Open Mic

by Mitali Perkins

  I had no idea what they were talking about. After some questioning, I discovered these were Trekkies of a most intense type. They reenacted episodes of Star Trek every day in their corner of the cafeteria, each taking the role of a male character in the six-person cast. The sixth character in the show was a brown girl named Uhura, and it was clear (to them) that I’d been beamed down to repeat her few but important lines. I considered the invitation briefly — Spock was hot — before crushing their hopes.

  The remainder of middle school involved episodes like a painful social dance class in PE, where I overheard a popular guy muttering about “fox-trotting with the Unibrow.”

  Mortified, I ran home to the bathroom mirror. Sure enough, my eyebrows were as impermeable as the fence between California and Mexico. My forehead was in San Diego, and my eyes were in Tijuana. My sisters found me in the bathroom crying over my hirsutism (look it up: excessive hairiness is a real diagnosis) and decided I needed help.

  Rupali introduced me to eyeliner, tweezers, and a range of facial-hair removal strategies. Turned out American beauty products can take the South Asian right out of a girl.

  Sonali excelled in science, so she told me about sex.

  “You mean I won’t get pregnant while using a public toilet?” I asked. That had been one of Ma’s no-sex tips, filed under the broader category of “Avoid all contact with boys.” “What about swimming at the Y?”

  “Nope,” my sister said. “The Y pool is pretty much baby-free. That is, if a girl keeps her suit on. Here, let me draw some pictures.”

  After digesting the facts of life as explained by my A+-in-biology sister, I pondered the miracle of our existence. Ma and Baba never touched in public or in front of us. The thought of either of them taking off any clothing was unimaginable. How in the world had the three of us been conceived through yards and yards of saree fabric?

  My sisters’ point totals were climbing, and I spied constantly on their dates (which usually started once the three of us were at the mall). I noticed two nonverbals that could come in handy if opportunity ever came my way: the Smoldering Look and the Hair Twiddle. Apparently, combining the two at the right time could seal the deal. I practiced for hours in front of the bathroom mirror.

  Thanks to this intense sisterly schooling, I began to relax around guys. I even made some male friends by the time I started high school. These buddies confessed crushes on other girls in excruciating detail, and in return I offered advice gleaned from the adult fiction section of the library. Well-researched romance novels soon turned me into the school’s number-one dating guru. I was at a suburban high school wearing jeans, not perched on a mountaintop in a white saree, but it didn’t matter — scores of young men streamed to me for relationship advice.

  No new points, though.

  Meanwhile, my sisters suddenly stopped playing altogether. Thanks to a blossoming feminist movement on their college campus and a bunch of not-so-great experiences, they were now bemoaning time wasted with Stone Age chauvinists and losers masquerading as good guys. Learn from our mistakes, they warned me. Wait for quality; skip the quantity. I listened (sort of) but couldn’t help thinking it was fine for them to quit, but I was still only at a grand total of two points. And did Dwayne’s playground invitation and Spock’s geeky move even count?

  Then Steve moved into the neighborhood. He was a basketball star with strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes, so gorgeous that girls finger-fanned their faces when discussing him in the locker room. On his first day at school, I watched him open a door for a tottering, seventy-something history teacher, and bam, I was gone.

  Steve turned up in most of my honors classes, and I put my best “I’m your buddy” foot forward. It worked superbly. After we shared a laugh or two, it was easy to add him to my coterie of guy friends. On the outside, that is. On the inside, I crushed on him madly, from freshman year until junior year. Nobody knew and nobody asked. I told the truth only to my diary, an orange notebook stashed deep in my desk.

  By junior year, I was losing hope. There was no way Steve was going to like me. Not in that way, not a chance. I’d seen the vacancy in my male friends’ eyes as they skipped across my face and body to scan a room for their white crushes. I did have the necessary feminine equipment, don’t get me wrong, but apparently my body parts were the wrong hue to hold a gaze. In this neighborhood, they preferred deli-sliced turkey.

