The Beauty of the Moment

by Tanaz Bhathena

  I nod, even though I’ve never had a boyfriend, and the extent of my internet stalking has been limited to old crushes who I never spoke to or was even friends with on social media. And Malcolm. I push away the last thought.

  “Malcolm is too carefree. I mean, he’s great, but he doesn’t understand the sort of pressures we go through to perform well in school. My parents are, like, MIA most of the time, but the minute I come home with a B or a C, it’s like they suddenly wake up and start asking all sorts of questions.”

  They may be only words, I think. But they resonate with me. They also partly explain why Afrin shoots me dirty looks whenever I get praise from Mr. Zuric in class. It’s not only about Malcolm. We’re both in a competition that goes beyond the boy I—

  No. I force my train of thought away from there. I don’t have a crush on Malcolm Vakil.

  There is a look in Afrin’s eyes, a sort of sadness and anger that makes me wonder if she can read my thoughts, muddled as they are. But then she blinks and the moment is gone.

  “My friend Justin is having a party tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but I’d like to invite you. A lot of people from school will be there.”

  I hesitate, taken aback by the sudden gesture of friendliness. “I’m not sure…”

  Afrin doesn’t take offense. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a notepad. Scribbling an address on it, she hands it to me. “Here, in case you change your mind. The party starts at eight. Just don’t show up exactly then ’cause no one will be there.”

  She waves as the warning bell rings, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. I slip the note into my pocket and slam my locker shut, managing to make it to art seconds before Ms. Nguyen closes the door.

  * * *

  Sunsets here stretch out during the summers, the sun a great fiery ball hanging relentlessly in the sky, as late as nine or even ten in the evening. As fall fades into winter, the days grow shorter and shorter, Yvonne’s mother tells us, darkness falling as early as 4:30 p.m.

  “Canada feels most like home to me toward the end of October,” Bridgita Aunty said. “When the sun sets at around six. When the birds roost in the trees.”

  In the tree outside my bedroom window, crows gather each evening at sunset, their loud cries rising in the air before they slowly fall silent, black bodies huddled on bare branches. I have gotten into the habit of watching them whenever I can, sometimes even catching hold of a stray gray-black feather that floats my way against a blushing sky.

  It is a scene so reminiscent of Jeddah, it is almost painful. I half expect Amma to tell me to shut the window—Do you want a bird to get in?—but she hasn’t been herself lately, hasn’t been functioning the way she normally does ever since Appa once again changed his plans to visit us. When I came home this afternoon, she was snoring on the couch, her phone resting on her belly. It has become her usual pose: a sleepless night’s long bout of worrying melting finally into exhaustion during the day.

  I push aside thoughts about my parents and wonder again about Malcolm and Afrin, the utter strangeness of being invited to a party by a girl whose ex-boyfriend stirs up a myriad of strange feelings in me. I glance at the address Afrin gave me today at school. Not like it matters. It’s not like I’m going to the party anyway. My phone buzzes with a text. My heart races and then slows to a dull thud when I see that it’s Alisha. Who else would it be?

  I’m glad she can’t see my face right now or know that the smile I’m sending her is a forced one. What’s up? I type, checking the time. It’s 1:00 a.m. in Jeddah. Friday already. Any plans for the weekend?

  Sorta lol. I’m seeing the guy tomorrow, remember? Well, technically today, but …

  I blink. What guy?

  THE guy, remember? Didn’t I tell you?

  “What the—?” I nearly curse out loud. NO! YOU DID NOT!

  Oh, no, wait that was Emerald …

  Alisha told Emerald Verghese she was seeing a guy before she told me?

  SKYPE!!! I text. NOW!!!

  She must have sensed my fury because when I log on, she’s the one who calls me.

  “Hiiiiii.” Greeting stretched out. Smile sheepish. Her natural curls flat-ironed to ruler-like straightness behind her earphones. I’m pretty sure her eyebrows have been threaded as well. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

  “You’re meeting some guy and you didn’t tell me?” I want to shout at her. I probably am, based on the wince that appears on her face. I lower my voice. “When did this even happen?”

