There is still only the single image on my business Instagram. It hasn’t racked up many more likes since that first day—unlike Flávia’s photos. She’s been posting new ones on the daily, all pictures of Chyna and her friends’ hands with henna designs on them. Some pictures show the dark brown henna paste, some the aftermath, when it’s dried to a dark red color.
I’ve been trying to feel optimistic every time she posts a photo. The more henna she uses up on her friends, the less she’ll have for customers. And I know it will take Raj Uncle at least a little while to get a new shipment in.
I send a quick text to my group chat with Chaewon and Jess.This is the worst party ever.But of course, all three of us knew it would be. What did I expect?
They don’t respond, probably too busy living their lives and actually enjoying themselves.
I consider leaving the party as I scroll through my Instagram feed, barely paying attention to the pictures. Ammu and Abbu said they would swing by to pick us up later, but I’m sure I can just wander around outside until that time comes. We’re in the middle of Dún Laoghaire, one of the poshest neighborhoods in Dublin. I doubt I’ll be in any danger if I wander by myself for a while.
I’m pulling out my phone to text Priti about leaving, even though I’m still angry with her for bringing me here and abandoning me, when the sitting room door swings open. The loud blare of music that had been drowned out by the closed door spills out again. Along with Flávia.
I freeze, like that will somehow make me vanish. I’m far enough away that I think she’ll miss me, especially in the dimness of the hallway and with me wearing clothes that don’t exactly make me stand out. But she spots me almost instantly.
I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest at the sight of her face breaking out into a grin, and the way her curls bounce wildly as she hurries over and sits down right next to me on the narrow staircase. I’m too aware of the fact that our arms are pressed together and our legs are touching; I’m so distracted that I must miss the first time she says “hey.”
“Nishat?”
“H-hi.” I mumble, looking toward the door and not her.
This is just infatuation. It’s nothing. It means nothing.
“I saw you open the door. How come you didn’t come in?”
I shrug. “There are a lot of people in there.”
“Well, duh. It’s a party.”
When I don’t reply, she heaves a sigh.
“It’s not exactly your type of party, then?”
“I guess not.”
“So whatisyour type of party?”
I think about it for a moment. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been to my type of party, and really I’m not sure if parties are my thing at all. But if I was going to throw a party there would be real Desi food everywhere. There would be samosas and fuchka and shingara and dal puri and kebabs.
“There would be better food at my type of party,” I say.
She laughs. It’s a small and jittery laugh, but still feels too loud in the empty, dimly lit hallway.
“You’re right. The food here is awful. Though I think there’s talk of pizza, and obviously some birthday cake. There’s even somebrigadeirothat I made special for today.” She takes a sip from the plastic cup she’s nursing in her hands.
“Brigadeiro?”
She nods. “It’s a Brazilian dessert. Youhaveto try it. We’re going to have it after we cut the cake.”
“I’m not sure I’ll last that long.”
“You’re thinking about leaving already?” Her eyebrows shoot up. From where I’m sitting—too close to her—I can make out the dark browns of her eyes and the freckles that are almost hidden away.
“I don’t really know a lot of people here.”
“So it’s like me at that wedding.” She smiles. “You kept me company there, I can keep you company here, if you want.” She bumps her knee to mine and it sends a jolt of electricity through me.
“That’s okay … thanks.” My voice must come out drier than I intend it to, because she frowns.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
