“I think so,” I say with a frown, before shaking my head and, in the most confident voice I can muster, saying, “Yes. I’m ready. I’m going to win this whole thing.”
Priti lets out a small laugh. “Wow, this really has all gone to your head.”
“Well, you heard everyone at the dawat today. They all said our henna was great, and they’re all Desi. They know their henna.” It’s true. Since I got the approval of Desi Aunties, I’m set. They’re the true henna connoisseurs.
“That’s true.” Priti settles down on the bed next to me, peering at the designs spreading across my skin. “Do you need, you know, any help?”
I turn to take a long look at her. She’s tapping her bare feet on the floor to a nervous rhythm, and she’s not catching my eye, though it’s under the guise of examining my work.
“Are you procrastinating studying or is there something else?”
She lays herself down on the bed spread-eagle and gazes up at the ceiling. “I hate the Junior Cert.”
I smile. “Well, you have a celebratory dawat to look forward to once you get past it all.” A dawat where everybody debates your future while you linger on the edge, trying to eat the delicious food without attracting too much attention.
“Joy.”
“If you really want to help—”
“Yes, I’ll offer up my skin as sacrifice!” she cries.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need your sacrificial skin. I need help figuring out a plan to ‘borrow’ Flávia’s henna tubes.”
Priti stills, looking at me with a frown. “Apujan … you aren’t really serious about that.”
“I am. I’m very serious about that.”
“You can’t steal—”
“Am I having déjà vu or did we already have this conversation?”
She stiffens at the interruption. At the sarcastic tone in my voice. Usually, our banter is playful. Back and forth. But this—this feels different. Not the sarcasm or the fact that I’ve interrupted her, but the atmosphere in the room. Like someone has suddenly flicked a switch and changed the energy completely.
“Ammu and Abbu wouldn’t approve of this. It’s not how we were raised. It’s not in our principles to sabotage other people. Look after yourself and what you’re doing and success will follow.” She sounds so holier-than-thou that I roll my eyes. Which is the wrong move, because her frown deepens.
“Ammu and Abbu don’t approve of a lot of things, so forgive me for not using them as the barometer of what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“This is different and it’s—”
“And success won’t follow, because Flávia is trying to undermine everything I do. She’s trying to take this away from me. I’m not going to let her win.”
“I don’t know what she did to you, Apujan, but … you know there are certain things you shouldn’t do to get ahead. It’s better if you just keep your head down and think about your own business, and don’t worry about hers.”
“You didn’t say that when I bought out Raj Uncle’s shop.” I know my voice is rising, and I can feel the anger palpitating through my body. It’s been simmering inside of me since Flávia sent me that text. Maybe longer.
“That was different.” Priti’s voice is soft. It seems the angrier I get, the more vulnerable she becomes. “You know it was different. That was just … something small. She’ll barely notice that.”
“So it was a terrible idea and you just went along with it?” I’m almost shouting now.
“Apujan …”
“Stop!” I turn away from her. “You know what she’s doing is wrong, Priti. And she’s trying to sabotage me and my business at every turn. Playing games with … with …” My heart, but I don’t say that. “my mind, our culture. She stole from us. She went to a wedding and saw the pretty henna and decided it was something she could have. She barely knew anybody there. She shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Just because she did something wrong doesn’t mean you should do something wrong too, Apujan. I know you’re better than that.”
I shake my head. “I’m not.”
I expect her to say more. To try and change my mind. But she doesn’t.
The bed creaks as she stands and shuffles out the door. The room feels too empty, too silent, in her sudden absence.
On Monday morning, I wake bright and early feeling weird and jittery about the opening showcase. I have everything prepared—my design book, more henna tubes than I could possibly need, even a haphazard banner that declares NISHAT’S MEHNDI in bright, bold orange lettering.
I’m as prepared as I’m going to get, but there are still butterflies in my stomach, making me feel sick with worry. I may be prepared for the competition, equipped to take down Chyna and Flávia, but I’m no longer on speaking terms with my two best friends and last night I successfully managed to piss off Priti.
On the bus to school, we’re both quiet. The silence between us is especially palpable amidst the throngs of people on the bus with us; their voices are a steady reminder that Priti and I are not talking.
For the entire journey I keep thinking I should say something, but I don’t even know what there is to say. I want to tell Priti about all the nerves that I’m dealing with. She’s the only person who would be able to make me feel better, I’m sure of it. But I don’t say anything, knowing that she won’t be sympathetic.
Not today, anyway.
We split up silently at the school gates. Priti doesn’t even bother to glance back at me, though I watch her weave through the crowds. She pushes past Ali, to her locker. Neither of them so much as glance at each other; they don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence.
I feel like someone has punched me in the gut. I was so caught up with what happened at the party, with Flávia and the henna stuff, that I somehow completely missed what was happening with my sister.
She spent most of her weekend in my room, which isn’t exactly unusual, but she was more excitable than usual. I chalked it up to her trying to make up for our last fight, or even for what happened at the party, though she didn’t know what actually happened.