  “Last week,” she admits. “My parents set it up. Everything happened so fast that I barely had time to breathe. I’m so sorry. I thought I did tell you!”

  “You told Emerald Verghese.” Verghese Madam’s simpering gem of a daughter, who was always nice to my face, until I heard her call me a brownnosing loser behind my back. I find it hard to believe my best friend would ever mix the two of us up. “You hate that girl, Alisha!”

  “I don’t hate her, Susan.” Alisha stiffens, her mouth flattening slightly. “I know you two never got along, but trust me when I say that she’s changed a lot from how she was last year. She even asks me how you’re doing! In any case, we only started getting closer over the past month or so. Her parents have set her up as well—with a guy from Kochi. She’s been really helpful. Full of good advice.”

  “Did she tell you to straighten your hair?” I wonder if it’s a good idea to tell Alisha that the effect is more sphinx and less Cleopatra.

  “I went to the salon she goes to, yes.” Alisha bristles. “They did my hair and eyebrows.”

  “The eyebrows look good,” I say grudgingly. “I can’t believe you’re actually talking to a guy. For marriage.”

  “It’s not for marriage. Not yet anyway. I’m not like you, Susan. I don’t have the same opportunities to meet guys or date them. I’m pretty sure you have guys falling over themselves to talk to you over there.”

  “Guys falling—what are you talking about?” I laugh, expecting Alisha to join in. She doesn’t.

  “Suze, have you even looked into a mirror? You, like, don’t even need makeup let alone any facial-hair removal.” She says the words in such a way that I’m not sure they’re a compliment.

  “You don’t need makeup either,” I tell her, and she snorts.

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, the first meeting’s tomorrow and I haven’t been able to sleep all night!”

  I instantly feel guilty about the third degree I’ve been giving her. “What’s he like? Have you seen his picture or talked to him?”

  “Yeah. He added me on Facebook yesterday.” She sends me a link to a profile. In his picture, Isaac Cherian wears square-framed glasses and a nice smile. To my relief, he also appears to be around the same age as she is, maybe a year or two older.

  “College of Engineering in Trivandrum,” I read out loud. “Impressive. Cute, too.”

  “I know.” Alisha lets out a whoosh of air. “What if I make a fool of myself?”

  “You will not.” I can’t help but smile at her nerves. “You’re head girl of the entire school, Alisha. And a class topper!”

  “That’s because you aren’t here.” Another compliment that feels like a jab, even though I’m not sure if I’m topping any class here after those midterms. English and art are pretty subjective in general, which makes it difficult to top them consistently, and I’m pretty sure I messed up the graphing section of the exam in calculus. As for physics—Mr. Franklin decided to pick this morning to not only give a surprise test (bloody B-minus), but also to go over our entire midterm paper in excruciating detail, like some of my old teachers at Qala Academy used to do. By the time I discovered that I got the fifth question wrong, I stopped keeping track.

  “Well, he’s not talking to me, is he? He’s talking to you,” I remind Alisha. “And you’re way better than me at making friends anyway.” Malcolm’s hurt face flashes before my eyes. I didn’t see him in English after our fight today and he hasn’t responded to the text I sent him after scho
ol. The one time I screwed up the courage to call him, his phone went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.

  “That’s true.” My words seem to mollify Alisha slightly. “Hey! Emerald says I should get my arms and legs waxed for the second date. What do you think?”

  Second date? She’s already thinking of a second date? I try not to automatically glance at my own arms, which are covered with a fine dusting of hair. “Is this a thing now? Are we all supposed to do what Emerald says?”

  Alisha frowns. “It’s not that big a deal, you know. Many girls our age wax or shave.”

  “I know that!” A part of me realizes that I’m making this into a bigger deal than it probably is. But the sight of my best friend with her hair done, her eyebrows shaped into perfectly inverted check marks—

  “You’re the one who made fun of that matrimonial website,” I finally say. “You always talked about not conforming to society’s standards of beauty! Especially to impress a guy.”

