If I Tell You the Truth

by Jasmin Kaur

  a constant. a solid. a steadying force

  in a never-resting sea of unsureness

  thank god for friends that were family

  thank whatever ran this universe

  for him.

  welcome to eighth grade

  “Jeevan! Can we just get this over with?” I said without a touch of the uncertainty thumping beneath my chest. “You’re acting like I asked you to shoot me.”

  “Okay. Doing this.” He blinked and swallowed. “This is something that is, uh, going to happen . . . now.” He closed his eyes as he leaned into me and I followed his lead, holding my breath as if going underwater. His wiry braces scraped my upper lip and the cold surface of his glasses somehow landed on my forehead. He fumbled around in search of my mouth and when his dry lips finally pressed up against mine, we stayed there for a moment, no other parts of our bodies in contact. Then, like a tightly wound coil, Jeevan suddenly retracted.

  Eye contact was now unbearable. “Okay. Bad idea.” I grimaced.

  “Yeah, no shit, Sahaara. But congratulations. We’ve both officially kissed someone.”

  “That wasn’t even a kiss. You just put your mouth on my mouth.”

  “Yeah. That sounds like the literal definition of a kiss.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I agreed to this. If anyone hears that we—I swear, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” I smirked. “Actually shoot me?”

  He rolled his eyes slowly and deliberately, like he was dealing with someone beyond his help. “Any other rites of passage you wanna get through today, or can we go home now?”

  We shook mulch and dead leaves off our backpacks as we gathered them from the forest floor. I’d doodled dahlias and roses all over mine with a gold fabric pen. His was covered in a constellation of comic book pins and video game patches.

  Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, Jeevan peered through the pine trees once again to make sure that no one at PA Jameson High School could see us. At the end of seventh grade, we realized that the fastest way home was through the hilly forest behind the soccer field. I’d only ever take the shortcut if Jeevan was walking home with me, though. The dense gathering of evergreen trees could’ve made for a perfect murder setting.

  “Anyways, if you’re serious about telling Roop you like her, you’re gonna need to work on whatever that was. Because that was a mess.”

  “Sahaara, do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Shut up.”

  I wordlessly grinned. It took serious degrees of friendship to ask someone to kiss you just for the sake of getting a first kiss over with. Three and a half years had cemented us into something almost unheard of: best friends who hadn’t fallen apart by freshman year.

  I thought back to the day we first met, when Jeevan’s family moved into the cramped basement suite of the house behind ours. My new neighbor was a comic-obsessed boy who was somehow snarkier than me. Who was happier lost in a book than exploring his surroundings. Not exactly ten-year-old Sahaara’s cup of tea.

  But times had clearly changed. Over fifth grade and the years that followed, Jeevan—and his comic books—grew on me like an itch. Beneath a sarcasm that could rival mine was a kid who was patient enough to help me master Mario Kart and Assassin’s Creed despite my butter fingers. A boy who would recount his household drama to remind me that I wasn’t the only weirdo with a ridiculous family. A friend who was willing to listen to me vent or complain or simply cry until the darkest hours of a school night.

  Despite Jeevan’s cringeworthy kiss, he was a good guy—the best guy I knew, in fact—and I was hell-bent on helping him find love. “So, I was talking to Roop in math. Turns out she reads a lot of sci-fi. Like, dystopian stuff.”

  “Uh-huh?” Shards of light poured through the thick canopy of branches and across the rough terrain of Jeevan’s walnut-brown cheek as he walked.

  “You and Roop have so much shit in common. For example . . .” I reached deep into my denim jacket pocket in search of my iPod. “A shared taste in books. I wrote down all the graphic novels she likes. Batgirl’s number one on her list, Jeevan. Batgirl!”

  “That’s cool,” he mumbled. His favorite comic book character, Natasha Irons, flew across the length of his fading black T-shirt. Back in elementary school, kids would’ve loved it. At our new high school, however, we couldn’t breathe the wrong way without getting shit from randoms in the hallway. All the more reason why a girl who read his favorite books warranted much more than an uninterested “that’s cool.”

