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.