“What are you going to do?” Priti stands up too.
“I’m going to go back in there and show them that I don’t care. That … I’m stronger than them.” I’m still blinking back tears. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them at bay. But I want to stand there and look Flávia in the eye. I want to hold her accountable for everything. And I won’t give any of them the satisfaction of me going home. Of appearing weak.
“Are you sure?” Priti asks in a whisper, like speaking too loudly will break me. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got this.”
“I love you, Apujan,” she whispers. “And I’m so damn proud of you. I hope you know that.”
19
WHENIWALK BACK INTO THE MAIN HALL, IDON’T THINKanybody expects it. They turn to stare, their eyes boring into my sides as I walk past with my head held high, telling my tears to keep back until I’m safe at home.
I slip inside my stall and behind the table. I can hear people whispering as time passes—too slowly. Girls shuffle by my stall, their gaze averted as if lesbianism is something they can catch. There are a few girls who make their way over throughout the afternoon to show their support. Frowns settle on their mouths as they take the seat opposite me and let me apply henna to their hands.
“I’m sorry,” they say, pleading with me with their eyes. “Whatever they’re doing, saying, it’s horrible.” Some of them even encourage me to report it. To go to the principal’s office. They have the text saved to their phones, they say, and will show it to her to support me. I thank them, blinking back tears. I don’t even know their names. They’re not even in my year.
Some of them even tell me they’re queer, though they whisper it, afraid that someone will overhear. I don’t blame them.
A few of them only come to find out the gossip.
“So, any idea who might have sent that text?” asks Hannah Gunter. She’s in our year, and is chummy with Chyna, so I’m sure she has an even better idea than me. “Is it true?” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
“Weirdly, my business is not gossip,” I say. “If you want henna, I will give you henna. If you want gossip …”
She heaves a dramatic sigh, but plops down anyway and thrusts her hand out to me.
“Someone said you made a move on Chyna at her birthday party. That that’s why you left so abruptly. Because she rejected you,” Hannah says as I squeeze henna into her hand. I try not to let the rage boiling inside of me spill into my henna art. A too-tight squeeze could ruin the whole design.
“I can honestly say I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is all I offer Hannah. She seems disappointed, and thankfully doesn’t say any more for the rest of the time she’s at my stall.
It’s when the showcase comes to an end that I finally feel relief, tinged with bitterness. As everyone around me begins to clean up, I slump down on my chair, trying not to let the despair of it all hit me, even though it comes at me in waves.
Priti pops into the hallway almost as soon as classes end. She races over to my side and gives my hand a squeeze.
“Has anybody been giving you trouble?” Her voice is serious. It’s so unlike her that I burst into a fit of giggles.
“What are you going to do if they have been?” I chuckle. “Send your henchmen after them?”
She rolls her eyes, but smiles. She’s looking at me with those wide eyes again, like she can’t quite believe I’m smiling and laughing.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Apujan.”
“I’m made of sturdy stuff,” I assure her, and with her at my side it doesn’t even feel like a lie. “Can you help me pack up?”
We put the almost-full henna tubes away into my bag and roll up the banner. Priti shoves the blue money box that Ms. Montgomery supplied each of us with at the bottom of my bag. It barely makes a noise—since it’s nearly empty.
And then it’s over. As Priti and I shuffle out of the hallway I can feel everyone’s eyes peering at us, curiosity flickering in their gazes. I hold my head up high, even though their stares make me want to curl up into myself or, at the very least, pick up my pace.
But I don’t. Priti links our fingers together, like she knows exactly what’s going on in my head, and the warmth of her—her presence itself—carries me out of the hallway.
“Where have you been?”
Ammu and Abbu are standing at the entrance to the main hall, with Principal Murphy right beside them.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, even though everything is already piecing together in my head. The text went out to everyone at school. Of course Principal Murphy found out. Of course she decided to call my parents.
“Your Principal told us.” Abbu begins, before trailing off and shooting Principal Murphy the angriest glare I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen Abbu so angry before. He’s usually the calm and collected one; Ammu is the one who is freer with her rage. But now, it seems like both of them are emanating anger, feeding off each other’s fury. Though Principal Murphy towers over both Ammu and Abbu in her high heels, she suddenly looks small next to them.
