Steve’s eyes soften, which doesn’t surprise me one bit. Mahtab has that effect on people.
“I’ll be okay. I was looking for this jerk anyway.” He tilts his head in my direction.
“What do you mean?”
“We have that assignment for English, remember? You said you could meet today after work?”
The memory returns to me in a sudden rush. Crap. I completely forgot Zuric’s assignment—a short story that we have to read and figure out the themes to, worth 5 percent of the final grade. It’s not an assignment I’d care about normally, but after the D-plus I got on that horrible King Lear essay this week, I figure I could use the extra marks.
“What were you doing anyway?” Mahtab asks. “I called Ahmed and he said you never came over. And then you sent me some weird text about being busy?”
“Was hanging with a friend,” I say vaguely.
“What friend?” Mahtab asks, her tone unusually harsh.
But before I can respond, Steve butts in, a manic grin overtaking his face. “Oh, I know! It’s Susan! His new girlfriend.”
“Oh, shut up.”
My annoyance erases the tense lines around Mahtab’s mouth. A slow smile overtakes her face.
The back of my neck grows warm. I know Susan will not like being linked with me again—she was pissed over me pretending that when we ran into Afrin at the mall—but I can’t exactly deny anything without giving away her secret about the driving lesson.
“Whatever,” I mutter in response, hoping they’ll drop the subject.
“I like Susan,” Mahtab says, not taking the hint. “She’s a little shy, but she seems nice, unlike some of the other girls you’ve dated.”
I know that by these other girls she means Afrin. If there’s a thing such as hate at first sight, it definitely existed between my sister and my ex-girlfriend, their faces hardening from the moment they first shook hands at the ZCC, even though Afrin always called Mahtab a sweet kid. Mahtab, on the other hand, was less diplomatic. There’s something about her that rubs me the wrong way, she had said. She may be Zoroastrian, but I don’t trust her.
And though she turned out to be right, I still hated the righteous arrogance on my sister’s face, the warnings she always deems necessary now, as if I’m the younger sibling and she the older one.
“Susan and I are not dating. I like her, okay? She’s cool.”
“Oh, he likes her,” Mahtab tells Steve.
“She’s cool.”
“Will you both cut it out?”
My exasperation brings out matching grins on their faces. Of course I like Susan, I tell myself. Only not the way they’re implying.
“Yeah, make sure you wear a jockstrap around that one.” Steve guffaws. “She’ll probably get you in the balls if you try anything.”
“I’m glad he’s hanging out with Susan.” Mahtab’s smile eclipses the sun. “At least he’s no longer sulking.”
Steve raises his hands in supplication. “Okay, okay.”
I glance at the TV to avoid their knowing looks. There’s a story about the Syrian refugee crisis. “Hey, Mah. How’s that fund-raiser of yours coming along?”
“It’s coming along great. Though”—my sister fakes a cough—“it would be better if we had more people to help fund-raise and get sponsors.”
I stare at the news anchor, speaking silently on-screen, closed captions flashing underneath.
“One meeting,” I say.
Barely a moment passes by before Mahtab begins to crow. “YASSS!”
“I’ll come to one meeting and see if I can actually do anything,” I say loudly, trying not to cringe at her enthusiasm. Or the yasss. “When is the next meeting anyway?”
“October 30. We had to cancel yesterday’s and next week’s meetings because of midterms.”
Midterms. I try not to think about those—even though I’ve been averaging an A in phys ed thanks to basketball, and a B-minus in accounting and math. I’m still way behind in English thanks to the Shakespeare stuff, though only Susan knows about that.
“Is there, um, room for more people?”
“Yeah, you can bring Susan along.” Mahtab grins at me, then grows serious. “I really felt bad telling her no about the art director position. But she didn’t seem interested in anything else.”
“I know you did.” I don’t know what Susan will say when I ask her. But I figure it’s worth a shot. If anything, the meetings will serve the dual purpose of keeping Mahtab happy and staying outside the range of Freny’s microscope. Susan’s company isn’t exactly a chore, either.
