The Henna Wars(19)

She finally stops and sits back down again, looking mighty proud of herself.

“English books should not be used in such ways. There’s poetry in there. Very beautiful, gentle poetry.” I rub my head.

“There’s also all those poems about war. How gentle are those?”

“Whatever,” I say. “Look, nobody’s going to be interested in authentic Bengali food. For one, they don’t even understand what Bengali means or where Bangladesh is. Secondly, people are just not into South Asian food right now. Dublin is currently all about burritos and donuts. And thirdly, I can’t take food from the restaurant, and if I asked Ammu to cook for my business she would get so mad. Plus, wouldn’t that kind of be like cheating? I’m not really doing it on my own, am I?”

“I guess not,” Priti says, though she doesn’t sound like she wants to admit it at all. “It’s just … imagine Bengali street food on the streets of Dublin! Yum! It could be the next craze after donuts!”

It would be pretty cool if the next Irish food trend was South Asian. We’d already more or less flown past the Japanese food trend, and donuts are way past their shelf life. Realistically though, Bengali food is never going to be trendy in the streets here. That much I learned from Chyna, at least.

“Nobody other than you and me would be able to eat Bengali street food. Plus, can you imagine what Chyna would say if I started selling that?”

Priti frowns, and says, “Chyna isn’t that bad.”

I actually physically recoil from Priti at that. Not intentionally, it’s just an instinct. I look at her with wide eyes. “Chyna ‘your-father’s-restaurant-gives-people-diarrhea’ Quinn isn’t that bad?” I ask.

Priti sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “When you say it like that. It’s been like … a long time since everything happened.”

I narrow my eyes at Priti, before leaning forward and touching her forehead with the back of my hand. “You don’t feel warm, but obviously you’re so feverish that you’re delusional.”

Priti bats my arm away with a small glare. “I’m not delusional, Apujan. Oh my God. Just … Chyna … invited me and Ali to her birthday party next weekend. It was nice of her to invite us.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “So … from the fact that you’ve suddenly decided Chyna is your best friend, I guess you’re going?” Priti looks away, like she’s really thinking about it very hard.

If you have to think about a party that hard, you probably shouldn’t go. Although that’s not worth much coming from someone who never gets invited to parties.

“I think so,” she says finally. “I mean … Ali’s going. And it sounds like it’ll be fun … plus!” She suddenly turns to me with a smile and bright eyes. “It’s like … she’s extending a … what’s the word? A hand and—”

“You forgot the word hand?”

“Shut up!” She hits me lightly on the shoulder and sits back, the smile still on her face.

“I just feel like … I don’t know, she’s changed from back then—”

It wasn’t that long ago.

“And she’s making an attempt, you know? To make amends. I have to meet her halfway, don’t I? Isn’t that my responsibility?”

Personally, I think Priti is blathering on about nothing to justify going along with Ali, but I know better than to say that.

“Did she say she was sorry?” I ask instead.

“Well, no. But it was a long time ago.”

“Priti … remember the other day when you told me I should be careful? About the Flávia stuff?”

“This isn’t the same. It’s completely different.” Her words tumble out so fast that they run into each other.

“Did you know that Flávia and Chyna are cousins?”

That seems to stump her because she looks up at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, Flávia told me.” Which is obviously the wrong thing to say, because Priti narrows her eyes in a glare.

“You know that makes it worse, right? You hate Chyna, so by extension shouldn’t you also hate her cousin?”

“You’re the one going to Chyna’s birthday party.”

“Yeah, but that’s a party, there’ll be lots of people there. I’m not fantasizing about kissing Chyna.”

“I’m not fan—”

“Look, I’m only going because Ali is going, okay? And she’s going because her boyfriend is going and—”

“You didn’t tell me Ali had a boyfriend,” I say. Her first boyfriend, in fact. Priti looks away, like this isn’t something she wants to discuss any further. She picks up her English book and begins to flick through it like it’s the most exciting thing she’s ever come across.

“You should have told me. I know it can be weird when—”

“It’s not weird.” Her voice comes out high-pitched, assuring me that she definitely finds it weird. “I just have to get used to him, is all.”

I want to say more. I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to offer her words of wisdom. Pass on my knowledge. But it’s not like I’m exactly skilled in this department.