  “Are you even listening?”

  “Are you? I told you . . . I’m not that into her,” he grumbled, scratching the wide curve of his nose. “You’re the one hyping this up. She barely talks to me in person and she never even added me on Snapchat.”

  “She follows you on IG, though, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does she comment on your pictures or just like them?”

  He scoffed, shoving his lanky arms into his pockets. “You need to get over this, bud. ’Cause I already am.”

  Sunlight hit me square in the face as we emerged from the forest to make the quick journey to our respective houses. Jeevan’s house, which shared its backyard with mine, was off-limits ever since I told Mom about the way his parents fought.

  “Wanna come over today?” I asked.

  “Dad’s working late. Gonna just go home and enjoy the quiet.”

  “Suit yourself.” I shrugged. We turned our backs to each other and made our separate ways down the sidewalk.

  When I got inside, I immediately scoured the pantry for Oreos. The iced side of a cookie had just grazed my tongue when muffled voices reached me. They weren’t yelling but one of them sounded distressed.

  My mom was crying.

  I dropped the Oreos on the counter and tiptoed down the hallway, hoping the wooden floorboards wouldn’t creak beneath my feet. Before I knocked, I placed an ear to Mom’s bedroom door, trying not to breathe as I listened.

  Mom spoke beneath sobs. “And Chachi said, ‘Your mom told me to tell you to come but not to bring Sahaara.’ Because it wouldn’t look good or some utter crap like that. She didn’t even have the decency to tell me herself.” It was hard to decipher Mom’s words between her tears, but the mention of her mom—my biological grandmother—made my stomach jump. Mom never talked about them. Or to them.

  “I’m so sorry, Kiran. I’m so sorry,” Joti Maasi murmured.

  “And what am I supposed to do, Joti?” Mom sobbed. “It’s not like I can even go there. How would I get back in the country?”

  As soon as I knocked, the room went silent. “It’s—it’s me,” I stammered. “Can I come in?”

  After a stretch of hushed whispers, Maasi pulled open the door.

  The sudden sight of Mom wiping away tears was a tsunami against my body.

  I’d never seen her cry before.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, panic rising to my throat.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Sahaara?” Maasi gestured to the bed and I sat, the squeak of the mattress the only noise in the room. “So, your mom got a phone call from her chachi—”

  “The one who lives in Surrey?”

  “Yeah.” Maasi sadly nodded, taking my hands in hers. “And she had bad news. Your mom’s dad—your nana—he was in a car accident near Delhi. He . . . didn’t make it.”

  “Oh,” I whispered. I had no idea what to feel for a person I’d never met before. Whose name Mom rarely even mentioned. But the anguish dripping down Mom’s face was enough to make me tear up. Mom kept wiping her cheeks, but she couldn’t curb the downpour.

  “Are you okay?” I sniffled because I didn’t know what else to say. Immediately, I regretted it. Of course she wasn’t.

  The water glazing her skin renewed its force, answering my question.

  “What did they say about me?” I asked.

  Mom looked from me to Maasi and they spoke to each other with their eyes. “What do you mean?” Maasi ev
entually said.

  “I heard you guys through the door. They said something about not bringing me.”

  “Sahaara, let’s talk about this later, okay?” Maasi delicately replied. There was fine china in her voice.

  “But—”

  “Later, Sahaara.” She enunciated each syllable, almost glaring.

  I nodded, not arguing further, and wrapped my arms around Mom. We sat quietly like this for what could’ve been either a moment or a lifetime.

  “I think I just need to be alone,” Mom whispered into my shoulder. Her words reverberated into me and I eased myself away.

  “Okay,” Maasi said. “Can I call the restaurant and let them know you’re not coming in?”

