She looks at me, her smile still in place. But instead of the usual butterflies that smile sends fluttering in my stomach, the gnawing discomfort grows.

“I really thought it would be a lot more difficult than it was,” she says. “But once I had that picture your sister put up on Insta … it was simple, really.”

The gnawing grows from annoyance to all out anger. Flávia can’t just do henna because she saw it at the wedding, and because she saw Priti’s Instagram picture. How can she sit in front of me and act like there aren’t a million things wrong here?

I have to stop myself from saying what I’m really feeling. What I’m really thinking. I don’t even know how to form the words. And I know Chyna won’t take it well.

“Flá is this amazing artist,” Chyna chimes in. “She always has been. I knew she’d be amazing at making henna tattoos. Look.” She inches her arms forward and there it is, inked onto her hands. The same identical design in a garishly red color. It looks odd and out of place on her white skin.

I can’t explain the lump that begins to rise up my throat, or the tears prickling behind my eyes. Before I can even think, I stand. The chair makes a loud scraping noise. Flávia is looking at me with a frown on her lips, maybe looking for some sort of an explanation. But I can barely look at her. I definitely can’t look at Chyna.

“I have to go.” I dash across the room and out the door.

“Hey, Nish—” I barely hear Chaewon’s voice as I walk out of the room as fast as I can, muttering don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry to myself in my head.

“Apujan.” Before I know it, before I realize what exactly is happening, Priti is pulling me into one of the bathrooms. “What’s wrong, Apujan?”

“Nothing.” I’m rubbing at my eyes, barely realizing that I’ve begun to cry for real. And for possibly the most ridiculous reason ever. I never thought that I’d be one of those people who holed up in the school bathroom to bawl their eyes out; most of my crying is reserved for the privacy of my bedroom. And the only person allowed to see me cry is Priti.

“You’re crying!” Priti exclaims. I somehow manage to put my tear-dampened hand onto her mouth to hush her.

“MM-HM-HM-HM-HMHM!” Priti’s voice is muffled against my hand. I’m still crying, but silently. Each sob sends a jolt of pain through me.

Priti hmms something else onto my hand. I can see her glaring at me through my blurry vision. I know what comes next, but I’m too slow; she bites my hand before I can pull it away.

“I’m trying to help you!” she says.