I’m tempted to blame Chyna and Flávia for this, too. After all, if it wasn’t for them trying to sabotage me, to distract me, to take from my culture, I would be more focused on my sister. Or I hope I would, anyway. But I know that isn’t an excuse. Priti should always be my priority. And right now, I don’t even know how long she and Ali have been fighting. Or why.
If I go through with my idea to steal Flávia’s henna tubes, I’ll just be making things worse with Priti. I have to put that out of my mind. I have to swallow my pride and apologize to Priti.
The rest of the day goes by in a flurry. I don’t know if it’s just that I’m jittery and projecting it onto everyone else, but there’s a buzz of excitement in the air. This is the first time we’ve ever done something like this in our school, and it seems like everybody is excited about it. After all, they’ll all reap the benefits from our businesses during the last class of the day.
At lunchtime, there isn’t as much ruckus in the room as usual. Instead, hushed whispers travel through the air, like we’re all trying to keep our plans a secret from each other. Maybe we are. Maybe we should be. The last class of the day is Business, but instead of heading to room 23, our usual classroom, we all shuffle into the hall. Our hushed whispers suddenly spill into laughter and chatter as everyone begins to examine each other’s stalls.
I see Chaewon and Jess hurry over to theirs, digging fairy lights out of their bags and beginning to set it up. Chyna and Flávia’s stall is right beside theirs, with henna tubes spread out on the table in front of them. The two of them begin to hang up floral arrangements; pink, white, and purple blossoms will adorn their stall by the time they’re done. I have to laugh at the irony of them decorating their stall in sakura, while lifting from Bengali culture, like all Asian cultures are somehow interchangeable.
At my stall at the very end of the hallway, I tape up the br
ight orange banner I made and lay out my design book and henna tubes on the table in front of me. It’s not much, but it’ll do, I think, as I look around at everyone else in the main hall.
Emma Morrison and Aaliyah Abdi are selling handmade jewelry in the stand opposite mine. They’ve been making their own jewelry for forever. Emma catches my eye when I look over; she offers me a small smile that seems fake, then ducks to whisper something to Aaliyah. Aaliyah’s eyes open wide and she steals a furtive glance at me.
Well, that’s weird.
Even though Aaliyah, Emma and I aren’t exactly friends, we’ve always been on friendly terms. We smile at each other in the hallways and make small talk about classes, teachers, weekends. Aaliyah even invited me to her birthday party last year, though that might have been because her parents thought she should invite the only other Muslim girl in the class to her party.
Still—I have nothing against either of them. I didn’t think they had anything against me either. So why are they suddenly acting so odd?
I don’t have much time to dwell on it though, as the doors to the hall open and a group of girls flood in. Their giggles and chatter fill every corner of the hall, as do the sounds of their shuffling footsteps as they peer at the different stalls.
I stand with my shoulders straight and paste a bright smile on my lips. One by one the girls pass my table. Their eyes flit past me to the table next to me. Or they duck their heads and walk toward Flávia’s stall.
Within minutes, a queue forms at her stall. I wait, hoping some of them will grow impatient and come over to me. But none of them even look in my direction.
Everyone’s stall has people milling about. Except mine.
I bite down the tears threatening to fall. I have to be stronger than this. But how much longer can I tolerate it? How much longer do I have to stand here by myself, staring out into this hall crowded with people who obviously want nothing to do with me, and pretend it doesn’t bother me?
“Apujan?” Priti is suddenly right in front of me, staring at me with searching eyes. “Are you okay?”
I’m not, but I nod. I’m more confused by her presence than anything else.
“What are you doing here?”
She doesn’t respond. She’s just looking at me with wide, questioning eyes.
“Have you checked your phone?”
“Not … recently.”
She casts a quick glance around, like she’s only just realized where she is. That we’re surrounded by people. That I’m technically supposed to be working.
“Come with me.” She grabs my hand and pulls me out from behind the table.
“What about—”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Nobody will touch it. Just come on.”
She tugs at my arm and leads me out of the hallway, which has descended into near silence as almost every head turns to watch us leave.
“What’s going on?” I ask. When I turn to face the students looking at me, they all turn their gazes away. Like catching my eye will spread some sort of a disease.
“Somebody sent an anonymous text to the whole school,” Priti says, when we’re outside in the deserted entrance hallway. “About … you.”
“What did it say?”
She takes a deep breath and ducks her head. For a moment I think she won’t answer, but after a minute she sighs and says, “That you’re a lesbian. Somebody sent around a text outing you, saying you’re dangerous, that the school shouldn’t have you here, that it’s against their Catholic ethos, that it’s not how an all-girls school should be run, that—”
“Stop.” I feel sick. Bile rises inside me. Who would write such hateful things about me? Who would out me like that? Who at this school even knew I was gay? I only ever told my sister and …
Flávia. She’s the only person who might have suspected the truth. But she wouldn’t tell anyone, would she? And if not her, who?
I feel like I’m going to throw up. Like something has been ripped from me that I can’t recover.
