I gulp, feeling my heart sink. For a moment, time seems to stop. All I can see is the way Chyna’s lips curve up into a malicious grin. It’s all too familiar. I’ve seen it too many times, paired with disparagement of me, my heritage, my culture.

There’s some irony in the fact that it’s the henna in my backpack that’s going to get me into trouble. What will the punishment be for theft? Detention? Suspension? Will Principal Murphy go easy on me because I’m a first time offender? Or does that not make any difference?

“There you are.” Flávia’s soft voice breaks me out of my thoughts. She’s walking around the corner with a frown on her lips. Her eyes flit from Chyna, to me, back to Chyna. “What’s going on?”

“I think your friend Nishat has something of yours.” Chyna says the word, “friend,” with so much venom that I’m sure she knows about what almost happened between us at the party.

Flávia’s eyes rest on me now. I can’t read her expression.

“Nishat?”

She’s staring at me with so much expectation. I open my mouth, but there’s nothing to say. Not really.

I pick up my bag instead, unzipping it and digging around to find the henna tubes.

“Here.” I reach out and hand them to her. She takes them wordlessly, her expression still unreadable.

I wish that she would get angry. That she would get upset. At least, with Chyna, I know she hates me. I know she’s taking pleasure in all of this.

“You can report me to Principal Murphy. Whatever,” I say, after all of the henna tubes are emptied out of my bag. Flávia looks at them, at me, at Chyna—who is growing smugger and smugger with each passing moment.

“Principal Murphy?” she asks.

“She stole from you. That’s not tolerated in this school. Come on.” Chyna waves her hand at me, motioning for me to follow her, but Flávia shakes her head.

“We’re not going to Principal Murphy.”

“What?” It’s Chyna’s turn to frown. “Why not? She stole from you.”

“I don’t care.” Flávia shrugs her shoulder. “It’s not a big deal, Chyna. We’re not telling Principal Murphy.”

“Flá.” Chyna growls out through gritted teeth.

“Chyna, please.” For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze. I’m sure Chyna will argue. Will refuse to listen to Flávia. Will do something. Chyna always gets her way, after all. But she doesn’t. Instead, she spins around and stomps away wordlessly. She doesn’t even throw me a nasty look, like she usually would.

Flávia stares at her retreating form before turning back to me.

“Nishat—”