I mean, I don’t know if you read all of the texts in the group chat, but Jess and I had kind of settled on an idea before you suggested the henna business.”
I try to recall what the texts in the group chat were about. I remember scanning through a few of them without really considering them. Maybe I should have taken their ideas into consideration before bulldozing in with my own but, whatever their idea is, I’m sure mine is better. Mine is unique. Authentic. Nobody else would have thought of it … unless of course they attended a South Asian wedding and decided to take all of the sparkly, nice things from our culture that they liked.
“What’s the idea?”
“Well, you know how my parents have their shop in town?”
“The Korean shop?”
“Yes! Well, my mom sells these cute trinkets that she imports from Korea. They’re really popular over there, so I thought we would try and sell them over here too. I think the girls in school will really like them. They have cute cartoon characters on them and stuff.” Chaewon’s voice is bright as she says all of this, like she’s really excited about it. She must have been excited all along, but I didn’t even consider it. I feel a stab of guilt in my stomach but I push it down.
I may not have indulged Chaewon’s idea, but she hasn’t stood up for me, well … ever. Shouldn’t we have some kind of solidarity between us? We’re both Asians. We’re both minorities. I would stand up for her.
“It sounds like a good idea,” I say, trying to mean it. It’s reselling products that her mom has already shipped in; not exactly the pinnacle of creativity, but it is … something. And I’m sure that most of the other girls in our year will be doing something similar.
Minimal work, after all.
“Thanks.” There’s a dip in her voice. “And I’m … I’m sorry about what happened earlier today.”
Ah, there it is. What she really called to say.
“It’s …” I begin to say it’s okay, before realizing that really, it isn’t okay. That the way things happened was far from okay. Friends shouldn’t treat each other like that. “It’s … what it is,” I say instead.
“Jess was upset. She … was never really a fan of your idea, but she wanted to try it because you were so excited, you know? But you have to admit, you were pushing us out a little bit. It felt more like your thing than ours.”
“Is this supposed to be an apology?” Because it was sounding like a defense of Jess instead.
Chaewon sighs and the sound reverberates around the phone line. “I am sorry but I just want you to understand that—”
“I have to go, Chaewon. I have a lot of things to do.”
“Oh … well. Okay. I’ll see you at school tomorrow?” I’m not sure if that’s an invitation to sit with them at lunch and in the classes we share together; I’m not sure if I want it to be.
“Sure, see you.”
16
WEDNESDAY MORNING, DESPITE REASSURING MYSELF THAT the Junior Cert means next to nothing, I feel anxiety clawing away at my insides. Today is the day we get our results.
For once, Priti doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even try to lean on me and do ghesha gheshi—which roughly translates to invading my personal space. Her favorite hobby.
Instead, she smiles at me brightly when we board the bus and makes pleasant conversation about nothing.
“Can you stop being so weird?” I burst out, interrupting Priti in the midst of a tirade about her English teacher that I’d only been half listening to.
“I’m not being weird. This is called having a con-ver-sa-tion.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Yes, but you’re not being your usual annoying self and that’s weird.”
“Hey!” She lightly punches my shoulder. I barely feel it. “I take offense to being called annoying.”
“Would you rather I called you irritating? Like an itch I can’t scratch? A—”
“Delightfully quirky company.” Priti breaks out into a smile. “Or, just delightful is fine.”
“Yeah, okay, dream on,” I say dryly, but at least this is more the Priti I know.
“You are nervous though, right?” She narrows her eyes like if I wasn’t, that would be committing treason against our Asian heritage. I think it kind of would be.
“I am a little nervous,” I admit after a moment’s hesitation. Ammu didn’t say anything as I left the house this morning, but I noticed she had taken out the jainamaz, or prayer rug, and actually said a few prayers last night.
I can’t quite shake the hypocrisy of that—but I guess we’re all hypocrites about one thing or the other. I feel like her silence spoke volumes. It always does.
I put Ammu out of my mind once we’re in school and our entire year is being called into the hallway to receive our results. We’re all lined in up in our class order. An anxiety-ridden Flávia is standing to my right. She’s on her own since she didn’t go to St. Catherine’s last year—her results must have been mailed separately. But since they’re all sent by the Department of Education, she’ll be getting hers at the same time as everyone who did the Junior Cert last year. She’s muttering something to herself under her breath. A prayer, maybe? But it’s not in English. I’ve never heard Portuguese before, but I assume that’s the language she’s praying in.
My heart skips a beat, only because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Flávia look so vulnerable before. Since Sunny Apu’s wedding she’s carried an air of confidence around her. Today she looks different.
She catches my eye a moment later and I turn away before I can watch her expression harden at the sight of me.
