“That was different.” Priti’s voice is soft. It seems the angrier I get, the more vulnerable she becomes. “You know it was different. That was just … something small. She’ll barely notice that.”

“So it was a terrible idea and you just went along with it?” I’m almost shouting now.

“Apujan …”

“Stop!” I turn away from her. “You know what she’s doing is wrong, Priti. And she’s trying to sabotage me and my business at every turn. Playing games with … with …” My heart, but I don’t say that. “my mind, our culture. She stole from us. She went to a wedding and saw the pretty henna and decided it was something she could have. She barely knew anybody there. She shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Just because she did something wrong doesn’t mean you should do something wrong too, Apujan. I know you’re better than that.”

I shake my head. “I’m not.”

I expect her to say more. To try and change my mind. But she doesn’t.

The bed creaks as she stands and shuffles out the door. The room feels too empty, too silent, in her sudden absence.

On Monday morning, I wake bright and early feeling weird and jittery about the opening showcase. I have everything prepared—my design book, more henna tubes than I could possibly need, even a haphazard banner that declares NISHAT’S MEHNDI in bright, bold orange lettering.

I’m as prepared as I’m going to get, but there are still butterflies in my stomach, making me feel sick with worry. I may be prepared for the competition, equipped to take down Chyna and Flávia, but I’m no longer on speaking terms with my two best friends and last night I successfully managed to piss off Priti.

On the bus to school, we’re both quiet. The silence between us is especially palpable amidst the throngs of people on the bus with us; their voices are a steady reminder that Priti and I are not talking.

For the entire journey I keep thinking I should say something, but I don’t even know what there is to say. I want to tell Priti about all the nerves that I’m dealing with. She’s the only person who would be able to make me feel better, I’m sure of it. But I don’t say anything, knowing that she won’t be sympathetic.

Not today, anyway.

We split up silently at the school gates. Priti doesn’t even bother to glance back at me, though I watch her weave through the crowds. She pushes past Ali, to her locker. Neither of them so much as glance at each other; they don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence.