“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 WHOLE night 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.
“It’s … not … a big deal,” she says through choking sobs. Of course it’s a big deal though. How did I miss this, when I’m her older sister? When I’m supposed to always protect her? I’ve been so caught up with my own drama …
“It’s just because it’s her first boyfriend.” I try to reassure her even though I have no experience in this department. “She’ll come around. You’re her best friend. That’s way more important than some boy.”
She finally pulls away from me and begins to rub at her eyes.
“It’s fine. Really. I’m just … getting used to it.” I feel like there’s more to it, something she’s not telling me. But she gives me a watery smile and says, “So why did you leave? I mean, I know you’re a lesbian so boys aren’t exactly your cup of tea, but I’m pretty sure you don’t flee at the sight of one.”
I sigh. Even though most of my anger has subsided now that Priti is here, I still feel it simmering inside me.
“I spoke to Flávia.”
“Uh-oh.”
“She was just … I just … I tried to explain to her, you know? About the whole henna thing? But she just didn’t get it. And she was so … condescending about it as well.”
“What did she say?”
“Something about how art doesn’t have any arbitrary boundaries, so, because henna is art, she can do whatever she wants. She said that I’m just afraid of competing with her and—hey! She was there when they were saying all of that stuff about me, right? She knew why I left.”
But Priti shakes her head. “I think she left around the same time you did. Chyna was kind of mad about it.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t go to parties anymore,” I suggest. “We’re not the best at them.”
Priti scoffs. “We’re great at parties. Other people are bad at them. They’re the problem.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. We’re pretty great.”
“We’re fantastic.” Priti agrees with a smile.
The rest of Saturday passes by without incident. Priti spends a lot of time holed up in her room, studying for an upcoming math test. I want to talk to her more about what happened with Ali, but I’m afraid of making her upset again. Priti is definitely not someone who is prone to crying, so seeing her like that this morning has me shaken.
I spend a lot of time taking test photos of henna designs to put up on my Instagram page. I wonder if it’ll get the same pull as Flávia’s if I do a henna design on Jess and put that up on my page. Jess and Chaewon haven’t said much about the Instagram page, but I’m sure I can convince Jess to hand model for pictures.
Ms. Montgomery wants to see our business plans on Monday to help us get started as soon as possible so I’m feeling extra nervous. I need everything to be perfect.
On Sunday morning Priti knocks on my door, which is a surprise in and of itself. Priti and I are not the type of sisters who knock on each other’s doors and respect each other’s privacy. We barge into each other’s rooms (and lives) without a second thought.
“Ammu wants to talk to you,” she says, cracking the door open and peeking through.
“She wants to talk … to me?”
“To you. That’s what I said.”
“To me? Are you sure?”
“She said, ‘Can you tell Nishat to come over?’” Priti’s trying to be all light-hearted and charming, but I can see from the way her eyes roam around the room, never landing on me, that she’s just as nervous as I am. Ammu and I have barely spoken since I came out to her. She hasn’t even looked me in the eye since that fateful day. What could she want with me now?
“Did she say what she wanted to talk about?” My mind is running through a million worst-case scenarios. My palms are sweaty, my heart is as fast as a hummingbird’s, and I’m pretty sure I’m shaking. What if this is it? The end? What if they’re done skirting around the topic and now they want to do something drastic? I can’t stop thinking about all of the gay people thrown out of their homes.