I don’t mean to say it, really, but when she asks that question it’s like she opens the floodgates.
“Yes. You’re starting your own henna business for class.”
Surprisingly, she smiles.
“What, you’re afraid of a little friendly competition?”
“No.” It comes out more defensive than I mean it to. “But … it was my idea. It’s my culture. It’s my thing.”
“It’s a type of art—that can’t be a person’s thing.” She furrows her eyebrows together like this conversation is too much for her to fathom.
“It’s not just a type of art. It’s a part of my culture. Just because you went to one wedding that was South Asian, where you didn’t even know anyone, by the way, doesn’t mean you just get to do henna now.”
“It’s art!” Her voice has risen significantly. “I’m sure watercolor was also part of some particular culture once, but now we all do it. That’s what art is. It doesn’t have arbitrary boundaries.”
“That’s not how it works. It’s not the same thing.”
“Is this why you ran off the other day when I showed you my henna tattoo? Because you were annoyed I had, what, borrowed from your culture? You were offended?” She sounds offended at the idea of me being offended.
“Yes!” I say. “I mean … no. I was upset because … henna is important to me.”
“How important can it be? You said you only started trying it for the wedding!”
“That’s just something I said.”
Flávia shakes her head. “Look, I get that you’re defensive and don’t want to compete and all, but … this is how art works. I think you don’t really get it because you’re not an artist.”
I have a million thoughts screaming in my head. Nasty thoughts that I have to swallow down because I know I’ll regret voicing them.
I silently stand instead.
“I better go.” I half hope Flávia will stop me as I head toward the door, already texting Priti about leaving the party. But she doesn’t. A moment later, I open the front door and step outside into the cold air.
13
FLÁVIA’S WORDS RUN THROUGH MY HEAD FOR THE WHOLEnight as I toss and turn. I’m still curled up in bed the next morning, seething with anger about all of the things Flávia said, when Priti barges into my room.
“Thanks for leaving the party in a huff yesterday,” she says with a glare. “Everybody was making fun of you after you left. Somebody said that it was because you’d never seen a boy before so you freaked out.”
“Oh, hilarious. The Muslim girl has never seen a boy. We’re not even properly practicing. That’s not even good racism.”
“Racism is never good.”
“Maybe not good but at least it could be geographically and culturally accurate!”
Priti slips under the covers, curling up right next to me.
“Was it that bad?” I ask.
“It could have been better,” Priti mumbles against my shoulder. “They were saying all of these things about you and asking me ridiculous questions. Like had you really never seen a boy? Is it illegal? Are we going to be married off when we turn eighteen? Did we have to sneak out to even go to the party?”
“Did Ali stand up for you? She was there, right?”
“She was too busy being glued to her boyfriend’s face,” Priti says in a small voice. Guilt hits me like a punch in the gut. How could I have just left my sister there to deal with everything and everyone? Just because Flávia made me upset, I abandoned her.
“Priti …”
She shrugs, but she’s blinking her eyes a little too rapidly. I wrap my arm around her, and she presses her face into my shoulder harder. I try to ignore the feeling of dampness against my pajama top, and the sound of her whimpering sniffle.
