“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!”

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.