The Henna Wars: Chapters 12–17

Art, at least the form of it we learned in school, was definitely not my forte. But henna isn’t a form of art we learned in school.

Chyna smiles back before sauntering off toward one of the rooms with music blasting from it, leaving me alone in the empty hallway.

It’s sparse and clean and empty, or at least this part of it is. It barely looks lived in.

So many things sprawling and spreading everywhere.

She’s interested in a gangly, pimply lad who is definitely not in her league.

She furrows her eyebrows together like this conversation is too much for her to fathom.

“I’m sure watercolor was also part of some particular culture once, but now we all do it. That’s what art is. It doesn’t have arbitrary boundaries.”

I’m still curled up in bed the next morning, seething with anger about all of the things Flávia said, when Priti barges into my room.

Even though most of my anger has subsided now that Priti is here, I still feel it simmering inside me.

Priti is definitely not someone who is prone to crying, so seeing her like that this morning has me shaken.

She hasn’t even looked me in the eye since that fateful day.

“I’ll be okay.” I try to make my voice as reassuring as I can, but it still wavers.

I gingerly walk to the bed and sit down, peering at her hunched form.

“If you give them time...” Priti starts again. The same old mantra.

“I promise to love you the most, no matter what. Even when we’re old and disheveled and dying and you’re somehow more annoying than you already are, I’ll still love you.”

“Well, regardless, she’s said some stuff and now she’s going around with henna on her hands. That’s cultural appropriation.”

But now I’ve alienated the only two people who actually put up with me.

I just want Chaewon and Jess to know they don’t bother me. That I don’t regret my decision, even though there’s a small part of me that keeps repeating what did you do, what did you do, what did you do in a berating mantra.

Ms. Montgomery bounds into the classroom a moment later with a flourish.

For a moment I think she’ll ask what happened and make me rehash everything in front of the whole class.

She listened aptly while I mumbled the words about who I was, avoiding looking at her because I was afraid of who would be staring back.

“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.”

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’s reselling products that her mom has already shipped in; not exactly the pinnacle of creativity, but it is...something.

Chaewon sighs and the sound reverberates around the phone line.

“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.

Because I am eloquent and amazing at expressing myself, to Priti I say, “Because it’s just different, okay?”

“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.

This setting—the two-seater couch, the deserted room, the closed door—it all feels too intimate.

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.

My smile looks kind of manic, but I don’t care.

That almost-kiss had to be about exactly this—getting me freaked out and anxious, and maybe even further infatuated.

So instead of going down to breakfast, or making amends with Priti, I go back to my notebook. My only solace these days.

“She called it good news?” I balk at the phrase, but Priti nods enthusiastically, a small giggle escaping her.

“Kintu women are better as teachers, nah?” one of the other Uncles comments with a solemn nod, like a woman doctor might be a bit too much.