Ms. Kelly prattles out more instructions that I barely listen to because Chyna is looking back at me over her shoulder, shooting me a glare. Like this is my fault.
“I’m going to ask Ms. Kelly if I can move up,” I say to Flávia. I’m about to put my hand up to get her attention when I feel Flávia’s hand on mine. She pulls my arm down and looks at me with her eyebrows knit close together.
“Don’t do that.”
“You’re not going to tell me what to do.”
“Girls, I want to hear French, not English!” Ms. Kelly calls from the top of the class in our general direction.
“Ms.—”
“Oui, Ms. Kelly!” Flávia says before I can get her attention. Then she turns to me and whispers, “Ms. Kelly already moved me. If you ask her to move you she’s going to know something is wrong and then the entire class will know something is up. I’m not going to let you air our dirty laundry.”
“We don’t have any dirty laundry.”
“You know what I mean.”
I see Ms. Kelly looking at us with a frown so I quickly try to switch to French—even though my French is still rusty from an entire summer of not speaking it.
“Je m’en fous,” I say. “Je ne veux pas tu parler.”
“Je me veux pas tu parler aussi mais …” She slows down, her eyebrows furrowed in thought as she tries to piece together the next sentence. “Nous … devons. Nous sommes … stuck with each other.”
I frown. There’s a mix of anger and guilt gnawing me from the inside out. I guess the anger wins out because the next words out of my lips, in terrible, awful French are, “Tu es méchant.” It’s the only insult I can think of in French. It’s childish and ridiculous but saying it makes me feel a weird sense of pride.
Flávia looks taken aback. She looks around like she’s waiting for Ms. Kelly to step in and tell me to stop being mean to her in French. I’m pretty sure Ms. Kelly doesn’t care if we’re insulting each other—so long as we’re doing it en français.
“Non, tu es méchant,” she says.
“Wow, original,” I whisper.
“Et … tu es un balourd.”
I don’t know what that means but it sounds meaner than méchant so I look at her with wide eyes. How dare she call me a balourd!
“Well, tu es un batard,”
“Tu es un imbécile.”
I’ve run all out of French insults that I know, but I don’t want to let Flávia have the last word.
“Tu es une commère.”
Flávia frowns. “Je ne suis pas.”
“Oui. Tu … as dit … aux gens que … je suis une lesbienne,” I say, before dropping my voice to a whisper and adding, “You’re the only person in this whole school who could have even suspected my sexuality. Don’t pretend.”
She blinks at me in silence for a moment. I have to say, she’s a phenomenal actress, if nothing else.
“You think I sent the text?” Her voice is soft and low, like she’s genuinely surprised that I think this.
“You, or Chyna. She’s always happy to spread gossip about me. Or anyone.”
Flávia shakes her head. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I would never do that. And … I didn’t tell Chyna anything. Not about us …” she trails off, holding my gaze for a long moment. That word “us” hangs between us heavily. As if there was an us, is an us, could be an us.
She looks away, back at her desk. She stares at the wooden desktop where girls from the last few years have scratched in their graffiti: Their names, random doodles, math equations obviously meant to help them cheat.
“I’m sorry.” At least she has the decency to look slightly ashamed. Her head is bowed down low. I thought I would feel proud for finally confronting her, for making her feel some shame, but I don’t. Instead, discomfort settles into my stomach. Making her feel shame doesn’t undo what’s happened. It doesn’t change the shame I’ve been feeling for the past month … for my whole life, really. It doesn’t change anything at all.
“Look … you have no reason to believe me, but I could never do that to someone else. Maybe it was Chyna, but she didn’t find out from me, I promise. I’m sorry if it was her, though. And I’m sorry … I’m sorry for yesterday.”
I don’t want to believe her. I shouldn’t believe her. After everything else, I have no reason to believe her. But her words, the “someone else” echo in my head. I could never do that to someone else.
She’s looking at me, eyes wide with expectation and a vulnerability in her expression that I’ve never seen in her before.
Against my better judgment, I nod my head, and my lips form the words, “I believe you.”
23
FLÁVIA APPROACHES MY LOCKER TENTATIVELY DURING lunchtime. I’m still grappling with my decision to believe her. To forgive her. Because I’m still convinced that Chyna had something to do with the text, and Chyna is still Flávia’s cousin and business partner.
But of course my heart starts to beat faster just at the sight of her and her hesitant smile.
“Hey.” She leans back against the locker next to mine, warm brown eyes boring into mine. I look away.
“Hi.”
“So … I was thinking. I could help you out with your henna business.”
“I’m your competition.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to help because you pity me,” I say.
When I look up, she’s tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes trained on the wall opposite her instead of on me.
“That’s not why I’m offering,” she says. “Just … I’m pretty good at the whole art thing, or so I’ve been told. And … I want to help. Like with the decorations and stuff for your stall.” Her eyes finally return to mine, and a small smile spreads across her lips. Her cheeks dimple, and my heart starts beating a little too fast once more.
“Sure. That would be …” I trail off, unsure exactly what it would be. It would be weird and strange, but nice maybe. She’s offering—extending—an olive branch. Should I take it? “That would be nice.”
