“You’re … being … very … loud,” I say between sobs.

Priti’s still glaring at me, but she leans forward and wraps her arms around me. I bury my head in her school sweater.

“You want to tell me what happened?” she asks.

“I … don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“It doesn’t make much sense.”

“I’m used to that. Tell me, okay?”

“It’s Flávia … and Chyna.” I hiccup.

Priti sighs. I’m half expecting her to burst into her usual, “I told you so,” routine, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, “What did Flávia do?”

“It’s not … imp–important.” My voice is both muffled by Priti’s sweater and coming out in a weak stutter. It’s a wonder that Priti can understand me at all.

“Nishat.” Her voice is stern in a way that reminds me of Ammu.

I pull my head away from her shoulder and rub at my puffy, red eyes. Feeling ridiculous and pathetic and horrible all at once.

“Flávia stole the henna design on your hand.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “From your Instagram.”

“That bitch!”

“Priti!”

“Okay, sorry.” She looks sheepish, but only for a moment. “Still though, that was your first original design. I didn’t put it up so she could steal it. Where did she even get henna?”

“She said she got it from some Asian shop, but Priti … Chyna had it too.” That’s what makes it all the worse. Chyna, who spent the past three years of school coming up with the most horrendous, racist rumors about me and my family that she could think of, is now sporting henna on her hands like it’s nothing.

“I did tell you about her …” Priti says, like she’s treading the waters before pulling the haughty “I told you so.”

“I know.” I don’t need her to say “I told you so.” I feel foolish enough as it is. I look at the faded red henna on my hands. Not a single person at school has even noticed that Priti and I are decked with henna. Not a single person has commented on it.

The bell rings and Priti picks up her backpack from where she dropped it on the floor when we came in.

“Are you going to be okay?” There’s concern in her eyes, though I can tell that she wants to be snooty about being right. I appreciate that she can put her pride aside to comfort me.

“Yeah,” I say.

But for the whole day, I can’t get Flávia out of my head—and not in the way she’s been on my mind lately. It’s like somebody flipped a switch and changed everything. Like I can’t see her the same at all anymore. No matter how much I try to stifle my anger, my upset, it keeps bubbling up inside of me. Over and over and over again.