“That’s literally exactly what it is! A competition!”
“Yes, but—”
“And she’s going to win.”
“But is winning really that important?”
I know Priti agrees with me. There’s no way I’m going to beat Flávia. It doesn’t matter that I have authenticity on my side.
By the time we make it into school, I’ve already burned Flávia’s photo into my head. I can’t stop seeing it—hands linked together, their henna weaving together like webs. Hand to hand to hand. In a circle. The patterns sharp. All edges. So different from my mandala full of circles and flowers and leaves.
I jostle open my locker, feeling emptiness growing inside of me, wider and wider with every minute. But I’m not going to break down—not today.
I catch sight of Flávia out of the corner of my eye. She has her phone open, and I can see the photo splashed colorfully across her screen. There are people gathered around her. Their faces are wide with appreciation and glee. There’s Chyna, and all her friends. I wonder if it’s their hands in the photo, or if it’s other people’s. The hands in the photo are all pale, flushed a light pink—probably from the chill that’s set in.
“When will you get started for real?” I hear Chyna asking.
Flávia smiles. “As soon as I get my supplies. I need to make a trip to the Asian shop in town.”
TheAsian shop in town. Like there aren’t multiple, each selling different brands. Some better, some worse. Glitter henna. White henna. Regular henna paste.
Suddenly, it’s like there’s a light bulb illuminated in my head.
That’s my advantage. I know henna. Even in the areas I don’t, I know the people who do. There’s no way Flávia is going to take advantage of my culture because of Chyna’s popularity, because she has white friends who’ll make her henna look chic and adaptable to Western culture.
I might not be able to get Ammu to look me in the eye anymore, but Iamgoing to beat Flávia’s henna business. Come hell or high water.
11
BY THE TIME THE WEEKEND ROLLS AROUND, IHAVE Abattle plan at the ready. And I haven’t shared it with anyone—not even Priti.
Saturday afternoon I stroll into the house with an armful of henna tubes, and Priti looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“Isn’t this a little … ambitious?” she asks.
I shrug. “Raj Uncle gave me a discount.”
“Probably because you bought up the entire shop.” She pauses, looks at the smile stretched across my lips, and says, “Why did you go to Raj Uncle’s shop?”
“Well, I heard Flávia speaking to some of her friends last week. I figure Raj Uncle’s shop is the only one she knows.”
“So you decided to buy upallof his henna?” Priti’s voice rises by an octave. She rubs the bridge of her nose, the same way that Abbu does when he’s annoyed but doesn’t want to show it by shouting at us. “You know that’s not going to work, right? He’s just going to place another order for more henna. It’s really not that difficult.”
“I know. I’m not that thick. But it is going to slow things down for her, and by the time she’s figured out that it’s going to take her at least a few days—if not weeks—to get the henna tubes she needs, I’ll hopefully have already taken some of her customers.”
Priti smiles. “Seems like you’ve planned this out.”
“In depth.”
“Well … Sunny Apu is here.”
I haven’t seen Sunny Apu since her wedding a few weeks ago, even though over the summer we saw each other on an almost daily basis. Bengalis are like moths to a flame during weddings; and if they’re not all gathered together, spending all of their time talking and planning and dancing and singing, does a wedding even take place?
“What’s she doing here?” I peer into the sitting room only to find it deserted.
“She’s in your room …” Priti trails off. She doesn’t meet my eyes, tracing the groves of wood on the floor with her toe instead.
“Priti, what’s going on?”