I slide down the wall behind me to the floor and bury my head in my hands. Everything suddenly clicks into place. The reason why nobody has been coming to my stall. Why everybody has been avoiding me like I’m the plague.
Priti sits down next to me. She snakes an arm around me until I’m cradled into her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. I remember how it felt to come out for the first time. What it felt like to make that decision. Fear and anxiety all wrapped together. But there was something else, too. That inkling of hope. And the joy when Priti accepted me for who I am. When she wrapped me up in her arms and told me so.
Now it feels like I’ve been stripped of all of that. Like I’ve been stripped of my choice. Of my identity, even. Like I’ve become passive in my own life.
“You were right about her.” I sit up and blink back my tears. I rub at my eyes like that’ll somehow make all of this stop. “About … Flávia.” Her name is stuck in my throat but I somehow manage to get it out. “She was all … wrong for me. And now … this.”
Priti blinks at me with wide eyes, her gaze roaming my face. Like she’s trying to take this all in.
“This …?” she asks.
“The only people who knew my sexuality in this school were you and her.”
“You … told her?” Priti is looking down at the ground with wide eyes. Like she can’t quite believe her ears.
“No, but she knew. And she … she did this.” I gulp down the lump making its way up my throat once more. “She must have told … someone. Chyna … or … I don’t know.” It was clicking into place now. It had to have been Chyna. And Flávia had done nothing to stop her. Nothing to warn me when she found out.
“Yes.” Priti is nodding her head frantically. “That makes sense. It must have been her. We should go to the principal. Tell her everything. I’ll show her the text and they’ll be suspended, probably. I mean, this is a hate crime!”
“No. That’s not going to make anything better.” The thought of telling someone about this feels almost as bad as the fact that it happened.
“Whoever did this deserves to be punished, Apujan,” Priti says in a grave voice.
I shake my head. It’s not that I don’t agree with her, but these kinds of things are rarely punished. It’s not as if the horrendous things said about me and Priti over the years were ever met with any consequences. The teachers couldn’t have failed to hear the whispers in the hallways, like horrid secrets the girls carried with them, spilling them with glee into each other’s ears. But nobody ever bothered to put a stop to it.
Telling the principal would just make everything worse. What if Ammu and Abbu got dragged into it? Would they even stick up for me? Or would they agree with whatever the text said? Would they be ashamed that so many people know now?
I can imagine their faces, red and blotchy from anger and tears—with the shame that has been brought onto our family. Shame that I have, ultimately, made the wrong choice.
I stand.
“You should go back to class,” I say.
“What are you going to do?” Priti stands up too.
“I’m going to go back in there and show them that I don’t care. That … I’m stronger than them.” I’m still blinking back tears. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them at bay. But I want to stand there and look Flávia in the eye. I want to hold her accountable for everything. And I won’t give any of them the satisfaction of me going home. Of appearing weak.
“Are you sure?” Priti asks in a whisper, like speaking too loudly will break me. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got this.”
“I love you, Apujan,” she whispers. “And I’m so damn proud of you. I hope you know that.”
19
WHEN I WALK BACK INTO THE MAIN HALL, I DON’T THINK anybody expects it. They turn to stare, their eyes boring into my sides as I walk past with my head held high,
telling my tears to keep back until I’m safe at home.
I slip inside my stall and behind the table. I can hear people whispering as time passes—too slowly. Girls shuffle by my stall, their gaze averted as if lesbianism is something they can catch. There are a few girls who make their way over throughout the afternoon to show their support. Frowns settle on their mouths as they take the seat opposite me and let me apply henna to their hands.
“I’m sorry,” they say, pleading with me with their eyes. “Whatever they’re doing, saying, it’s horrible.” Some of them even encourage me to report it. To go to the principal’s office. They have the text saved to their phones, they say, and will show it to her to support me. I thank them, blinking back tears. I don’t even know their names. They’re not even in my year.
Some of them even tell me they’re queer, though they whisper it, afraid that someone will overhear. I don’t blame them.
A few of them only come to find out the gossip.
“So, any idea who might have sent that text?” asks Hannah Gunter. She’s in our year, and is chummy with Chyna, so I’m sure she has an even better idea than me. “Is it true?” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
“Weirdly, my business is not gossip,” I say. “If you want henna, I will give you henna. If you want gossip …”
She heaves a dramatic sigh, but plops down anyway and thrusts her hand out to me.
“Someone said you made a move on Chyna at her birthday party. That that’s why you left so abruptly. Because she rejected you,” Hannah says as I squeeze henna into her hand. I try not to let the rage boiling inside of me spill into my henna art. A too-tight squeeze could ruin the whole design.
“I can honestly say I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is all I offer Hannah. She seems disappointed, and thankfully doesn’t say any more for the rest of the time she’s at my stall.
It’s when the showcase comes to an end that I finally feel relief, tinged with bitterness. As everyone around me begins to clean up, I slump down on my chair, trying not to let the despair of it all hit me, even though it comes at me in waves.
The Henna Wars Page 14