  And then it happened. Steve stopped at our table on the way to eat with his basketball buddies. I was sitting with three of my friends, pretty Brady Bunch–ish blondes munching on PB & Js. Usually, guys talked to me with eyes fixed on my companions, but Steve was looking at me. Only me. And he was standing closer than any male buddy ever had. “Like roller coasters, Mitali?” he asked.

  Swallowing the bite of leftover lentils and rice Ma had packed for me, I prayed he couldn’t smell mango pickle on my breath. “Love them,” I said, smiling brightly. You’ve never ridden a roller coaster, you idiot. Don’t lie to him! “Love the idea of them, I mean. I’ve never tried one in real life.”

  “What?” asked Marcia, Jan, and Cindy in unison.

  “Are you joking?”

  “Don’t they have roller coasters in India?”

  Maybe they did. But we’d left before I had a chance to find out. Besides, life in a suburban American school felt like a crazy thrill ride that never ended. Who needed the real thing?

  “You’ll like the Giant Dipper,” Steve said. “Our church youth group is heading to Santa Cruz on Saturday. Want to come along?”

  Want to come along? I could hardly believe it — my dream guy had just joined the short list of dudes to ask me that question. First Dwayne, then Spock, and now . . . Steve. Apparently, I scored points only at lunch. “Sure,” I said, deploying two years of finely honed “I’m your friend” acting skills to keep from shouting the word.

  “We’ll pick you up at noon,” he said. “What’s your address?”

  “Sounds great,” I said, lying again as I scribbled my address on a napkin. How would I explain a ginger-headed basketball player to my blissfully ignorant parents? Once again, I’d have to enlist my sisters’ mad skills.

  Steve tucked the napkin into his pocket and moved on. The girls at my table were quiet, but only for a bit. I watched them shake it off and start to chat about their weekend plans. This invitation was a blip, for sure. Guys asked them out in front of me, not vice versa. When it came to the scripts of their lives, I was the fourth chick, the one without a speaking part, the sidekick who never got her own backstory. I was starting to suspect I was only in the movie so the protagonist could add dimension to her character.

  Saturday dawned, a breezy, summery, Santa Cruz–perfect day. I knew it wasn’t a real date — there were a bunch of us going — but he had asked me, right?

  “Are you sure this jock is worth it?” Sonali asked doubtfully.

  Rupali chimed in. “Why’s it taken him so long to ask you out?”

  I didn’t answer. My sisters exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “Let’s get you ready,” said Rupali.

  “What’s our game plan?” asked Sonali.

  I tried on eleven outfits before they finally agreed on the perfect combination — faded jeans, a white cotton shirt embroidered with flowers, and sandals with bling. Rupali convinced Ma to go shopping, Sonali asked Baba for help in chemistry, and I stole out to the porch to wait. My sisters were going to tell the truncated truth — I was spending the day at a park with some nice, studious friends.

  The church ride was on time. I dashed to the curb and jumped in before Steve had a chance to get out or Baba glanced up from Sonali’s chemistry textbook. Acquaintances from school jammed the car, so no introductions were needed. We chatted with the others on the drive, but once we got into the amusement park, Steve led me away from the group.

  “See you in a while,” he told them, leaving a wake of confusion behind us. Why does HE want to be alone with HER? I could hear them thinking.


  Before I could ask myself the same question, we were standing by the Giant Dipper. It was white, wooden, rickety, and huge. I gulped. “You’ll like it — I promise,” Steve said. “Just don’t fight it.”

  He was right — I loved it. My head buzzed with the nearness of him as the Dipper twisted and turned us. That sweet old coaster kept tossing me over to Steve and hurling Steve over to me. We rode it three times, then crashed into each other’s bumper cars, made crazy faces in the hall of mirrors, and shared fried dough. Steve swished a basket in the arcade and won an enormous stuffed monkey. He handed his prize to me with a smile sweeter than the dough we’d devoured.

  “Let’s name him Dipper,” I said, swinging the huge creature onto my shoulders.

  Steve reached over to brush the hair out of my eyes, and suddenly, it was time. I took a deep breath and hit him bang in the face with my best Smoldering Look. Oh, his eyes were blue, as blue as the California sky above our heads, as blue as the Pacific waves crashing on the sand. Stow it, I told myself. Write the poem later. This is now, baby. Twiddle some Hair and keep Smoldering. Oh, I Smoldered, all right. And Twiddled. All while balancing a monkey, no less — go on, try it, it’s harder than it sounds — but thanks to my sisters’ stellar training, I managed it.