Steve coughs and a strange look passes between him and Mahtab. My sister gives him a single firm shake of the head. “Okay, you two. Midterms start on Tuesday. I gotta go study,” she says, before leaving the room.
I turn to Steve, who’s pulling out a binder from his bag.
“What’s up?”
Steve looks at me, his eyes extra wide. “What?”
“You and Mahtab gave each other a look. Like you know something I don’t. What’s going on?”
“I swear it’s nothing, man!”
I frown. “Wait, are you two—Steve, if you’re messing around with my little sister—”
“I’m not,” Steve interrupts. “She’s dating Ronnie, remember?”
“Oh yeah? Then what was it?”
Steve hesitates for a split second. “It was about Susan.”
My heart skips a beat. “What about her?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say this.”
“What is it?” I must sound more aggressive than I normally do because Steve flinches.
“I heard Afrin talking crap with her friends about Susan. Nothing major or anything. I mean, what’s Afrin ever done except complain about girls she doesn’t like, right?”
A memory surfaces: tenth grade, Afrin’s red heel jutting out from under a table, tripping a girl who had flirted with Afrin’s then-boyfriend in the cafeteria, and then laughing when the girl fell flat on her face.
I push the thought aside. Afrin and I aren’t going out anymore. She’s probably pissed that Susan did better than her in the last assignment that Zuric gave our class.
“You’re right,” I tell Steve now. “It’s probably talk.”
Steve nods, a little relieved, and pulls out his copy of the short story. “C’mon. Let’s get to work!”
* * *
Midterms in the tenth grade were a series of parties—“study sessions,” people called them—held at Justin Singh’s house on the border of Oakville and Mississauga when his parents were out of town. Justin and I were both fifteen years old, but there was a look on his face that always made him appear older: a weariness around his eyes, his smile as hard as flint. He wasn’t known for stopping and talking to people or inviting them to his parties. Especially nobodies like me.
This year, the Monday before midterms begin, I end up having a study session—a real one—with Ahmed and Steve in the school library at lunch, the three of us actually reading the books in front of us instead of fooling around the way we normally do when we’re together. Part of that credit also goes to the librarian, Ms. Mehra, who kicked us out the last time for being too loud.
“I could use something stiff,” Steve whispers now, one eye on his accounting textbook, the other on the library desk. “Who came up with this stuff again? Some bored Portuguese guy?”
“Italian,” I say, remembering Mr. Hill’s lecture from the beginning of the term. “I think it was an Italian who came up with modern double-entry bookkeeping.”
“Europeans,” Steve grumbles. “Trust them to come up with more ways to bore us at school.”
“Wanna do what the Arabs came up with instead, Patel?” Ahmed looks up from his calculus text and grins in a way that tells me that Steve will like this answer even less. “Y’know, real math, like algebra?”
I tune out their bickering and double line the totals of my balance sheet. Perfectly balanced on the first try. Accounting, surprisingly,
makes sense most times. I’m guessing working cash at Michelle’s sort of helps me there. English, on the other hand, continues to be an indecipherable mess, especially the Shakespeare unit that Zuric keeps insisting will be on the midterm and the final. A few pages into King Lear, I decide I’ve had enough of both fossils—bard and teacher—and stick it back into my bag.
I glance sideways at one of the individual study carrels, where Susan’s been sitting for the past twenty minutes, scribbling away in her binder. Susan wanted to use today’s lunch period to study at the library—owing to the fact that it’s getting colder outside. Naturally, the moment Ahmed and Steve heard me saying that I would join her, they decided they needed to study as well. So now, instead of spending my lunch hour at a table cozied up with a pretty girl, I’m stuck with Wheels Three and Four, both of whom sported identical grins on their faces when Susan chose an individual carrel to “avoid any distractions.”
I wait until Ms. Mehra’s working on her computer and then pull out my phone: hey.
