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.

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