The yes is on my tongue, pushing its way out, before I remember that this weekend I’m supposed to set up my henna shop at a booth in Abbu’s restaurant. He agreed to let me set up shop for a few hours on Saturday and Sunday, in the hopes that my customers could also become his customers. After all, if they’re interested in getting henna, maybe they’re also interested in eating authentic South Asian food.
“I want to but … I’m busy this weekend.” I’m unsure if I should mention the henna shop or not. I’m still not sure where we stand, but no matter what, our competition still hangs over us uncomfortably.
“Oh.” A flash of hurt appears in her eyes but disappears so fast that I’m not sure if I just imagined it.
“I’m opening up the henna shop this weekend.” The words slip out of me unprompted. I know I shouldn’t tell her. She’s my competition. But obviously my heart prefers her, so the words are out and I can’t take them back.
“Oh.”
Silence hangs between us for a moment too long. It’s thick with everything that’s already been said and done, everything we can’t change. It’s broken by the loud trill of the bell.
“I should …”
“Yeah.”
She catches my eye and gives me a smile that’s half guilt and half apology. I smile back.
When I get home from school that day, Ammu surprises me by knocking on my door. At first I’m convinced it’s Priti, coming to figure things out. But then Ammu leans her head in.
“You want to talk to Nanu?” she asks, holding up her phone. I can make out Nanu’s face on the screen.
“Yeah!” I leap out of my chair to grab the phone. Ammu smiles and leaves me to settle into bed. I prop the phone up in front of me.
“Assalam Alaikum,” I say.
“Walaikum Salam,” Nanu says. Her voice sounds weaker than I remember, but maybe I’m just projecting. “Your Ammu said you were worried about me.”
“Because Priti told me you’re sick,” I say, my voice taking on a chiding tone. Really I’m trying to keep it from breaking, because Nanu looks sick. She looks paler and thinner than I remember her, and there are bags under her eyes. As if she hasn’t been sleeping properly.
“Only a small thing,” Nanu says reassuringly, though it doesn’t reassure me at all. “The doctors say everything will be okay, Jannu. You have nothing to worry about.”
Obviously that doesn’t stop me from worrying, but I don’t let that show on my face. I want to ask her more questions, find out exactly what’s wrong, even if that means I’ll spend the next several hours on WebMD learning the worst possible outcomes of whatever it is.
But before I can ask anything else, Nanu leans forward, a smile lighting up her face. She asks, “How’s your henna business? Your Ammu has been telling me a lot about it.”
“She has?” I ask.
“She said you’ve been working very hard.”
I try to bite down a rush of tears.
“Well … it’s been going okay.” I shrug. “I’m going to work from Abbu’s restaurant this weekend.”
“Well, I’m very proud of you, Jannu,” Nanu says. “And of Priti. Your Ammu said she’s been helping you.”
“Yeah.” I nod slowly. “She’s been helping me come up with ideas.”
Priti must hear her name mentioned through the wall between our rooms—or because she’s been eavesdropping as always—because the door to my bedroom cracks open and she peers inside.
“Is that Nanu?” she asks in a small voice.
I nod, patting the space beside me for her to sit down. She comes over, hesitating in a way that she never has in my room before. But when she turns to the screen, her face breaks out into a grin.
“Assalam Alaikum, Nanu!” she says. I put an arm around her and bring her closer to me so we’re both on screen at the same time.
“We were just talking about how you’ve been helping me with the henna business,” I tell her. “How we’re both proud of you.”
Priti blinks at me with some confusion for a moment, but I give her shoulder a squeeze, hoping she understands what that means.
After Nanu finally hangs up, telling us very little about herself but saying, “Mashallah,” and “Alhamdulillah,” and “Insha’Allah,” about a hundred times in response to everything from the business competition to Priti’s exams, I turn to Priti.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Priti says, in turn.
“Okay, I’m trying to apologize and it’s rude to take over someone else’s apology.”
Priti burrows her face into my hair and mumbles, “Okay, apologize away.”
“That was it.”
She looks up at me again, a frown settled on her lips.
“That was your apology?”
“I said sorry.”
“For what?”
“Being selfish?”
She blows out a breath and sits back, crossing her arms over her chest. “And …”
“Not … paying enough attention to you. You’re right. I’ve been so caught up with Flávia that I forgot to pay attention. What’s going on with you and Ali anyway?”
She shakes her head. “We’re still talking about you.”
“I’m just sorry, okay? You know I love you. I would never … I didn’t mean to … and I know that you …” I sigh. “Just … that. I love you.”
A smile tugs at her lips and she leans forward, wrapping her arms around me. “I was mean yesterday.”
“Very.”
“I made you cry.”
“You did.”
“After everything else that’s happened.”
I ruffle her hair and it’s like I can feel the anger and resentment slip out of my body with every breath. “It’s okay. I think I get it. Will you tell me about Ali?”
“She just hasn’t been the same this year. She has her new boyfriend and this new attitude about everything. I told her about you and I thought she would understand, she would listen, but … she was weird about it. I should have told you before.”
“She was weird, how?”
“Like … she kept asking me weird questions,” Priti says, furrowing her eyebrows together like she’s trying really hard to remember exactly what was said. “She asked if Ammu and Abbu would force you to marry a man. And like … if you would be killed in Bangladesh if you went there now.”
“Well, yeah. Everyone can smell the lesbian on me now,” I joke.
She smiles, but I know she’s still thinking about Ali. “I don’t know if Ali is a racist or a homophobe or both. But … she sent the text. She said it was because everybody deserved to know about you. You were deceiving them by keeping it a secret.”
“I’m against Catholic ethos, not how an all-girl school should be run.” I remember the words from the text that had been sent out, even though I wish I could forget them.
I suddenly remember the conversation I overheard in school between them last week. “Is that what you were talking to her about when you were supposed to help me steal the henna tubes?”