  “So maybe I’m changing my mind! People are allowed to do that when they grow up. You should try it sometime.”

  She’s mad, I tell myself. She doesn’t mean what she’s saying. But the words still sting.

  “I gotta go do homework,” I say before logging off. “I’m sure you can get all the advice you need from Emerald.”

  There. Let her see how it feels to be ditched. The satisfaction that comes with the petty thought is short-lived though and minutes later I’m feeling miserable again.

  I pick up the phone and send her a text: I’m sorry I snapped at you like that. I had a bad day at school.

  I wait for a few minutes, but no response. She hasn’t read the message, either. I begin typing another.

  I also fought with Malcolm and said some pretty mean things to him. Now he isn’t speaking to me …

  I pause and press backspace, watching each muddled thought, each letter flicker away into nothingness. What’s the point of telling Alisha this? I’m the one who messed up things with Malcolm, not her. And it still doesn’t excuse the way I behaved in the face of her big news.

  Even though Emerald Verghese knew about it before I did.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Alisha and I no longer live in the same country, let alone the same city. What’s wrong if she makes a new friend in my absence? Alisha always had more friends than I did, always managed to balance her studies and social life without alienating anyone.

  I think of Afrin’s invitation again, reconsider my initial thoughts about not going. It isn’t like Afrin is a stranger I met at the mall. I know her from my classes. I know she scored the only other A-plus on the King Lear essay. Not that the grade makes a real difference when it comes to trusting her.

  Besides, I can always call a cab home if I don’t like the party. Amma made me download the Uber app and program the numbers of every local cab company into my phone, in case there’s a public transit shutdown or strike.

  The door creaks behind me and my mother enters without knocking. “He never called. He said he would, but he didn’t.”

  I look up to find Amma staring into the mirror, as if examining her face for flaws.

  I hesitate for a second. “A girl at school invited me to a party tomorrow. At eight o’clock.”

  “Where is it?”

  I dig into my pocket for the piece of paper. “Somewhere on Burnhamthorpe.”

  Her forehead smooths out again. “Oh, that is close.”

  It isn’t; I’ve mapped it on Google. Burnhamthorpe is a long road and it will take me a little over an hour to get to the house by transit, about nineteen to twenty minutes if I take a cab. But my tongue freezes when it comes to telling my mother this. I do not trust her to say yes. I might only be a few months short of turning eighteen, but I am still micromanaged, unable to go anywhere without my mother’s permission, without answering every little detail about the person I am going with.

  So it surprises me when Amma does not even ask for Afrin’s name. “Will the girl’s parents be there?”

  “Of course.”

  I have never been a good liar. Appa told me that I give myself away with the redness that creeps up my neck, the way I never meet anyone’s eyes while telling the lie. But my mother doesn’t even ask for Afrin’s phone number to chat with her parents, when only months earlier she would have seen my heart beating through my chest, veins and all, the word LIE flashing cartoon-yellow at the center.

  “That’s good.” Amma does not look at me. She does not even meet my gaze in the mirror. Her eyes have that elsewhere look they often do when she’s thinking of other things. “It’s about time you made some new friends.”

  * * *

  I don’t recognize the song that pulses somewhere in the heart of the house the taxi drops me off at. It’s nearly as alien as the girl who stared back at me in my bathroom mirror this evening—one who wore skinny jeans, a cute top, and lip gloss, her arms smooth, newly shorn of hair.

  “Are you sure this is the right place, miss?” the driver asks.

  “Yes,” I say, spotting the number on the mailbox. “This is the place.”

  It has to be. It surely isn’t the barn we passed nearly two kilometers away, or the darkened building next door with the Zoroastrian Community Centre’s logo on top.

  This place, at least, looks relatively alive—a converted farmhouse with lights burning in the windows, the area in front of it scattered with haphazardly parked cars. The cold pinches my ears, the winter cap forced on me by Amma securely zipped in the pocket of my coat. I speed walk to the front door and ring the bell. A boy opens it, his spiky hair so familiar that for a moment my heart skips a beat.

  “Hey. Come on in.”

