“Hi, Chyna,” I say, like we haven’t been going to school together for the past three years. Like she hasn’t single-handedly spread rumors about half the girls in this school, ruining their lives like that was something to get pleasure from.
“I wanted to show you something.” Flávia extends her hands toward me on the table in front of us. For a moment, I think she’s going to take my hand, until I notice it. The red wrapped around her palms, weaving up and down her skin. “You inspired me at the wedding. Well, everything there did, really. And then Chyna told me about an Asian shop in town where we could probably get a tube of henna.”
Discomfort flutters around in my stomach that I don’t really understand. It’s how I feel when Priti comes into my room in the middle of the night and pushes into my bed and steals almost all of the duvet. Annoyance? But annoyance verging onto anger almost.
“How did you …?” I begin, not sure exactly what question I should be asking.
“I just wanted to try it, you know,” Flávia says, extending her palm out in front of her. She’s looking at her hand and not at me anymore. She isn’t even asking for my opinion, just admiring her own handiwork. “I think I did a pretty good job, what do you think?”
I frown. “I … I guess.”
She looks at me, her smile still in place. But instead of the usual butterflies that smile sends fluttering in my stomach, the gnawing discomfort grows.
“I really thought it would be a lot more difficult than it was,” she says. “But once I had that picture your sister put up on Insta … it was simple, really.”
The gnawing grows from annoyance to all out anger. Flávia can’t justdohenna because she saw it at the wedding, and because she saw Priti’s Instagram picture. How can she sit in front of me and act like there aren’t a million things wrong here?
I have to stop myself from saying what I’m really feeling. What I’m really thinking. I don’t even know how to form the words. And IknowChyna won’t take it well.
“Flá is this amazing artist,” Chyna chimes in. “Shealwayshas been. I knew she’d be amazing at making henna tattoos. Look.” She inches her arms forward and there it is, inked onto her hands. The same identical design in a garishly red color. It looks odd and out of place on her white skin.
I can’t explain the lump that begins to rise up my throat, or the tears prickling behind my eyes. Before I can even think, I stand. The chair makes a loud scraping noise. Flávia is looking at me with a frown on her lips, maybe looking for some sort of an explanation. But I can barely look at her. Idefinitelycan’t look at Chyna.
“I have to go.” I dash across the room and out the door.
“Hey, Nish—” I barely hear Chaewon’s voice as I walk out of the room as fast as I can, mutteringdon’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cryto myself in my head.
“Apujan.” Before I know it, before I realize what exactly is happening, Priti is pulling me into one of the bathrooms. “What’s wrong, Apujan?”
“Nothing.” I’m rubbing at my eyes, barely realizing that I’ve begun to cry for real. And for possibly the most ridiculous reason ever. I never thought that I’d be one of those people who holed up in the school bathroom to bawl their eyes out; most of my crying is reserved for the privacy of my bedroom. And the only person allowed to see me cry is Priti.
“You’re crying!” Priti exclaims. I somehow manage to put my tear-dampened hand onto her mouth to hush her.
“MM-HM-HM-HM-HMHM!” Priti’s voice is muffled against my hand. I’m still crying, but silently. Each sob sends a jolt of pain through me.
Pritihmmssomething else onto my hand. I can see her glaring at me through my blurry vision. I know what comes next, but I’m too slow; she bites my hand before I can pull it away.
“I’m trying to help you!” she says.
“You’re … being … very … loud,” I say between sobs.
Priti’s still glaring at me, but she leans forward and wraps her arms around me. I bury my head in her school sweater.
“You want to tell me what happened?” she asks.
“I … don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It doesn’t make much sense.”
“I’m used to that. Tell me, okay?”
“It’s Flávia … and Chyna.” I hiccup.
Priti sighs. I’m half expecting her to burst into her usual, “I told you so,” routine, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she says, “What did Flávia do?”
