by Sonia Patel
From out of nowhere the sound of a woman’s voice stops me dead in my tracks. It’s not the typical “Eh, Junior boy, where you stay?” or “Oh, da pahty was good fun.” No. It’s not the voice of a local woman. I try to pinpoint the location, inspecting all the houses and parked trucks and cars on the street. My eyes get to Omar’s house. No one in sight yet. Then I turn my head to Mark’s house next door. That’s when I see her. I give her the once over. Probably thirty. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a tight white tank top with “Los Angeles” printed on the front in silver cursive. And I know exactly why she’s wearing it. The girl leads with her huge, round boobs. Seriously, she’s got the biggest mammary glands I’ve ever seen. Her cleavage pours out and reminds me of a big ‘ole butt on her chest. But the kutri doesn’t have any junk in her trunk. I decide her triple D’s must be fake. No skinny girl with a flat butt can have boobs that big.
I look down at my chest. It seems even flatter than usual in comparison to her fake ass monstrosities. So distracted by her silicone, I almost forget about where she’s standing—Mark’s doorstep.
NO! NO NO NO!
My enthusiasm crumbles.
Mark walks onto the porch. He gives her the gorgeous smile that’s supposed to be for me. He leans down and throws his arms around her, pulling her close. Then he delivers a long, deep kiss.
That’s supposed to be for me, too.
He pulls his lips away.
Finally.
She steps off the porch and says, “Bye, Mark.” Flirty to the max. Then she blows him a kiss and saunters unsteadily toward the street.
I duck behind Omar’s truck. Boob girl gets into a red Ford Fiesta, obviously a rental, and drives off. The car skids as it turns onto the main street.
Mark yawns, stretches, then goes back in his house. He swings the door behind him. It slams shut, startling me.
Crazy emotions swirl. Crazy jealous. Crazy sad. Crazy hurt. I clench my fists. My tears, like my mood, salty. I picture lifting Omar’s truck above my head and smashing it into Mark’s house, screaming every curse word I know. In English and Gujarati.
Then I imagine banging my head on a wall. A concrete wall.
I’m about to sprint back to my truck so I can get out of here. And descend into solo despair. By chance I notice an old, rusty navy blue Ford pickup. It reminds me of Stan Lee. What would he do in a situation like this? Simple. He’d march up to Mark’s house and call his cheating butt out.
Thanks, Ol’ Seoul.
I stomp through Mark’s front gate and pound my fist on his door. He’s grinning when he opens it.
“Expecting boob queen? Huh? Huh?” I manage to blurt before the blubbering begins. “You said you love me!” I sob while I hammer my fists on his chest. He takes it. And I keep going. “You slept with her, didn’t you? I can’t compare to her!”
Not quite the strong Stan Lee style unemotional confrontation I was hoping for. Better than nothing I guess. The tears keep streaming. I realize this feels exactly as terrible as when I saw my dad at Kanemitsu’s with Wendy. My mind goes dark. Fast. My self-worth gets put in the rack. My brain tortures it. Both Dad and Mark said they loved me. But they both found another girl to love without telling me. What’s wrong with me? How else can I explain this two-for-two record? I’m a worthless piece of chee. I hate myself. Who could possibly love me?
“Ra-Rani,” he stammers. He drops his head into his palms and shifts awkwardly on his feet. Then he lifts his head and shakes it. “That was nothing. She doesn’t mean anything to me. You—you’re my girl.” He reaches for my shoulder.
I push his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Come in, Rani. Let’s talk about this. Please,” he says, stepping to the side and waving for me to enter.
“No way, you jerk!” Then I change my mind. I push him aside with all my strength. He stumbles back. I march into his house without taking off my slippers. Knocking my knuckles on my head I pace in circles in his living room. I try to figure out what to do. All I can picture is him and boob girl gettin’ it on in here. The tears keep coming. I bury my face into my hands. When I lift my head I realize I’m sitting on his couch. I imagine them making out on the sofa. The way we have. My anger erupts again. I lean forward and push all the junk on his messy coffee table off. With one big sweep of my arms, magazines, beer cans, half-eaten musubi, cigarettes, a lighter, a straw with a burned edge, and a small glass pipe go flying onto the carpet. I jump up from the sofa and stomp out of his house.
Mark grabs my shoulder as I’m about to step onto the porch. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I love you, Rani! What can I do to make it up to you?” he asks. His somber eyes are fixed on me.
I give him a piece of my broken mind. “Nothing. And I was actually gonna go all the way with you. Not anymore! You don’t love me. You only care about yourself. You’re just like my dad.” I back away from him. I can’t help but wonder if my mom’s felt this horrible.
“You had me so fooled. I can’t believe I thought you were my boyfriend. I’m such a gullible dumbass.” Then I get all up in his face and declare, “I’ll make it easy for you—leave me alone.”
My first straight-up rejection of anyone. I thought it would feel more empowering to stand up for myself. But right now I feel crappy. I turn and jet. But not before I hear Mark say, “I still want you, Rani!”
As I race off, I catch sight of Omar standing in his doorway.
LOVE SUPREME
Ken. That’s Mark. And Barbie. That’s the L.A. bimbo.
I found my old Barbie dolls in the storage room downstairs. And mom’s sewing needles. Mom saves everything.
“I hope you feel this,” I say out loud. I stab the needles into the dolls.
First into Barbie’s unnaturally large boobs. You stupid harlot.
Then into Ken’s fake smile. Who’s smiling now, you no good ghadhedo?
Pathetic bawling ensues as voodoo doll therapy takes an unanticipated turn for the worse. I accept the naseeb Mattel has set forth—that it’s Ken and Barbie. Now and forever. Not Ken and a blonde-buzz-cut-flat-chested-Indian teen.
Besides the dolls, I’d grabbed the telephone handset from the kitchen before I confined myself to my room. Just in case I wanted to call Mark and give him an earful. Which I decide is in order now, tears or no tears. Wailing, I pick up the handset.
But before I get a chance to dial, I hear a knock. Mom opens my bedroom door and asks, “Suu thhayu?” My eyes converge on her furrowed brow and it puts me off. I clam up.
“Nothing.” I stare at the carpet.
“Play some piano. That’ll make you feel better.”
Really? That’s all you have to say?
I peek at her without lifting my head. Her face has softened. I force my eyes back down. “Tried it. It didn’t.” Even though I hadn’t. Recently I’d vowed never to play piano again. It’d been for Dad anyway. He’s gone. So is my incentive to play.
I’m not sure how long she stands there. Watching me. Waiting. It seems like forever. All I can do is get more irritated.
Finally she says, “Well, if you want to talk, I’ll be in the kitchen for another hour. Then I have to go back to the store.”
The warmth in her tone jolts me out of annoyance.
You’ve been waiting for Mom to communicate with you like this!
Hearing about the store adds a familiar layer of guilt.
She’s still working 24/7. If it’s not at the store or restaurant, it’s at home. Why was I cold? I’m an idiot.
I hear the door close. When I look up, she’s gone. I’m alone in my four walls again. I wonder why it’s so hard for me to be nice to Mom when she’s being nice to me. It’s like there’s a switch inside me that gets flipped one way or the other depending on how she talks to me. And I can’t control the switch.
The phone rings. I stare at the handset. I groan.
“Hello.” My tone is cold and bored.
“Rani?”
&nb
sp; “Yeah.”
“It’s Dad.”
“I know.”
“How are you, betta?”
“Fine.” His spurious niceness makes my body writhe in disgust.
“Did you talk to Mom about Wendy and me moving in?”
No way. Fo’ real?
What is it with these guys? Within the span of two hours, both Mark and my dad try to get me to do what’s good for them. They’re like puppet masters pulling on my strings. Maybe it’s my fault. It’s been me who’s gone along with their commands. My mood plummets to a new low. I hang up the phone without answering him.
Nothing matters.
The phone rings again, but I ignore it. I open my notebook and start writing with urgency, trying to slow my downward spiral into total anhedonia.
The Rule of Men
I love you = I’m going to cheat on you because my needs come first.
My Rules
I’m a worthless piece of crap.
I hate myself.
Brain slap.
Stop wallowing and do something about it, Rani.
The phone rings yet again. This time I seize the handset, rip open my bedroom door, and fling the phone down the hallway. I slam my door shut and get back to writing. Now I’m determined to convert my melancholy and self-pity into a new rap.
I start laying down the words and something extraordinary happens. My brain synthesizes my ordeals in a new way. It forms amalgams of my relationships and my experiences. Mark and my dad merge. Boob girl becomes the girl that this man’s world expects. The girl with whom I always compare myself. My thoughts flow and ripen into something tangible. Many hours—and tissues—later, I finish it.
LOVE SUPREME
Verse 1
It’s myself I can’t love.
Sure enough when he gets a hold of
my heart, it melts like wax.
And it feels like I’m on track
to find some inner peace
and cease the heartbreak, piece by piece.
An illusion of love confusing
my mind, causing my delusion.
If he thinks I’m worthy—I must be.
If he’s my devotee,
I must be
earnin’ the highest degree
in the school of love. But help me.
I still feel broken—amputee.
Keep lookin’ to the outside to find
someone kind to convince my mind
that I am good enough.
I check the flow of the first verse. When I rap the last four lines, I ache in my core. Tears push themselves out of my eyes. See, I intended to write something that would make me—or any girl that heard it—feel better. Oddly, after I banged out the rhymes, I got more than an emotional remedy. I found unanticipated meaning in the words. Meaning that I hadn’t intended. Almost like my inner self knew the real reasons things were happening in my life. That’s why the words flowed easily. I grab another tissue and blot a couple of tears that drop onto my notebook. Some of the word smudge.
I still feel broken—amputee.
Dad.
Keep lookin’ to the outside to find
someone kind to convince my mind
that I am good enough.
Mark.
A rush of anger strangles the sadness. I slam my notebook shut and push it away. The anger squeezes harder. I grab the notebook and fling it across my room. I watch it fly. It lands open, cover side up. It lays there, patiently waiting for me to get myself together. To get back to it. I take a couple of deep breaths and walk over. I sink onto the carpet. Then I slide my feet back. Lying prone, I flip the notebook over and find my slam poem staring at me. It lures me. I reread the poem. And now I’m finding unexpected meaning in these words as well.
A dark web of emotional and sexual merging.
Honestly I don’t know why I wrote this line a month ago. It just flowed out of me. But today those eight words hurl the truth, kicking and screaming, into my face.
Closeness. Mind union. Love. My room. Private touch. Body union. Love.
That’s how I learned to feel love. Because he wanted to do everything with me—to me, I felt loved. Sometimes, love meant secrets. The more secrets, the more he wanted me. Loved me.
Dad hurts Mom. But I love you, Rani.
Dad wants me. Alone in my room. But I love you, Rani.
I feel like I’m on a tiny boat at the edge of a giant whirlpool. It sucks me and all my tears down. My eyes are wide open and dry. I turn the pages back to “Love Supreme” and scan the rest of the rhyme as I capsize.
Chorus
A diamond in the rough,
but my heart be callin’ my bluff,
cuz I am still empty.
Verse 2
Where does it come from,
my self-worth, and will it succumb
to society’s beating and mistreating
that keeps me competing
with other girls instead of defeating
their mind-numbing greetings?
We so busy with the religion of beauty
and lookin’ perfect—heavy duty.
Brainwashed into worryin’ about the color of my lip gloss
instead of bein’ a boss.
I was confused by all of this
promise of bliss that exists
in the scalpel kiss
of plastic surgery that I missed
my step and fell into the abyss
of low self-esteem, covered up in their silicone schemes.