  “No. No.” Mom shook her head, sitting up a little straighter. “I can’t miss work. I just need some time alone. I’ll get it together.” Maasi and I both knew better than to try to convince her. She was far too stubborn to listen to either of us and to be honest, her jerk of a manager would’ve made a big deal about her missing a shift. Maasi gingerly closed the door behind us as we stepped into the hallway.

  She pulled out her iPhone and quickly sent a text. “Why don’t we go for a drive?” she said with a feather-light smile. I followed her outside, my head a fuzzy blur of questions.

  When I slunk into the passenger-side seat of her truck, Maasi asked whether I wanted to go to Dairy Queen or Menchie’s to get my mind off things. The tears instantly welled up again. “Can you just tell me what’s going on? I’m so sick of how you guys keep me in the dark about shit. Like I’m some little kid who can’t handle the truth.”

  The blonde tips of her hair barely grazed her shoulders as she shook her head, mouth opening and closing as if she was wrestling her thoughts. “Okay,” she finally sighed, drawing her car keys from the ignition. “You’re right, Sahaara. You’re not a little kid anymore. And it’s not that we think you are. Your mom just feels that . . . this stuff shouldn’t stress you out.”

  “Well, guess what?” I fumed. “I’m stressed out.”

  “So, you know why your mom stopped talking to her parents, yeah?”

  “Because of me.”

  “It wasn’t—it wasn’t because of you. They had expectations of your mom, like, expectations about who she’d marry and how her life would go. And when she stopped listening to them, they . . .”

  “Turned their back on her.”

  “Yeah.” The cold knowledge sat with us for a heartbeat. “Kiran’s chachi phoned. The one who she lived with when she first came to Canada. She told her about the accident and it’s—it’s never easy hearing news like this. But it was extra shitty that her mom wasn’t the one who called.”

  Anger burned in my veins. What kinda asshole was so stuck-up that they couldn’t make a serious phone call to their own child? “What about the thing they said a-about me?”

  “Oh . . .” She paused, resting her hands on the steering wheel. “Sahaara, you need to understand that there are some people in this world who care about their image more than anything. More than their relationships. More than family. I think that your nani’s one of those people—”

  “She’s not my nani. Don’t call her that.”

  Maasi nodded slightly.

  “I don’t get it, though.” I shook my head. “Why’d I even come up?”

  “She was talking about the funeral. They wanted your mom to come . . . without you. Probably ’cause your mom’s family doesn’t want people to ask questions about . . .” The sentence she didn’t need to finish trailed away. “I’m so sorry, Sahaara. You weren’t supposed to hear all that.”

  Without you.

  These two words were needles to my insides. Sharp. Burning. Broken. “Yeah, fuck them.” Jaw clenched, I reached for the door.

  “Where you going?”

  “Jeevan’s house,” I said, wiping stale tears from my chin.

  “But your mom doesn’t want you—”

  “I don’t care. We’ll go to a park or some shit. I just wanna talk to Jeevan right now.”

  “Okay.” She paused as though words were teetering on her lips. Instead, she slowly nodded. “Okay. Go.”

  I shut Maasi’s truck door with an accidental thud and looked back to mouth the word sorry. This wasn’t her fault.

  When I reached Jeevan’s house, I clicked open the backyard gate and flew down the cement stairs to his basement suite. Three knocks and the door swung open.

  “Hey, friend—whoa. You okay?” Jeevan’s tone changed the instant he noticed my eyes. He hastily shut the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

  I tearfully shook my head, unable to speak.

  “Is it your mom? School? Family stuff?”

  “Mom. Family,” I managed. “Can we go to the park?”

  “Yeah, let’s go. One sec, lemme get my jacket.” He disappeared inside his house and quickly returned, pushing the door open with one hand and putting on his black Nikes with the other. From somewhere inside the house, Jeevan’s mom asked him where he was going and who he was going with.

  “Jameson Park with Sahaara! I’ll be back soon!” he hollered, locking the door behind him. “Okay, let’s go.”

  I didn’t speak until we sat down on the far bench near the pine trees where we had kissed just an hour ago. A lifetime ago. “My mom’s dad died.”

