I try to tell myself that pride is a sin, but I can’t help the glowing feeling growing inside of me. I should be able to feel proud once in a while, right? Is that not something you earn after a whole lifetime of insecurity and secrets?
“Post it.” I watch as she hits the button and turns to give me a wide grin.
“I guess we’re open for business.”
I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement, good or bad, but I find myself not caring for the first time ever.
I wake up the next morning with all the fluttery feelings gone from my stomach. Instead, they’re replaced by a hole; it’s a type of panic I haven’t felt in a long time. My mind conjures the worst-case scenarios: nobody liked our Instagram post, or they all commented on how horrible my designs are.
“Have you checked your Instagram yet?” Priti asks when I come down for breakfast. Ammu eyes us both with some disdain.
“What is this Instagram tinstagram?” she asks with narrowed eyes. The only thing Ammu knows about social media is checking her Facebook for the latest photos from weddings and dawats and who knows what else. Mostly she likes to judge what everyone is wearing, even though she always tells us that we shouldn’t judge people.
“It’s just social media.” Priti rolls her eyes, even though Ammu definitely won’t know what that is. She narrows her eyes further, like she’s trying to process Priti’s words but it’s taking her a while to get there.
“You don’t need social media tedia.” There’s a frown on her lips. “Priti, you should be studying for your exams.” She turns her glare to me, like I’m responsible for Priti’s lack of focus—which, I guess I am—and says, “Don’t distract your sister. She needs to study.”
It’s the most that Ammu has said to me since I came out to her a few weeks ago, and it sends a jolt of pain through me that I hadn’t expected. I guess you never really get used to your parents treating you like you’re worth nothing.
“I know,” I say, staring down at my shoes at the same time that Priti exclaims, “I can study and do other things at the same time!” Priti’s voice drowns out mine, and I don’t think Ammu hears me at all. She doesn’t say anything else, turning away instead.
“So, did you?” Priti whispers to me as we’re heading out the door.
“Huh?” I’m still thinking about the fact that Ammu barely looked at me all through breakfast, like she couldn’t stand to. What am I to her now? A ghost that occupies her house?
“Your Instagram?” That snaps me out of my thoughts. “Have you checked it?”
“Not yet.” There’s a hole in my stomach, growing bigger and bigger with every passing second. “Have you? Is it bad? Don’t tell me.”
Priti pulls out her phone as soon as we’ve boarded the bus and made it through the throngs of people and into a corner. She thrusts the screen in front of my face.
523 likes. 97 comments.
“It’s not quite viral. But it’s proven to be pretty popular among the people from school.”
“We don’t even have five hundred people at school.” Clearly the wrong thing to say because Priti groans.
“Of course we have five hundred people at school,” she says. “I can’t believe how bad you are at math.”
I scroll through the comments. Each of them makes my heart beat faster and faster.
Omg, when are you starting up?
How much will it cost for one tattoo?
What other designs do you have?
So excited!
So pretty!
Love it!!!
I feel elated. Or … I feel like I should feel elated. This is what I wanted. I’ve been anticipating this moment since Priti opened up the Instagram account last night. But with Ammu’s stony silence in the back of my mind, all I can feel is that hole in my heart getting bigger and bigger. I keep scrolling through the comments, reading them over and over and over again, hoping that they’ll somehow fill it.
My fingers brush against the top of the screen and before I know it I’m on Priti’s Instagram feed. And then I see a photo that makes my heart stop.
Priti snatches the phone out of my hand before I can stare for too long. She knows me too well. She must have recognized the look on my face.
“Holy shit.” Her voice is low, but still one of the ladies beside us shoots her a glare that she doesn’t even notice. “I can’t believe her.”
Priti puts her hand on my shoulder, a calming presence that I can barely feel for once. “Apujan,” she says. “It’s not a big deal. She doesn’t even have as many likes as you.”
“It’s nicer. So much nicer.”
“That’s just … she’s used to it, you know. She’s probably been taking pictures of her art for ages. She has hundreds of posts. She has a bigger following than you.” Priti’s voice is gentle and soothing but it doesn’t make me feel better in the slightest. Whatever happiness I’d talked myself into feeling is gone. Disappeared into thin air.
“She’s going to do better than me,” I say. “She already has a customer base and I have nothing.”
“It’s not a competition,” Priti says.
“That’s literally exactly what it is! A competition!”
“Yes, but—”
“And she’s going to win.”
“But is winning really that important?”
I know Priti agrees with me. There’s no way I’m going to beat Flávia. It doesn’t matter that I have authenticity on my side.
By the time we make it into school, I’ve already burned Flávia’s photo into my head. I can’t stop seeing it—hands linked together, their henna weaving together like webs. Hand to hand to hand. In a circle. The patterns sharp. All edges. So different from my mandala full of circles and flowers and leaves.
I jostle open my locker, feeling emptiness growing inside of me, wider and wider with every minute. But I’m not going to break down—not today.
I catch sight of Flávia out of the corner of my eye. She has her phone open, and I can see the photo splashed colorfully across her screen. There are people gathered around her. Their faces are wide with appreciation and glee. There’s Chyna, and all her friends. I wonder if it’s their hands in the photo, or if it’s other people’s. The hands in the photo are all pale, flushed a light pink—probably from the chill that’s set in.
“When will you get started for real?” I hear Chyna asking.
Flávia smiles. “As soon as I get my supplies. I need to make a trip to the Asian shop in town.”
The Asian shop in town. Like there aren’t multiple, each selling different brands. Some better, some worse. Glitter henna. White henna. Regular henna paste.
Suddenly, it’s like there’s a light bulb illuminated in my head.
That’s my advantage. I know henna. Even in the areas I don’t, I know the people who do. There’s no way Flávia is going to take advantage of my culture because of Chyna’s popularity, because she has white friends who’ll make her henna look chic and adaptable to Western culture.