The Henna Wars: Chapters 18–24

Since I got the approval of Desi Aunties, I’m set. They’re the true henna connoisseurs.

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.

Usually, our banter is playful. Back and forth. But this—this feels different.

“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 know my voice is rising, and I can feel the anger palpitating through my body.

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.

After all, they’ll all reap the benefits from our businesses during the last class of the day.

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.

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—

I feel sick. Bile rises inside me. Who would write such hateful things about me?

But I want to stand there and look Flávia in the eye. I want to hold her accountable for everything.

But now, it seems like both of them are emanating anger, feeding off each other’s fury.

She mouths something to me from the stairs that looks like “I love you,” but it does nothing to quell my nerves.

“Okay,” Priti finally concedes.

And if they’re not being blatantly homophobic, they’re looking at me with this pity, like I’m a kicked puppy.

When I get to my locker, I’m in a rush to leave this oppressive place behind.

I try to give her my best smile, hoping that will deter whatever conversation is about to come, but she just considers me with a frown on her face, like I’m a problem she can’t quite solve.

All I can see is the way Chyna’s lips curve up into a malicious grin. It’s all too familiar. I’ve seen it too many times, paired with disparagement of me, my heritage, my culture.

There’s a throb of anger in Flávia’s voice now. Somehow, it’s the exact same pitch as before, but I can feel the anger resonating through it.

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.

Flávia approaches my locker tentatively during lunchtime.

I’m still grappling with my decision to believe her. To forgive her.

Flávia struggles against the wind, trying to bend her umbrella into the correct position again, but it’s futile.

Flávia slips off her shoes and beckons for me to do the same.

During the first few days of secondary school, Chyna had this nervous energy about her. Like she didn’t quite know where she fit in, or what her role was. I thought that all dissipated after Catherine McNamara’s birthday party, but watching her now, I think that maybe it didn’t really.

I have to smile at the irony of that, because Chyna doesn’t really have any qualms about speaking about other people in a language they most definitely understand.

Her voice is too controlled, too stoic.

The tension, you being upset, Ammu being upset, Abbu being upset, nobody ever talking about it. It was all driving me insane. I had to talk to someone and it couldn’t be you or them. It’s a taboo subject.

And Nanu is sick, which you would know if you actually bothered to keep up with her on Skype like you used to before you got too smitten with some girl who doesn’t even care about you.

But Priti recoils from me, like my tears are something heinous.