And now I dream of love supreme.
Chorus
A diamond in the rough,
but my heart be callin’ my bluff,
cuz I am still empty.
Verse 3
I gotta look inward
to escape this absurd
prison that keeps my heart
captive and makes it hard to start
lovin’ myself. Left in the dark
where do I begin when
I never got it as a kid—
love by example—that was forbid.
So I looked to others
only to get smothered
by the superficial love drug,
needing a daily injection in my blood.
I gotta find my higher power,
in my own ivory tower
of unconditional love.
Prove to myself
bit by bit
that I’m worth it.
Chorus
A diamond in the rough,
but my heart be callin’ my bluff,
cuz I am still empty.
I press my hand into the page with the third verse. Closing my eyes, I try to use a Jedi mind trick to make the positive intentions my new reality.
It doesn’t work. I don’t believe I’m worth it.
What I am is empty and scared.
Dad doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want me alone. To show my mind and body that he loves me. That I’m worth it.
I’m worthless because Dad doesn’t want me.
Then I remember. Mark said he still does.
THE PEACE OF THE ROSES
Two days, six unreturned cajoling messages, one poem, and a dozen red roses later, I’m still not going to forgive Mark. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over. I crumple up the card with the poem. I’m about to toss it into the trash but my hands defy my brain. I end up smoothing out the card then press it against my beating heart. My lips join the revolt. I smile. My eyes decide to get in on the insurrection. I reread the poem.
Rani,
these coming days
I’ll strive to amaze
and leave you in a daze
with my love haze.
But first this bouquet to show you I’ve been
repenting and lamenting,
and now I’m presenting
this
apology
and hope you’ll agree
to still have me.
—Mark
P.S. Dinner tonight? I’ll pick
you up at 7.
The hand-eye-mouth coordinated mutiny is victorious. My resolve weakens. Then it slips away like the setting sun I’m watching from the front porch of the store.
Ok. Just one more hang. For closure.
Twenty minutes later, Mark pulls up in his Chevy. It’s all shiny. I can tell he washed and waxed it today. I try to muster anger. No use. All I feel are butterflies. He hops out and stands on the foot rail. He calls out, “Hey, queenie!”
Frown, Rani. Come on, frown!
Can’t do it. Instead I manage a bizarre frown-smile hybrid. As I climb down the steps, I shake my head. I’m frustrated at my tendency to be dazzled by his charisma. He jumps off the foot rail and walks around to the passenger side. Holding the door open for me, he gives me a peck on the cheek.
“Kaluakoi, ok?”
“Yep,” I say, masking the burgeoning elation with as much expressionlessness as possible. Why couldn’t I have inherited Mom’s poker face?
He drives and I’m silent. Neither of us mentions boob girl. He rambles on about work and ideas for 4eva Flowin’. His hand finds its way onto my knee and slides up a tad to claim its rightful place under my denim mini skirt. He’s acting like nothing happened.
The resort parking lot is filled mostly with rentals plus a few local cars and trucks. I notice Pono’s 4runner. Mark opens my door and extends his hand to help me down. We stroll to the restaurant and he puts his arm around me. Then he pulls me close and we walk attached at the hip. “Did I mention you look beautiful?”
“No, you didn’t. And yes, I do,” I say, suppressing a giggle and pouting instead.
He stops and steps in front of me. Suddenly it’s like he’s Rhett Butler and I’m Scarlett O’Hara. He puts his hands on my shoulders and draws me to him. He gazes down at me. My head angles back so I’m looking up at him. I can tell he just smoked and the smell of Salem Lights on his breath excites me. He lifts my chin with his left hand. I think he’s about to tell me what Rhett told Scarlett in that scene where they were standing exactly like this. But instead he whispers, “I can’t stand the thought of not doing this ever again.” He holds my face in his hands, leans down, and kisses my lips softly.
I forgive you, Mark.
Geez, Rani, you’re so easy.