A chiming sound erupts from the area of the carrels, followed by the rustling of pages and a sharply whispered apology.
Susan hastily silences her phone before scowling at the screen. My phone buzzes with a reply: What are you doing? Do you want to get me kicked out?
If there was any quicksand available, I’d have gladly sunk into it. Even though the two jokers in front of me can barely hold back laughs.
sorry!! i thought you had your phone silenced!! I add an emoji with a halo. Or try to. In my haste, my finger shifts and I accidentally send her the kissing emoji underneath. Susan’s head snaps sideways in a glare. I’m about to type another apology, when she holds up her phone and makes a point of showing me as she shuts it down. Later, she mouths, before turning back to her books.
A loud snort forces me to look around. I glare at Steve, who’s shaking with silent laughter. But Ms. Mehra isn’t at her desk at the moment and the tension in my muscles loosens. Ahmed’s grin, though a little more sympathetic, tells me he doesn’t exactly mind my embarrassment either.
I scowl at them both. Okay, so I know I messed up—something I tend to do on a fairly regular basis when it comes to this particular girl. I tap my fingers on the table for a few seconds, thinking. I pull out a piece of paper from my binder: Sorry. Wanted to wish you good luck. Even though you’re probably going to ace everything.
Maybe it’s a little old school, sending notes like this. Cheesy, too. But the words aren’t exactly a lie. Susan is probably going to ace everything, unlike me.
When the third-period bell goes off, I’m the first to get up and I let the folded square drop lightly on Susan’s desk. This time, I wait until reaching the door before risking another glance. Susan’s looking at me, too. And, in the split second before she looks away, she gives me a smile that stays with me for the rest of the afternoon.
* * *
The week after midterms end, my accounting teacher taps me on my shoulder after class. “Malcolm. A word.”
I stay behind, wondering what I’ve done to deserve being held back, when Mr. Hill—part-time basketball coach, full-time LeBron James look-alike—looks up and says, “Have you thought of applying for a bachelor’s of commerce degree at university, specializing in accounting?”
What the—what? A degree specializing in accounting? University?
“I doubt I could get into a college right now, let alone a university,” I manage to say once my tongue unglues itself from the roof of my mouth. “I mean, don’t grades count?”
“They do.” Mr. Hill gives me a sudden smile that reminds me why every kid in a two-block radius instantly wants to trust him. “And, while your midterm report cards aren’t out till mid-November, I can safely say you haven’t been doing too badly in most of your courses. If you pull up that English grade, I think you could easily get into a university.”
English. Yeah, well. Never expected any miracles there.
“I don’t know. I never saw myself doing accounting,” I admit. Or going to a college or university. But the idea that someone else, especially a teacher, thinks that I may, that I can …
“Think about it, okay?”
I manage a nod and step out, still feeling a little bit like I’ve been slammed in the ear by a basketball. The last time a teacher mentioned my name in conjunction with college or university was Mr. Kristoff in eleventh grade. I didn’t take him seriously then, but now I begin to wonder if it really is so far-fetched—this idea of me going to a postsecondary institution. It would be worth it, I think, to see the look on the old man’s face when I showed him my acceptance letter.
Next to my locker, I find a girl cooing at a boy, both glowing with a look that shouts Newly Hooked Up. “Poor baby.” The girl touches the boy’s chin. “Let me see that.”
Behind the couple, I see Susan, a couple of thick textbooks in hand, the expression on her face a mix of discomfort and disgust.
“Excuse me,” Susan says. “You’re blocking my locker.”
Neither girl nor dazed boy move from their spot. Now the girl is dabbing the boy’s chin with a tissue she moistened with her tongue.
I try not to laugh. And fail. The boy and girl start at the sounds coming from my mouth and notice Susan standing behind them.
“Oh sorry,” the girl says. “Were we blocking your locker? I’m so sorry.”
Susan does not say that it’s okay. She glares at them until they hastily move aside to the safety of a wall and then directs her gaze at me.