  During the ride home, Michael Jackson’s “Rockin’ Robin” may have been belting out on the radio, but my heart was dancing a crazy Bollywood dance. The only thing separating us was Dipper, one leg draped across Steve’s jeans and one leg on mine. One by one the others were dropped off, but when it was just me and Steve in the backseat, he didn’t move away. No, he stayed close, one denim leg pressed against mine. To balance Dipper, I thought. But then he wielded his own nonverbal. It was a classic guy move I’d watched college dudes use on my sisters: a yawn, a stretch, and suddenly an arm was stretched out across the seat behind me.

  I knew the right response: lean in a little closer and clutch Dipper’s paw.

  The church car stopped in front of my house (too soon, too soon). I opened the door and swung out a leg. “Thanks so much,” I said.

  In a quick move, as smooth and agile as though he’d practiced it a hundred times in front of a mirror, he leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You’re sweet, Mitali,” he said, and handed me the monkey.

  And like that, he was gone. The car whisked him away, leaving me with points one, two, and three. I stood on the curb, squeezing Dipper so hard a real animal would have been asphyxiated in seconds. So, that’s the game, I thought. Hmm . . .

  The door opened. It was Ma, calling me inside, scolding about how late I was. I didn’t care. I’d played the game; that was enough. But how was I going to explain the monkey business?

  “Griff, snap out of it,” Evan says, jabbing his elbow into my rib cage. “You’re missing the newbies.”

  I glance at Evan — trying to ignore the scraggly reddish-brown “soul patch” on his chin — then turn to follow his gaze. A mob of girls, huddled together like starry-eyed lambs heading to the slaughter, make their way across the quad with Principal Greer herding them along. With their blinding-white blouses and heavily starched skirts, they look like rejects from an episode of Gossip Girl.

  Of course, my blazer and slacks would fit in the show just fine. As Principal Greer says, we’re all cut from the same cloth here.

  “Where are the boys? Did their group already pass?” Callie sports the same uniform as every other girl at Hobbs, but takes a more . . . generous interpretation on the skirt’s length requirements.

  “Did we look that scared last year?” Rebecca asks. “They’re terrified.”

  Though talking to the group, she leans into me. I try to ignore the sweetness of her citrus-scented perfume, the color of her perfectly pink lips, the touch of her freckled hand against mine.

  “Which one do you think’ll bite the dust first?” Evan asks. “My bet’s on the chubby one with the splotchy cheeks.”

  “No way,” Callie says. “You see Tinkerbell — the one with the pixie cut? She probably still wets the bed.”

  Only a handful of events are certain at Hobbs Academy. The chicken enchilada will give you diarrhea. Coach Hawkins will mutter something inappropriate during the Spring Pep Rally and we’ll all hear it thanks to the state-of-the-art sound system. And at least one freshman won’t make it past the first two weeks. That last one may as well be chiseled in stone.

  While Rebecca yells at Evan and Callie for being mean, my gaze falls to two girls at the tail of the mob. Rail-thin. Leggy. Dark-brown skin. Short, bouncy, black hair.

  Twins? Maybe.

  Black. Definitely.

  I should know.

  “What do you think?” Evan elbows me again, pushing me into Rebecca. “Which one leaves first?”

  “The blonde,” I mumble, trying to regain my balance.

  “Which one?” he asks. “There are, like, twenty of them.”

  Exactly.

  With about thirty students per grade, Hobbs is the smallest boarding school in Vermont. Our demographics are just like the state’s. White, white, and white.

  I guess that’s not fair. Technically Rebecca is “one-eighth German, three-eighths Sephardic-Jewish, and one-half Irish.” And Evan has enough Muskogee blood running through him to be a member of the Creek Nation. Still, I didn’t see anyone looking at them when we talked about the Holocaust or the Trail of Tears last year in World History. But let anyone mention Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. or Will Smith or even the slightly black-looking dude who trims Principal Greer’s prized rosebushes, and suddenly I’m the center of attention.

