Priti nods. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought … I could just make it go away. But I made it worse.”
“You should have told me.”
“You were already dealing with Ammu and Abbu, and Chyna and Flávia, and then even Sunny Apu was being horrible to you. I thought you had enough on your plate.”
“So you were trying to protect me?” The irony of it makes me want to laugh. By protecting me, Priti hurt me more than she would have if she had just told me the truth from the start.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was helping.”
I press her closer to my chest and say, “Next time, leave the protective sister act to me, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” she concedes. But I already know that she won’t, and I’m okay with it.
26
ON SATURDAY I WAKE UP WITH BUTTERFLIES IN MY stomach. These butterflies are completely different from the ones I feel because of Flávia; around her, I feel anxious in a pleasant way. Like I’m going to throw up, but at least there’s a pretty girl in front of me. Now I just want to throw up.
When I get into Abbu’s car with all my things, Priti’s already there with her schoolbag full of books.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going to help you,” she says, tapping her book bag like that should explain everything. “I’ll just study there, while helping you.”
I slip into the seat beside her, even though I know Ammu probably won’t be very happy about this. But Abbu doesn’t seem to mind. He even puts on Rabindranath Sangeet and sings along for the entire drive, even though Priti and I groan and ask him to shut up.
As Abbu gets everything in the restaurant in order, I pull a curtain in front of the corner booth and stick a copy of the poster I made onto the cloth with some tape. I hung copies up around the school throughout the week, in the hopes that people would actually come down this weekend. It’s a simple poster—one of the pictures from our Instagram blown up, with NISHAT’S MEHNDI on it in cursive and the date, time, and place of the pop-up shop printed neatly below. Above it I hang Flávia’s banner.
“Is that—”
“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 people do this?
“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.”
They take in my laminated price list with raised eyebrows, looking thoroughly impressed. I try not to beam with pride, because I have to be professional and I don’t think grinning like a lunatic is part of professionalism.
I wait patiently as Janet and Catherine go through my design book, even though my heart is going too fast and I don’t feel patient. I’m somewhere between excited and absolutely terrified.
Finally, Janet hands the notebook to me and points to one of the simpler designs. It’s a cluster of flowers and leaves and swirls.
I smile. Easy.
“Great!” I say brightly. “This is the menu for the restaurant, by the way, if you want to order anything while you wait.” I hand Catherine the leather-bound menu and reach for my henna tube. “Where do you want to get it?”
Janet seems to consider this for a moment, turning her hand round and round to get a good look.
“Umm … the back of my hand.”
“Okay, can you put your hand palm down and flat on the table?” I ask.
Janet does exactly as I instruct her—wordlessly—and I get started. Catherine spends the entire time leaning forward in her chair and watching the process with wide eyes. Halfway through, Priti even snaps a few photos for the Instagram account.
When I’m finished, Janet looks at her hand with a smile on her lips. I’m smiling too, because the design came out exactly as it looks in the notebook.