Ms. McNamara, the head of our year, spends so long speaking about the exams and how a good result is important but not everything that it gives my body enough time to work up a sweaty panic. By the time she hands me my envelope with a smile faker than the knock-off Calvin Klein handbags for sale in Bangladesh, my hands are drenched in sweat. I don’t know if she notices. My hands are shaking as my fingers hover over the seal. People around me are already opening theirs, already taking breaths of relief. Instead of making me less nervous, their relief makes my anxiety rise.
I catch a glimpse of Flávia scanning over the piece of paper with her results on it, her eyes wide open.
I look away. There’s a flutter in my stomach. To think that a piece of paper can hold so much sway, and cause so many emotions in so many people.
I pull open my own envelope with my heart feeling like it’s going to burst out of my chest.
The words are a blur in front of my eyes at first before they finally come into focus.
Math – C
History – Β
French – Β
Irish – C
English – A
Home Economics – A
Business – A
Geography – A
CSPE – A
Science – Β
I can’t imagine how my parents will feel about it—it feels like the two Cs are glaring at me—but I feel the stress and anxiety leaving my body.
Before I can even react properly, before I can even look up from my results paper, somebody throws their arms around me and squeezes me in a tight hug. The hug is warm—like being cuddled in a blanket during a cold winter night—and the person hugging me smells faintly of vanilla and cinnamon mixed together.
“Sorry,” Flávia breathes when she finally lets me go. I’m trying to navigate my emotions—somewhere between adoration and annoyance.
“That’s okay,” I say, not at all sure if it is okay.
“Just … we did it.” She’s beaming.
Her eyes are bright like stars and it’s too easy to get lost in them.
“I know.” My heart is about to burst out of my chest again but this time for a completely different reason.
“Do you think we can put our differences aside? Just for now?” she asks, sheepishly. I nod, despite myself.
She brightens—which I didn’t think was even possible.
“Are you coming to the party this Friday?”
“There’s a party this Friday?”
She smiles, like she can’t believe I haven’t gotten the memo—though obviously it shouldn’t be surprising at all.
“It’s Chyna’s party but it’s at our place. For everybody in the year. You should come.” She pauses, the light diminishing from her eyes slightly, her smile fading somewhat. “You can, um, bring your sister if you want?”
“I’ll think about it,” is all I say, though I already know that if I go, there’s no way I’m going to bring Priti.
“I guess you’re putting effort into this party.” Priti leans against the door frame of my bedroom as I’m applying a coat of mascara onto my eyelashes. I accidentally stab myself in the eye with the wand and smear some of the black liquid on my cheek.
“Knock, maybe?” I say.
“Your door wasn’t closed, gadha.”
“Okay, chagol.” I rub the mascara off my face.
“I’m surprised you’re really going through with this.”
“I’m going to a party, Priti. Not committing to a marriage.”
“I know. But you didn’t exactly enjoy yourself at Chyna’s last week. You left early.”
“Yes, well. This is different.”
“How, exactly?”
This is a perfectly valid question, because nothing really is different, but something feels different since Flávia called a truce. Even if it’s for only one day, should I not make the most of it?
Because I am eloquent and amazing at expressing myself, to Priti I say, “Because it’s just different, okay?”
She comes over and stands by me so we’re both reflected in the mirror. After tucking a strand of hair away, she rests a hand on my shoulder.
“This is like a scene in a Bollywood movie,” I say.
“What Bollywood movie does this happen in?”
“I don’t know! But I feel like there’s been one!”
I can see her rolling her eyes in the mirror. I stifle a smile as she says, “It’s more like a Hollywood movie, really. It’s your wedding day and you’re getting married. Your sister—bridesmaid comes over to tell you how beautiful you look in your wedding dress, etcetera, etcetera.”
“So …?”
“So …”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me how beautiful I look, obviously.”
“Wow, Apujan, you’re so beautiful,” Priti deadpans. Her face and voice are so devoid of emotion that I burst into a fit of giggles. She joins me a second later, and soon we’re both bent over laughing.
Priti wipes a tear from her eye and I blink rapidly, trying to keep my tear ducts in check.
“You’re going to make my makeup run,” I say after the giggling has finally stopped.
“You started it!”
She catches my eye in the mirror and I’m surprised by how alike we look, even with my face full of makeup and hers without any. I am a shade darker, but we both have the same wide eyes, inherited from Ammu, and the too-round face inherited from Abbu. Perhaps the biggest difference is Priti’s button nose, compared to my longer, slightly arched one.
After a beat of silence, Priti says, “You’ll be careful at the party, right?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth or not. When matters of the heart are involved, it’s difficult to be careful.
Even from the outside, Flávia’s house is already far different from Chyna’s. It’s a small, narrow brick house wedged between two other strikingly similar buildings. When I climb the small steps and ring the doorbell, it emits a hollow sound.
Chyna, surprisingly, greets me with a smile and a hug when the door swings open. I can smell beer on her.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaims, brushing back wisps of her thin, blonde hair.
“You are?” I ask, but she doesn’t seem to hear me—or care.
