I edge closer, peering over her shoulder.
It’s one of my most intricate designs. I’ve only attempted it once on myself, and it’s since faded away. It has the base design of a peacock—one of the most common ones in Bangladesh.
“I don’t have any designs like this, you know,” Flávia says as I reach for my henna tube. “All of mine are a bit plain Jane. I don’t know why people come to me and not you.”
I pause, unsure how to respond to that. If I should respond to that. I take hold of the henna tube and begin to weave the design together on her hands. A few minutes of silence pass between us, with Flávia watching my work closely and me trying, and failing, to only think of the design at hand.
“Flávia …” I pause in the middle of my work, lifting my head to meet Flávia’s eyes. “Why aren’t you at Chyna’s house?”
Flávia frowns. “Why would I be at Chyna’s house?”
“I’m sure you know about her party.”
Flávia’s face falls. “How do you—”
“She put it on her Instagram.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a silence that hangs heavy in the air between us for a moment. Then, Flávia heaves a sigh, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, in a voice that sounds so sincere that it pulls my heartstrings a little too tight. “Chyna is … she’s so adamant about winning this thing. She’s been getting carried away.”
Except this has always been Chyna. She’s been “getting carried away” with things her whole life.
“How can she even do henna without you?”
Flávia glances at me hesitantly. “She … has stencils.”
“Stencils?” My voice comes out more high-pitched than I intend it to. Nothing should shock me at this point, not even that people in our school would go to a “Holi party” thrown by a white girl who applies henna with stencils. Not after everything.
Still, it does.
“I told her that I wasn’t going to her party and … that was her solution.” Flávia shrugs. “I know it’s … bad. The whole thing is …” She shakes her head again, like she can’t put into words how bad it really is.
“And you didn’t tell her that she shouldn’t? That the whole thing was offensive?” I know Chyna’s not really the type of person who listens to reason, or who does something because other people tell her to. But Flávia obviously means a lot to her. She backed off after she caught me with the henna tubes because of Flávia. And the way the two of them were with each other in Flávia’s house—casual and free. Chyna listens to her—more than she listens to anyone else, anyway.
Flávia scrunches up her face in concentration for a moment, like she’s thinking really hard about something. “She told me that if she couldn’t throw that party, then I couldn’t do henna. That they were the same thing.” Flávia takes a deep breath. It’s heavy, like the weight of the world is on her shoulders and she doesn’t know how to shake it off. “And she’s kind of right, isn’t she? I was the person who made her brave enough to think this is okay. I get it now. Why you were angry at me to begin with. I just … I wasn’t thinking straight, you know? I went to that wedding and I just … thought because I liked it, I could run with it. I didn’t really think about anything else. And … if I’m being honest, I kind of just wanted to have something to talk to you about when school started.”
“That’s … not true.” I frown. “Is it?”
“Yes, it’s true. I’ve never really done this before, Nishat.” She’s looking at me with wide eyes.
“This?”
She shakes her head and with a chuckle, says, “You’re kind of intimidating. I mean, you’re so self-assured and confident …”
“You think I’m self-assured?” My voice rises a notch. “You think I’m confident?”
“Nishat, come on. You’re the most self-assured person I know. You’re so … you have all of these things you believe in and you don’t bend from them just because it might not be cool or people might not like it about you. You always stand your ground and … you’re so into your culture.”
“That’s not self-assuredness.” I feel a warm flutter in my chest.
Flávia smiles like she doesn’t quite agree with me.
“I wish I could be like that. Sometimes, I feel like …”
“Feel like …?”
“Like … I don’t know. Like I don’t really feel Brazilian sometimes, you know? Especially around Chyna and her side of my family. It feels like they want me to be something else altogether, and it’s just easier to conform. I want them to like me. To accept me. But …”
I’m suddenly aware that there’s a sadness to Flávia. I didn’t notice it before, but maybe it’s always been there, underneath everything.
“Is that what all of this has been about? Getting Chyna and her family to accept you?”
Flávia heaves a sigh and brushes back her hair, smudging it with the half-finished henna design on her palm.
“Oh no!” she cries, trying to take the henna out of her brown curls but somehow making it worse.
I know if this was Priti messing up my hard work, I would be beyond annoyed. But it’s not. It’s Flávia and she looks so adorably alarmed that it makes me smile.
I reach over and grab one of the tissues I set aside for exactly an occasion like this and use it to tug at her hair. The henna has settled into her thin curls, sticking them to one another and refusing to come away.
“You know henna is really good for your hair?” I mumble.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it makes your hair healthier. Plus, it’s a natural hair dye … I mean, not really for you and me because our hair is super dark already, but …” I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m holding Flávia’s hair and she’s inches away from me and looking at me a little too closely. I realize that pulling henna out of someone’s hair is not exactly the most romantic thing in the world, but it feels oddly intimate, especially since I can hear the sound of her breathing.
Flávia grazes her fingers against my cheek, brushing back a strand of my own hair and sending a jolt of electricity through me.
This time, when we lean toward each other, there are no interruptions.
When our lips finally touch, it feels like there are a million butterflies in my stomach. Like my heart is going double its usual pace. Like there’s nothing and nobody I want more than this.
When we pull away from each other, Flávia looks at me as if she’s surprised. Like she didn’t mean to kiss me at all.
My stomach plummets. What if she thinks this is another mistake?
Before I can wonder about it further, she leans forward until our foreheads are touching, brushing her nose against mine. I can feel her hot breath on my skin.
“You smell like henna,” she says. Which is totally appropriate, I guess.
I scrunch up my nose and pull away from her. We’re surrounded by the earthy smell of henna, and I’m actually not sure if the smell is coming from her or me or the tubes on the table—or all of it.