  No. They might be of the same height and build, but the boy in front of me does not have Malcolm’s face, nor his trademark cocky grin.

  “Susan!” a voice calls from the left. Afrin, her face shimmery with makeup, wearing a red dress that matches the highlights in her hair, and knee-high leather boots. “Let me take your coat.”

  I feel the boy’s stare when I shrug off my coat and scarf, resisting the urge to cross my arms in front of my chest and cover up the lacy, somewhat see-through white top Amma got me for my birthday in March, even though I’m wearing a camisole underneath.

  Afrin insists on putting away my satchel as well. “Don’t worry,” she says, ignoring my protests. “Why don’t you go get a drink?” She gestures to the boy who opened the door. “VJ can show you.”

  He raises a glass in my direction. “What would you like? We have beer, wine, vodka—”

  “Sprite,” I interrupt. “Or Coke.”

  VJ smirks and leads me farther inside, to the kitchen. He grabs a can from the fridge and hands it to me. “Glasses are on the table.”

  “Thanks.”

  I head back out into the living room. A chandelier hangs from the center of the sloping insides of the unfinished wooden roof, casting a dim orange glow over the bodies crammed inside. A pair of boys stand by the gas fireplace, talking.

  As I move deeper into the room, I draw stares—unusual scrutiny for a girl who is used to being invisible unless her hand is raised to answer a question in class. I force myself to smile and awkwardly make my way to the couches lined up in the room’s center, the brown leather cracked and peeling. I find a spot next to a boy and girl who are laughing together and nursing drinks in bright red plastic cups.

  I try to concentrate on my surroundings. As far as parties go, this is worlds apart from the ones I’ve been to. The boys and girls aren’t sitting in separate corners of the room, staring at one another and giggling. There are no adults hovering nearby, asking if we need more snacks or soft drinks. The couple next to me begins to make out. Across the room, a group of boys begin setting up shot glasses in a row across the bar.

  While at other parties my fingers often sought out my sketchbook in boredom, at this one, it’s really more due to nerves. My phone, my only other source of pretending to be occupied, is still in
my satchel, along with the book. The realization makes me panic for a second. Amma made me promise to keep my phone with me at all times so she would know I was okay. If any texts go unanswered, I will be in big trouble when I get back home.

  The chilly Sprite can sweats in my hand. I begin navigating through the living room crowd again, spying a streak of reddish-black hair disappearing into the kitchen, when my shoulder knocks into someone else, the impact sending a dull shaft of pain through the bone.

  “Ho-ly. Susan Thomas, is that you?”

  I press the still unopened can of Sprite to my shoulder and look up into Steve Patel’s grinning face.

  “Hi, Steve.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Justin.”

  “I don’t. Afrin was the one who invited me.”

  “Guess she’s keeping her friends and enemies close these days.”

  “What?”

  He blinks. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” He grins widely as if compensating for a faux pas.

  “Is…” I clear my throat. “Was Malcolm invited?”

  “Not by Afrin, at least.” Steve laughs at his own joke. When I don’t laugh in response, he sobers up quickly. “Justin probably invited him. They used to be friends, you know. Though now, with dating his ex…” Steve shrugs.

  “So he’s still not over her.”

  I want to slap my hands over my mouth. Or maybe use them to cover my face, which is now turning hot under Steve’s gaze.

  “I’m not sure,” Steve says after a long pause. “Malcolm usually falls in and out of relationships pretty quickly, but I’ve never seen him fall as hard for anyone as he did for Afrin.”

  “Oh.”

  Steve shifts his weight from one foot to another. His gaze falls somewhere behind me. “Hey, there’s Dave. I better go say hi. See you around, Susan.”

  “Bye, Steve.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the conversation made him uncomfortable or that he found an excuse to ditch me. I can’t blame him. I would ditch me myself. It’s not like I’m that fun a person to be around.

  When I finally spot Afrin exiting the kitchen, I do not ask her for my jacket or satchel. I allow her to pull me back into the living room, to the leather couch now populated with boys, and to jam a glassful of beer into my hand.