There’s a slight hesitation before she nods her head and says, “Great. How about you come around after school today?”
“Today?”
“Is that … a problem? Do you have plans?” She seems to be asking genuinely, obviously unaware that my plans on most days consist of homework, Netflix, and hanging out with my sister. I’m not exactly a social butterfly.
“No, no plans. I can do that.”
“Oh.” Flávia stands up straight now, her eyes blinking a little too rapidly like she wasn’t expecting me to actually take her up on her invitation. “Great! So … we can walk there together? It’s not too far from the school.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She looks at me for a moment too long, like she’s trying to figure something out. Then she smiles brightly. “I’ll meet you by the entrance, yeah?”
Before I know it, I’m meeting Flávia by the gates of the school like we’ve been friends for a long time.
When I told Priti about my after-school plans earlier, she looked at me like I had suddenly grown two heads. Surprisingly, though, she didn’t protest.
“This is some … keep your enemies close kind of thing, right?” she said.
“Sure.” I’m not sure if I meant it. I’m still not sure what I’m doing here, walking side by side with Flávia in overwhelming silence. The only sound is the rush of wind, getting louder and stronger until, ten minutes into the walk, the gusts give way to a downpour.
“Shit.” Flávia pulls an umbrella out of her backpack, spreading it open in front of us. It’s astonishing that she thinks an umbrella will hold up against all this wind and rain, like she hasn’t been living in Ireland her whole life. But instead of saying anything, I huddle in close to her under the small umbrella. I breathe in her scent—vanilla and cinnamon—mixed with the smell of freshly fallen rain.
Our shoulders press against each other, and even though it’s impossible to b
e touching, really, underneath the layers of our school uniform, it feels oddly intimate. I can feel every movement of her body, vibrating against me. I’m sure she can feel mine too.
Her hands on the umbrella handle tremble. She’s nervous. The realization sends a jolt of electricity through me.
Walking side by side on this deserted road, with the wind whispering all around us and the rain obscuring our vision, feels like we’ve stepped into our own private universe. Like the students and teachers we left behind at school don’t exist anymore. Like our destination is just an idea, not an obligation or something that holds any weight. Like everything in the world has fallen away to make space for this moment, for the rhythmic breathing of the two of us, side by side. Despite the cold, the rain, and the damp, the warmth of Flávia’s body is a palpitating thing next to me. The heat of her is stronger than any Irish sun.
Emboldened by the moment, my body moves of its own accord. My hand reaches out to find hers. Our fingers link together, under the cover of rain and wind.
Flávia stops in her tracks. She’s been staring ahead this whole walk, but now she turns to me. Her honey-brown eyes bore into mine.
This is it. This is the moment. Possibilities surround us, thrumming in the wind, whispering in the rain.
But before either of us can make a move, the wind gives a loud howl and turns our umbrella inside out.
The rain that felt like part of the outside world, cocooning Flávia and I inside, is suddenly too present. It’s seeping into our clothes, weighing down our sweaters and soaking our white cotton shirts on the inside.
Flávia struggles against the wind, trying to bend her umbrella into the correct position again, but it’s futile.
“It’s not going to work.” My voice barely carries through the wind and rain.
Flávia shakes her head, like she doesn’t quite want to believe me.
“We’re going to have to run,” she says. “Like … fast.”
She looks at me with a hint of a smile on her lips before taking off with the broken umbrella still clutched in her arms. I follow as fast as I can, cursing the wind and rain in my head.
When we get to the house, both of us are soaking wet. Flávia closes the door behind us while I try not to drip water onto the carpet, even though that’s near impossible.
“I’ll get us something to dry off,” Flávia says. She’s smiling as she takes me in. Both of us are weighed down by our wet wool sweaters, but taking them off would only reveal our see-through white shirts. I don’t think I’m ready for Flávia to see that much of me.
“Mãe cheguei!” Flávia shouts, seemingly to no one. A voice floats over from the kitchen, strangely similar to Flávia’s.
“Tô na cozinha!” the voice says. It’s the first time I’ve heard Portuguese being spoken, and it sounds both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It’s like a strange mixture of European languages I’ve been hearing for most of my life.
Flávia slips off her shoes and beckons for me to do the same. Once I do, she waves me over toward a doorway at the far end of the hallway, her light footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet as she moves.
The last time I was here, it was dark and loud and full of people. Now, in the dim daylight, Flávia’s house looks completely different. For the first time I notice the bright blue paint on the walls, and the odd, otherworldly pictures that line the hallway.
“Hey, Mom!” Flávia exclaims. I slip through the doorway to find a woman whose features resemble Flávia’s. She has the same sharp bone structure, wide eyes, and dark hair. When she smiles, there’s even a dimple on her cheek.
“Oi filha, who’s your friend?”
“It’s Nishat. We’re working on something together for school, so I invited her over.” It’s a statement, but the words come out like she’s asking for permission.
Flávia’s mom’s smile brightens. “Nice to meet you, Nishat.” Permission granted, I guess.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say in the most polite voice I can muster.