She grabs my hand and drags me inside, through a pair of double doors and into a sitting room that’s full to bursting.
“Last one!” She shouts loudly at the room full of people. They glance up, some utterly nonchalant, some with broad grins on their faces. They all let out a cheer that drowns out the beat of the music. I catch sight of Chaewon and Jess in a corner, and turn away. I’m not in the mood to face them tonight.
Flávia strolls up to me once the crowd has turned back to itself and Chyna has disappeared somewhere among the throng.
“I guess our entire year is here?” I shout over the music, by way of greeting.
“Yeah,” Flávia shouts, a sheepish smile on her lips. “She’s pretty excited that she was the one to do it.”
Is that the only reason I got invited? Why Flávia called a truce? I try to ignore those thoughts. I’m here, after all. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
I see Flávia’s lips move but the sound gets drowned out by the music, which seems to be getting louder and louder with every passing second.
I shake my head to indicate that I didn’t hear what she said. She grabs my hand, sending a jolt through my entire body, and drags me out of the room. We weave through the house—the hallway littered with people, the kitchen almost as full as the sitting room—and finally slide into a small, deserted room.
The room has a few bookshelves pressed against the wall, a small desk in one corner, and a cozy-but-beaten-down couch in the other corner. It’s so small that it can barely fit the two of us in with the furniture.
“It’s the study. Well, technically it’s a store room my mom converted into a study.” Flávia’s voice seems too loud without the booming music in the background. “Sorry, I didn’t think we could have a conversation in the sitting room.”
She clicks the door shut and strolls over to the couch. Settling herself into the cushions, she raises her eyebrows toward me.
I shuffle over too, wondering why exactly she brought me here. What kind of conversation is she looking for? Our last conversation wasn’t exactly sunshine and daisies. Plus, I’m pretty sure we could have had a conversation in the hallway, or even the kitchen. Sure, they were crowded, but the music wasn’t as loud and there were plenty of people talking there.
This setting—the two-seater couch, the deserted room, the closed door—it all feels too intimate.
When I’m settled into the couch beside her, Flávia is still watching me in a way that’s disconcerting. I don’t know what the expression on her face means. It’s unreadable—to me, at least.
“So … let’s get it out of the way.”
My stomach sinks. Was this truce not a truce at all?
“Were you happy?” she asks.
“W-what?”
“With your results? Were you happy?”
“Oh.” I let out a breath. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” She smiles.
“Well, it’s nothing to write home about but it’s not, you know, bad,” I say. “Were you happy?”
She shrugs and finally looks away from me.
“It wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but I guess it’ll have to do.” She sounds disappointed.
“What did you get?” I lean forward, trying to catch her eye.
“You can’t ask that!” she says with a slight laugh. “That’s like … against the rules of polite society.”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” I can see her thinking about it.
“Okay, tell me yours.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath, wondering why I offered to do this. “Two Cs, three B’s, and five A’s.”
“Five A’s!” Flávia exclaims, a smile breaking out on her
lips. “That’s kind of amazing. You should be proud.”
“Thanks,” I mumble as a blush creeps up my neck. “And you?”
She sighs. “Three A’s, three B’s, and four C’s.”
“And you’re disappointed with that?”
“Did you not hear the number of C’s?”
“Did you hear the number of A’s?”
She smiles again, though it’s hesitant this time.
“My mom isn’t exactly … thrilled.”
“Oh?”
She leans back in the chair. “Just … she has this thing about showing up my dad’s side of the family. I guess because … I don’t know, they never really liked her and I think it’s a race thing. Like they assume that because my mom is Black and Brazilian, and still has an accent, she isn’t smart enough or good enough or whatever. So she always wants me to do better.”
“Than who?”
“Than … well, everyone, really. But especially better than that side of the family.”
“So … Chyna?”
She nods, turning to meet my eyes. Her lips are pulled down in a frown.
“I didn’t, though.”
“Chyna did better than you?” I don’t mean it to come out as surprised as it does, but it does make Flávia burst into a fit of giggles, so that’s something.
“She’s pretty smart, you know.”
I shrug. “Just … she makes a habit of … I don’t know, not putting in an effort?”
“She does. I mean, she likes to act like she doesn’t care but honestly, Chyna cares a lot about this stuff. She wants to be a lawyer, you know? It’s all she’s wanted since we were kids.”
I can see that. Chyna is definitely good at manipulating the truth, at making people see her side of the situation, no matter how wrong or twisted it is. It makes me a little terrified to think of her as a lawyer. She’d be a white Annalise Keating; all the manipulation and amorality but none of the pushback from white people. Chyna would one hundred percent get away with murder, and she probably wouldn’t even have to try that hard. Of course, I don’t say any of this to Flávia. To her, I say, “You and Chyna must be pretty close, huh?”
“We … have a complicated relationship.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and gives me a smile. “We’re supposed to be friends, but we’re also kind of competitors.”
The Henna Wars Page 12
