“We have a group chat. We need a way to vent about you,” Priti says, still holding her phone away from me.
“Priti!” I exclaim.
She faces her phone toward me. “You sent them a text through my phone that one time. I’m just asking them if it’s okay for me to set up an Instagram account for you guys. We don’treallytalk about you.”
For a moment there, I really feared that they did.
“What did they say?” I ask, instead of admitting my own naiveté.
“Nothing, they’re not texting back. Maybe we should wait a while to set this up?”
I know waiting and asking them would be the right thing to do, but I also know that the sooner we can start getting publicity for this, the better.
“Let’s set up a preliminary name. Then we can change it, right?”
“Right,” Priti agrees. “Nishat’s Mehndi?”
I wrinkle up my nose. “That’s a little cheesy, isn’t it? And it’s not just mine.”
“But it’s apreliminaryname. And it’s cute, if a little cheesy.”
I think about it for a second. It does say exactly what it is; who is applying the henna. So I say yes and Priti does her magic and sets up the account.
Afterwards, she turns on all the lights in her room and holds her henna-decked hand out for me.
“You’vegot to take the photo if we’re using my hand,” she says, nodding at her phone.
“But … I’m no good at taking photos,” I remind her. “Remember that time we ran into Niall Horan and all I managed to do was take a blurry photo where you can barely make him out?”
“Don’t remind me …” She held a grudge over that for ages. Anybody would have done the same. But that’s how bad I am at taking photos—even the thought of proving to everyone that we had randomly bumped into Niall Horan didn’t make me any better. Or maybe it made me worse.
I pick up the phone and click a few quick photos. When I show them to Priti, she frowns.
“I think you have like tone deafness but for photography,” she says. “Picture blindness.”
“Wouldn’t that just be blindness?”
“Picture askew-ness?”
“Okay, I have picture askew-ness.” I smile and thrust the phone out for her. “Your turn?”
She shakes her head. “You have to do it if we’re going to get a decent picture.” That feels like a total paradox. “Look, just hold it straight and … try not to move.”
It’s easier said than done. I try to take a few more pictures. They don’t come out perfect, but Priti smiles when she sees them this time.
“I can work with this.” She clicks out of the camera and into the Instagram app. A few minutes later, she shows me the finished product. She’s changed the lighting so it looks brighter. The design stands out against everything else, stark and intricate and … dare I say it, kind of beautiful.
I try to tell myself that pride is a sin, but I can’t help the glowing feeling growing inside of me. I should be able to feel proud once in a while, right? Is that not something you earn after a whole lifetime of insecurity and secrets?
“Post it.” I watch as she hits the button and turns to give me a wide grin.
“I guess we’re open for business.”
I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement, good or bad, but I find myself not caring for the first time ever.
I wake up the next morning with all the fluttery feelings gone from my stomach. Instead, they’re replaced by a hole; it’s a type of panic I haven’t felt in a long time. My mind conjures the worst-case scenarios: nobody liked our Instagram post, or they all commented on how horrible my designs are.
“Have you checked your Instagram yet?” Priti asks when I come down for breakfast. Ammu eyes us both with some disdain.