  It got bad during Black History Month.

  I own February at Hobbs.

  Even the cafeteria lady gets in on it. Like: I’m sorry, Griffin. So sorry. First — well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, do I now? — we had slavery. Next came those horrible Jim Crow laws. And then Hurricane Katrina — can you believe it? Here, take an extra slice of cake. It’s lemon. I’ve got watermelon and fried chicken and red Kool-Aid in back, too, just for you.

  (Okay, she didn’t say all of that stuff. Not at the same time, anyway.)

  But this afternoon in September, the cafeteria lady barely looks in my direction as she plops a scoop of lasagna onto my tray.

  “Dude,” Evan says as I near the table. “I heard there’s twins in the new class. Twins!”

  I slide into the chair beside him, bypassing the empty seat by Rebecca.

  “They’re in my PE class,” Callie says. “Violet and Jasmine Harris. I think Coach is going to talk to them about playing volleyball.”

  “Volleyball-playing twins.” Evan’s eyes make him look like a rat in search of cheese. “How do they look?”

  Callie glances at me. “You know . . . they’re tall. And they have . . . brown eyes.”

  Evan’s eyes dart around the room. “Yeah? And?”

  “They’re um . . . um . . .”

  I drop my fork on the tray, not expecting the clang of metal on plastic to ring so loudly. “They’re black.”

  The table falls silent. Another rule at Hobbs — no one talks about race. Like last year’s mono outbreak and Principal Greer’s BO, we ignore it — pretend it doesn’t exist. Pretend it doesn’t matter. “I saw them in the library.” Rebecca picks at her salad — a sea of iceberg lettuce and creamy ranch dressing, with a few walnuts on top to make it reasonably healthy. “What makes you think they want to play volleyball?”

  The question hangs in the air.

  We remain statues.

  Callie finally shifts. “They seemed interested in gym class.” She tugs at the necklace around her reddening neck. “And I think I overheard them saying something about how they used to play at their old school.”

  The way she speaks, low and mumbling and more to the table than us, doesn’t do her any favors.

  Now it’s Rebecca’s turn to glance in my direction. “Callie, don’t make stuff up.” They’ve been friends since nursery school, so she never holds back.

  I stare
at her, and with my eyes I yell: Control-Alt-Delete! Control-Alt-Delete!

  Rebecca doesn’t get my silent code. But then again, she’s a Mac type of girl. Those commands don’t exist in her universe. “You thought they’d be good at sports because they’re African-American. Admit it.”

  Callie shakes her head. “I never . . . Why would I —?”

  I plaster the biggest smile I can muster to my face. “Like Callie would ever think something like that. You guys have seen me play basketball, right? Two-legged cockroaches jump higher than me.”

  They all laugh. Quietly. Politely.

  Nothing like the way my cousins laughed when Benji cracked the same lame joke about me this summer.

  Once everyone’s provided the appropriate amount of laughter, we stuff whatever remains on our trays into our mouths.

  Rebecca steals a few more glances at me but doesn’t speak.

  And Evan spends the rest of lunch talking about Tinkerbell.

  So much for volleyball-playing twins.

  The next day, right after calculus, I see the Harris twins coming down the hallway. Buds in their ears, heads bouncing. They’re almost as tall as me, and I’m a hair under six foot.

  I pause, letting everyone else slide past me out of class. When the twins are close enough, I try to catch their gaze, to give them a head nod — quick tilt back, chin up.

  They keep walking. Don’t even look in my direction.

  Maybe they’re too busy listening to their iPods.

  Maybe they’re too busy thinking about their next class.

  Or maybe I just blend in with everyone else.

  I see them a few other times over the next couple of days, sometimes in the hallway, sometimes in the caf, but I never have the opportunity to speak. I mean, yes, I could speak to them, but what am I supposed to say? Hello, my Negro friends. Welcome to Hobbs Academy, which is whiter than rice and eggshells and vanilla-flavored milk. If you act like Bryant Gumbel and Wayne Brady, you’ll fit right in.