“You’ll have to keep it like that until it dries off. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, probably even less, but the longer you keep it on, the more the color will set.”
“And how do I take it off of my hand?” she asks. “Is there like … a special chemical or something that I should use?”
I bite down a smile.
“Just brush it off over a sink. It might stain a bit—the sink, I mean—but it should wash off. Try not to wash it off with water. Your hand. Not the sink. You should wash the sink with water.”
“Okay.” Janet looks like she doesn’t completely understand me. “Can I take a photo for Instagram?”
“Sure! But could you tag me in it?”
“Of course.” She grins, fishing around in her pocket for her phone. “Your turn, Cat.”
Catherine and Janet exchange seats. Catherine is still unsure, I can tell by the way she’s glancing back at Janet. “How long does it take to go away?” she asks.
“Well, assuming you let the color set properly, a few weeks. But if you don’t like it and decide to wash it off, the color won’t even have a chance to set.”
That seems to convince her, because she nods her head.
“Do you want to look at my designs again?” I ask.
She quickly shakes her head and says, “I want the same as Jan’s, is that okay?”
“Sure. Same place?”
She nods and I lay her hand on the table too, palm down. She giggles when I touch her hand with the henna tube.
I bite down another grin as I settle into the work. I get lost in it.
Fifteen minutes later, Catherine is admiring her hand the same as Janet, and I’m trying not to beam with pride.
“That’ll be fifteen euros each.” They both pay up happily, mumbling their thank yous and admiration.
I’ve known Catherine and Janet for years, and have never felt anything but nonchalance or even occasional dislike from them. This is the first time anything resembling respect has been aimed at me from my fellow classmates. If I’m honest, it feels good. For once, my classmates are actually admiring my culture instead of scoffing at it.
I mean, what I love about Bengali culture is much more than henna or the food, but those are things we can share here meaningfully.
I see Catherine and Janet off to the entrance of the restaurant, waving goodbye with the brightest smile I can muster while looking around for signs of any more customers.
Well, I had two. That must mean that more are on their way.
But when I slip back into the booth, Priti is staring at her phone with a look of such blazing anger that I know something is wrong immediately.
“Priti?”
She whips her head back to look at me, her face softening. “Apujan …” She shakes her head. “I think I know why you’ve had no customers.”
“Racism and homophobia?” I say jokingly, but Priti only manages a weak smile.
“I mean …” She shrugs as she holds her phone up for me to see. It’s a picture on Instagram of a garden filled with people. There’s something familiar about it: the place and the people. There are so many of them that their faces blur together at first, but I pick them out: almost all of them are girls from our year. They’re wearing white t-shirts, and they’re covered in paint. Reds and blues and pinks. And there, front and center, is Chyna. Her blonde hair is floating around in wisps. The red of the paint stains her cheeks starkly against her pale skin.
The caption reads, holi party with henna tattoos!!!
I can only shake my head. This is a new low, even for Chyna.
“Holi isn’t even for months and months,” I say.
Priti sighs. “You think Chyna knows that? You think she knows anything about Holi other than the colors and an opportunity to get more people to pay for her henna?” There’s a sinking feeling in my chest as I slip back into my seat, leaning back and letting out a deep sigh. Priti nestles up to me and says, “Don’t worry, we’ll get them.”
But I’m just not sure anymore.
27
PRITI TAKES THE BUS HOME, BOOK BAG IN TOW. SHE insisted she wouldn’t leave me here to mope around by myself, but I promised her that if nobody else showed up in the next hour, I would get Abbu to drive me back home.
But with Priti gone and the booth empty except for me and my henna tubes, everything feels more overwhelming. Chyna is in her house, celebrating something that isn’t hers—that she doesn’t even understand in the slightest—and she’s using it all for profit while I’m here hoping that a third customer shows up before the hour is up.
“Hey!”
When I look up, Flávia is peeking through the curtain.
“Can I come in? Are you … busy?”
I blink my eyes a little too fast to make sure that she’s really here. I didn’t notice her in the picture Chyna had uploaded to her Instagram, but I can’t imagine her not there. But here she is.
“Nishat? I can … come back later?” She looks over her shoulder, like if I say the word, she’ll turn around and leave.
“I’m not busy,” I say, patting the empty space beside me. She slides into the booth.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, I saw your posts on Instagram … I thought I would just come down, maybe get some henna on my hands.” She lifts up her palm as if to show me that she came prepared. Both her palms are surprisingly free from henna, though there are bits of faded red blobs and smudges, probably from applying it to other people. None of the stains look fresh.
I take hold of her palm, and run a finger over it.
“How come you don’t have any henna on your hands?” I hold out my own palm, covered in dark brown henna. I also have henna designs all over my feet and ankles, and all the way up to my elbows. I’ve become my own canvas in this business venture.
“I’m not great at putting henna on myself, so I haven’t really tried much.”
“Right …”
I grab hold of my design book and hand it to her. “These are my designs, but … I don’t know if it’s a good idea to give money to your competition.”
She shrugs. “I’ve had worse ideas.”
She reaches over and begins to flip through my book. I peer at her closely, unsure how to ask about Chyna and her party.
“You’re really good, Nishat.” She pauses as she flips through the book, running her hands over the pages and tracing the designs with the tips of her fingers.
“I thought I didn’t get art—that I’m not an artist.” My words come out a little more resentful than I mean them to. But Flávia looks up with a smile.
“Have you ever had a moment when you feel like your tongue is saying words that you have no control over, and afterwards you wish you could take it all back?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Once or twice.” I’ve definitely said and done some things I’m not proud of—especially recently.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” Flávia sighs. “It was … I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really thinking when I said those things …” For a moment I’m sure she’s going to say more. Instead, she points to one of my drawings and exclaims, “I want this one!”