  “Oh. Shit. I’m so sorry, dude.” He shifted his body toward mine.

  “I never met him. He was just this . . . big, blank space that I always wondered about. You know how my mom is. She acts like her other family—her biological family—doesn’t exist. But I feel so messed up.” My cheeks were wet, but I didn’t bother wiping them. We’d both seen each other cry enough times for the embarrassment to have run dry. “I’ve never seen my mom cry before. She’s always the one holding it together and it almost felt . . .”

  “Scary?” he offered.

  “Yeah.” I gulped, eyes on the unkempt grass beneath my black flats. “Exactly.”

  “I think it’s ’cause parents are supposed to be the strong ones. Seeing them cry is all upside down and shit.”

  A piney wind blew toward us. I thought back to the time when Mom told me about her papers. Times when I would ask about her family. Those days when her manager would phone while she was at home, just to yell at her for shit she didn’t do right at work.

  Her hurt never broke through.

  “Her dad was in a car accident and her chachi told her about it. Her own mom didn’t even call.”

  “You’re joking . . .” He frowned. “People really have no sharam.”

  “Right? And they specifically asked her to come to the funeral without me. Like I’m some sort of bastard embarrassment to their family.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of Jeevan’s mouth and he did everything in his power to resist it.

  “Whaaat?!” I raised my brows.

  His smile cracked. “Bastard embarrassment?”

  “It’s not funny!” I laughed through tears.

  “Nah, for real, though,” he said. “Who cares what these people think? They’re irrelevant.”

  “Just feel so bad for my mom,” I mumbled.

  “I feel you. It was rough when my nana jee died. Even though I only saw them in Punjab a few times. It was especially hard on Mom ’cause she felt guilty for being all the way in Canada. She regretted not going back home more often.”

  I wondered what Mom carried in her heart. Was she haunted by guilt for not being in Punjab? Did she want to travel to Chandigarh and leave me behind? In the past few years, she had begun to open up in tiny increments, but she was still, in so many ways, a mystery.

  And what did that make me?

  Two elderly women wearing flowery salwar kameezes strolled past Jeevan and me. They gave us the “aunty look,” probably suspicious of a boy and girl sitting alone together. I tilted my chin away from them and stared into the dancing evergreen branches. When the coast was clear, Jeevan nudged me.

  “Sahaara?” he murmured.


  “What?”

  “It’s gonna be okay.” He had no idea whether it actually would be, but I didn’t mention that aloud. Instead, I rooted myself into his soft chest and buried my face in his shoulder. He planted a lanky arm around my back.

  “Sorry . . . I’m getting snot all over you,” I mumbled.

  Instead of hitting me with the kind of sarcastic jab that defined our friendship, he said, “It’s cool. Let it out, bud.” A petal-soft quiet grew between us. “And I dunno what a ‘bastard embarrassment’ is, but I promise that’s not what you are. I . . . feel sorry for your mom’s family. Imagine never knowing the dopest living person to come from your genes.” His body shook with soft laughter and I trembled with him. “You mean the universe—the cosmos—to the ones who care about you. Isn’t that what matters?”

  the anxiety came

  heaviest at night

  heart thumping out of my chest

  stomach twisting in every direction

  eyes wet and swollen

  pillow damp with all my fears

  maybe this is why mom didn’t want

  me to know about the burdens

  on her shoulders.

  sahaara, can we talk?

  just as i was about to escape

  mrs. alvarez blocked my way out

  of her classroom with a worn

  copy of romeo and juliet

  i nodded because what else

  was i supposed to do

  when a teacher wanted to talk?

  the room was entirely empty

  save for me and her

  before i could rehearse a good

  answer to the inevitable question

  of why i wasn’t paying attention

  in class, mrs. alvarez said

  you’ve been distracted

  lately, huh?

  anything you wanna discuss?

  a chorus of

  don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry

  pounded in my head.

  (what was more embarrassing

  than getting emotional in front

  of a teacher?)