“É essa a garota de que você te me falou?” Flávia’s mom says.
Flávia flushes, bringing a pink tinge to her already dark cheeks.
“Mãe, por favor,” she says under her breath.
“Ela é linda,” her mom says. She’s smiling at me once more. I smile back, even though I have no idea what she’s saying.
“A gente tá indo pro quarto,” Flávia says to her mom. Turning to me, she says, “Come on, let’s go up to my bedroom.”
I nod and follow after her. From behind us, her mom calls, “Deixa a porta aberta!”
“Okay, mãe!” she calls back to her, rolling her eyes. “This way.”
We climb up the stairs, both of us dripping water everywhere. Flávia doesn’t seem to mind.
Her bedroom is a mess of clothes and books all over the floor and desks. What I’m really looking at though are her walls. They are a plain eggshell color, but I can barely see it because almost every inch has been covered with paintings, drawings, and a variety of other things.
“Are they all yours?” I ask.
“Um, most of them,” Flávia says. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks. She pushes the door behind us but doesn’t close it all the way. “They’re not great. They’re like … from a long time ago. These are the ones that aren’t mine.”
She points to a mishmash of pictures on the wall beside her bed. You can only peer closely at them if you climb on top of the bed. She crawls up, and looks at me with a raised eyebrow, as if asking why I’m not doing the same. So I do.
A moment later we’re both standing on top of the bed, the springs creaking noisily underneath us.
“This is by Degas,” Flávia says, pointing to a painting full of young ballerinas and soft colors. “And this is Frida Kahlo, obviously,” she says. It’s a self-portrait of Kahlo that I don’t think I’ve seen before. “And here.” She points to a painting full of colorful shapes—with a woman popping out of them. “This is by Sonia Delaunay. And this is one of my favorites.” She points to a painting crowded with faces. “It’s by Tarsila do Amaral.”
They’re all so different and amazing in their own way. I feel like every time I glance at each one, I see something new. Something I missed in my previous glance.
“We don’t really have a lot of art or paintings in our house. My mom isn’t a big fan. So I don’t know a lot of artists, really.”
“Oh.” Flávia looks at me with a slight tilt of her head, sprays of water flicking off her loose strands of hair. “My mom has always been really into art. She used to paint when she was younger too. She stopped, though. My sister used to do it as well. She wanted to go to art school for a while but when push came to shove, she decided to give it up and study something more practical in university. We always get into arguments about art in our house. Especially about Romero Britto.” She pauses for a moment. “There are three things you don’t bring up in a Brazilian household: politics, religion, and Romero Britto.”
“Romero Britto …” I test the name on my lips and Flávia smiles.
“He’s a very controversial Brazilian artist. I don’t have any of his work up here but my mom has some downstairs. I can show you later.”
“So your mom likes his work?”
“Yep.”
“And your sister …”
“Doesn’t.”
“And you …”
Her smile widens. “Still thinking about it. But I guess that’s why I picked up art. My mom and sister are both so passionate about it.”
“That’s why I started henna,” I offer. “Kind of. Because of my grandma. When we were in Bangladesh, she’d apply henna to Priti and my hands and she used to do all of these elaborate designs. But then, after we moved here and we couldn’t really go back very often, I had to try and figure it out for myself …” I’m not sure how much I should share. Does Flávia even care? She didn’t care about what henna meant to me before she decided to start her henna business.
I think she’s just being polite, but she has a smile on her lips.
“Which are your paintings?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
“Basically everything else,” she says. “But … you don’t have to look at them. Like I said, a lot of them are older and not that good. I don’t even know why they’re up. Do you want some tea?”
“Um … a towel might be nice first.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Duh.” Her cheeks flush again as she jumps off the bed and begins to rifle around her drawers. She throws me a fresh towel, white and blue with flowers patterned all across it. She takes one herself and scrubs at her hair, which has become flat and limp from the rain. Mine sits flat on my scalp too, with wet strands glued to my chin and cheeks. I can’t imagine it’s a very attractive image.
When I’m finished drying my hair—as dry as it will get, anyway—I look up to find Flávia staring at me, unblinking. She smiles when I catch her looking.
“Can I get you something to change into?”
I look down at myself. At the red sweater that’s weighing me down. The checkered skirt that’s still dripping water everywhere.
“Sorry …” I mumble, like I’m somehow responsible for controlling the way rainwater affects my clothes.
“It’s okay.” She begins to rifle around her drawer once more, one hand still absentmindedly drying her hair.
“I, um … I’m not sure if your clothes will fit me,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “We’re not exactly the same size.” I’m at least two sizes bigger than her—maybe more.
“Well, you can’t hang around in wet clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia or something.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, like she’s taking in the size of my body—noticing for the first time that it’s not the same as hers. I suck in my breath, like that will change anything. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
She eventually digs up an old, gray t-shirt that is far too big for her, but big enough for me. She pairs it with old, loose-fitting pajama bottoms that may once have been bright blue but have dulled to a color that barely resembles blue anymore.
The Henna Wars Page 17
