“Yeah.”
Priti crosses her arms over her chest, and begrudgingly takes the banner in. “It’s nice.”
It’s probably the most I’m going to get from Priti. I still haven’t told her about what happened with Flávia and me at her house a few days ago.
We both slip inside the booth, and Priti takes her phone out of her pocket to snap a quick photo of the henna tubes that I’ve stacked up on the table.
“There. We’re open for business,” she says, tapping at her phone with more gusto and flourish than necessary. She pulls her books out of her bag while I lean back against my seat, waiting for the sound of customers arriving.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Fifteen.
No sign of customers.
I unlock my phone and scroll through the Instagram account. The picture Priti put up has our location tagged and is captioned,open for business!It has a couple of likes, but no comments yet.
My phone buzzes and I click into my messages to find a new one from Flávia. It just says,good luck today!:).I smile in spite of myself. Nothing has happened between us since that day in her bedroom. We haven’t spoken about it, either, and I can’t bring myself to ask her what it meant, if anything. I’m too afraid of the answer.
But I can’t deny that we’ve been on better terms. We’ve been texting back and forth about almost everything under the sun, and every time my phone pings with a new message, I can’t help the flush that spreads through me, and the way my heart picks up pace.
I want to tell myself not to get my hopes up, but it’s difficult to reason with my heart when Flávia has spent the entire week smiling at me from a distance like she wished we could reverse time and go back to her bedroom on that afternoon.
I still remember the feel of her fingers in mine under the cloak of rain, and the way she smelled, and how her curls brushed against my chest when we almost kissed.
How am I supposed to think rationally when all of those memories are imprinted into my mind?
I write a quick text back:thank you! <3
Then I delete the heart because that seems like too much. But without it, it seems like not enough. How do peopledothis?
“Hi?” A voice on the other side of the closed curtain mumbles. I nearly jump out of my seat, dropping my phone onto the table.
“Hi!” I say, scrambling to pick up my phone and slide it into my pocket. I pull the curtain open to reveal Janet McKinney and Catherine DeBurg.
“This is where we come to get our henna tattoos, right?” Janet asks.
“Um, yes,” I say. “You both want to get them done?”
Catherine shares a look with Janet.
“Is it okay if I just watch first? And then decide?” she asks.
“Sure.” I’m trying not to giggle. I wonder if she knows that henna washes away in a couple of weeks.
Both Janet and Catherine slip inside the booth, taking seats opposite Priti. I close the curtain again and take my seat.
“This is Priti, my assistant.” She waves brightly at the pair of them, showing off her already hennaed hands.
“We know her, she goes to school with us,” Catherine says, even though she takes Priti in like this is the first time she’s seen her.
“Yes, well, she’s my little sister,” I say, just in case they’ve forgotten.
I hand them the laminated price list I created.
“These are my prices,” I say, in my professional businesswoman voice. “It costs more to get a complex design. It will also take more time. And …” I hand them my design notebook. “These are some of my original designs that you can choose from. I can also probably do a design of your choice if you have one.”