“What’s so funny?” If those brown eyes of hers shot sparks, I would’ve been ablaze.
“You,” I say, once I manage to control myself. “You look so … appalled.” Susan would never call a boy her baby. Of that I’m pretty sure.
“What does that mean?” Susan’s voice rises now, exasperated.
“Maybe you should put those books in your locker.” Though I’m not sure if her arms are trembling from anger or the extra strain.
She drops the books to the floor with a resounding thud. Behind us, the girl detaches herself from her boyfriend and mutters something that sounds like “psycho.” While the two shuffle away, I stare at Susan, fascinated by the completely unimpressed look on her face.
“It’s no wonder you don’t get along with everyone,” I say. Susan can’t be fake for one second. It’s one of the things I like best about her. The moment the words slip out, though, I realize they are a mistake.
She winces and then undoes the lock. “Yeah. Thanks for reminding me why I don’t have any friends in this place.”
“What?” I ignore the sting of her words. I thought I was her friend. “I didn’t mean—”
“And I never know what you mean, so thanks for that as well.”
How did this go so wrong? Why is she so pissed off? The old Malcolm would ask if she’s PMSing, but the new one—thanks to being gut-punched by Mahtab—knows better.
“Is everything okay?” I ask cautiously.
She sighs. “I’m sorry. I got a bad test score in physics.”
“How bad?”
She kneels to pick up one of the books she dropped to the floor, pulls out a test paper from it, and hands it to me.
“B-minus?”
“Don’t shout it to the world!” Color rises to her cheeks again.
I can’t help it. I start laughing. “What’s wrong with a B-minus?”
She wraps her arms around herself, the knuckles turning pale. “You don’t get it. No one over here does.”
The laughter drains out of me. This is way more serious than I thought.
“It’s just a test, Susan,” I tell her calmly. “Not a midterm that’s like 30 percent of your final grade.”
She bites her lower lip. Crap, shouldn’t have mentioned midterms—didn’t she tell me she wasn’t entirely happy with how her physics one went last week?
“Look,” I add, “I’m going to a meeting for that fund-raiser for Syrian refugees tomorrow. D’you want to come along? I know Mahtab real
ly wants to see you again.”
That’s right, Malc. Tell her how excited your sister is to see her. I try not to wince. But this isn’t exactly how I planned on asking her anyway, with her mood so off. Not like going to a fund-raising meeting is a date or anything.
She stares at me for a minute, almost as if considering it. “I don’t think I can.”
“Come on. It’ll be good for your Nobel Peace Prize application!” A joke that, judging by the scowl on her face, falls flat. “Seriously, Susan. No one cares if you got a B-minus on a test. You’re acting like you failed or something.”
“Just because you’re constantly failing your tests doesn’t mean others don’t care about their grades.”
Silence. One beat passes. Then two.
I’m tempted to tell Susan what Mr. Hill told me minutes earlier, with the same amount of venom. But there’s a look on her face that reminds me too much of the old man. A look that hits far too close, could cut way too deep. If I let it.
“Maybe I should let you cool off or something,” I say instead, my voice cold. It ices over the sting of Susan’s words, leaving behind an odd numbness. Wounds only fester if you let them, I remind myself. If you let yourself like someone way more than they’ll ever like you. Afrin taught me as much.
Susan’s eyes widen with something that could be shock. Or regret.
I don’t wait to find out.
Susan
I know I’ve made a mistake the minute he drops the test to the floor and begins walking away. I raise a hand to call him back, when a soft voice makes me pause: “You said the right thing, you know.”
It’s Afrin Irani, dressed to the hilt as always, her pretty face oozing compassion.
“Were you listening to us?” I ask.
Afrin covers her cheeks with her hands. “I honestly didn’t mean to. He doesn’t even talk to me now. But you know how it is.” Her airy laugh holds a note of awkwardness and for a second I almost believe she’s being genuine. “You can’t stop stalking his Facebook even though he’s over you.”
The Beauty of the Moment Page 12
