There’s a cold, hard edge to Priti’s voice as she says, “That’s worth absolutely nothing. You’ve already done the damage. You can’t take that back. Nobody can take that back. You don’t even get what you did, do you?”
“Priti, I—”
But the next moment the door to the classroom is clicking open and Priti comes rushing out, her eyes rimmed red. She stops in her tracks when she sees me.
“Apujan,” she says, blinking at me like this is the first time she’s seen me.
“Are you okay?” I ask, even though it doesn’t feel like enough. From her broken voice, her blotchy face, I know that she isn’t okay.
Priti rubs at her eyes as Ali appears from the classroom behind her. She looks at us both warily before dashing away to the other side of the hallway.
Priti watches her for a moment before shaking her head. “I’m fine. I’m …” she pauses, looking up at me with wide eyes. “The henna tubes. Did you get them? I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t worry about that,” I cut her off. Priti obviously has bigger things to worry about, and here I was getting her involved in something that could potentially get her into trouble. I should never have asked her to help me. “Come on, let’s go get some food, yeah?”
I take her hand in mine and begin to lead her toward her locker, where I know she has stuffed away her lunch box.
Priti sniffles, wiping away the last of her tears with the hand that I’m not holding. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice comes out a lot more definitive than just a moment ago.
“Okay,” I say. “We don’t have to talk. Just … the food?”
She nods, and the two of us settle into a corner of the hallway, lunch boxes open. I try to ignore the pang of guilt in my stomach from forgetting about Priti’s problems with Ali because of what happened to me. For putting her at risk, when I should have known better. The henna competition is important, and I want to beat Flávia and Chyna. But the cost of it can’t be my sister.
22
MS. MONTGOMERY FINDS ME FIRST THING THE NEXTmorning, before I’ve even had the chance to go to my locker. My stomach drops at the sight of her because for a moment I’m afraid that Flávia and Chyna decided to report me after all. Priti awkwardly hovers beside me, clearly trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. I shoot her a glare, but she doesn’t get the message.
“Nishat, I’ve been informed that the text sent about you might have something to do with this business competition. Do you know anything about that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not a big deal.” I train my eyes on my shoes instead of her.
“Nishat, this is serious. It can be good to be competitive, but this is not healthy competitiveness. It’s harassment, and whoever did this will face serious consequences. If it’s someone participating in the competition, I will find out and disqualify them, at best. At worst, Ms. Murphy will ensure that they face a long suspension.” When I look up, she looks determined. Like she really believes she’ll get to the bottom of this.
“I really don’t want to draw any more attention to this, Miss,” I say, shrugging my shoulders again.
“Nishat—”
“It probably wasn’t because of the competition,” I say. “It could have been anyone.” I don’t tell her that I know exactly who it was.
She studies me silently for a few moments, her frown deepening as her eyes travel around my face. I think that she’ll protest, insist that she’ll look into it further. Instead, she nods her head.
“Okay, well. If anything else happens, you come straight to me, okay?”
I nod, though I don’t mean it. And I think something like relief flashes in her eyes as she turns away to walk back to the staff room.
Priti catches my eye as soon as Ms. Montgomery disappears from sight. There’s a frown plastered on her face, but she just shakes her head and sets off toward her locker. I’m not sure if she’s disappointed, or it’s something else.
I sigh and head toward my first class of the day: French. I slip into my usual seat toward the back of the room. Both Jess and Chaewon take Spanish, so I’m on my own during French, which is a shame because it’s probably the most communicative subject I’m taking. Especially this year, when it seems that all we do is practice for our orals.
“Bonjour!” Ms. Kelly walks into the classroom, past the row of desks where I’m sitting to the top of the class.
“Bonjour,” everyone says back with as much enthusiasm as, well, students forced to come into school at eight-thirty in the morning.
Ms. Kelly’s eyes scan the classroom. I slink back in my seat, hoping that whatever she’s searching for, she doesn’t find it in me. Her eyes don’t rest on me. Instead, they flick to the top of the class where Chyna is sitting next to Flávia. They’re whispering to each other—quiet as anything. I’m surprised Ms. Kelly noticed.
But she has. Maybe because this has become Chyna and Flávia’s daily routine in this class. Usually she doesn’t mind, but she doesn’t seem to be in the best of moods today.
“Flávia,” Ms. Kelly says in her stern I’m-not-taking-any-bullshit voice. It’s the voice that makes everyone behave immediately, no matter what. Because Ms. Kelly is not one to put on that voice willy-nilly.
