AFTER I’VE FINISHED APPLYING HENNA TO PRITI’S HAND, she actually looks more than a little impressed. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from the way her eyebrows shoot way up into her hair. She purses her lips because she’s usually not one to give compliments; she prefers backhanded ones, if she absolutely has to. The fact that she can’t come up with anything fills me with warmth inside. I’ve almost forgotten about the incident at school. And Flávia.

I admire my handiwork for a second as Priti digs around, searching for her phone. It’s one of my original designs—and for once I don’t want to criticize it. I worked hard to perfect this design and clearly it’s paid off. I spent so long applying it to Priti’s hand though that most of the henna has already dried off.

It’s a more intricate design than the one I attempted for the wedding. It starts with the basic mandala—a circle with flower patterns extending out of it. But then I filled in the main circle with another and another, each getting smaller and smaller. Outside of the flower petals I drew the leaves, weaving and wrapping around Priti’s fingers, surrounded by dots, getting bigger and smaller and bigger and smaller.

Everything is as it should be. There are no smudges, no inconsistencies like before.

“You have to put it up on your Instagram,” I say to Priti when she’s finally retrieved her phone and is aiming the camera at her hand.

She lowers the phone to look at me with a frown.

“On my Instagram?” she asks. “It’s your business.”

“Yes, but you know what my Instagram is like.” By that, I mean small and unpopular. I only have fifty followers and I think half of them are random guys who try to chat up random girls and actually have no interest in what I post.

“Because you never post on it!” I don’t want to tell her that it won’t matter if I post on it or not. She’s the likable sister. The pretty, perky one. The smart one. The sociable one. Everyone loves Priti. Unlike her, I don’t exude natural likeability. I might be the older sister but Priti always shines brighter than me. If the photos go up on her Insta, more people will like them. More people will care. And Flávia and Chyna can steal it again, a voice whispers in my head. But I brush it off. Once I’m officially competing, they wouldn’t dare.

Instead of all that, I say, “You already have a lot of followers. We can capitalize on that.”

She presses her lips together and says, “No.”

I frown. “Seriously? I’m asking you for help with this one thing.”