The Beauty of the Moment

by Tanaz Bhathena

  She gives me an approximation of her usual smile. “Nothing special.”

  Which, these days, means another weekend of her parents fighting. A germ of an idea begins to form in my head. “Well, we can’t let that continue, can we?”

  A tiny frown, a spark of interest that wasn’t there before. “What do you mean?”

  I press my lips to hers in a smacking kiss, pleased to see her flush this time. “You’ll see.”

  As in, I haven’t got a clue. But now that I’m thinking, I know I’ll come up with something. Susan wasn’t exactly wrong when she said I need projects that interest me. And, at the moment, there’s no bigger project than making Susan Thomas smile.

  I get my brain wave in the middle of accounting, during an otherwise mind-numbing period of balancing trial balances. After the period ends, I find Susan feet away from the lunchroom. “Come on. We’re going out.”

  “What? Now? I was going to study with Heather and Preeti.”

  “Do you have a test?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then it can wait,” I say simply. “Come on, Susan, you’re going to study at home again, aren’t you?”

  Hesitation flickers across her face. She glances at her textbook and then looks back at me. “I don’t know…”

  “What do you want to do—spend your time doing physics or”—I flip up my collar and flex my biceps like Johnny Bravo—“go on a date with me?”

  “God.” She raises her eyes to the ceiling. But her mouth twitches and she puts her textbook and pencil case into the locker. “Since we’re on the subject, where are we going?”

  I grin. “To see the sights!”

  Back when people drove horse carriages in Mississauga instead of cars, the corner of Highways 5 and 10 (“Dundas and Hurontario,” I translate for Susan), made up the downtown area.

  Now I show Susan the city’s new center: two steel-and-glass buildings are the highlight, fifty and fifty-six stories each, nicknamed the Marilyn Monroe Towers because of their hourglass design, even though Steve says they look like crushed soda cans.

  Susan laughs when I tell her about Steve’s description. She lifts up her phone over her head to get a shot. “I like Marilyn Monroe better.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I say. “I mean, what if you’re living in the building’s butt? If there was an explosion, would that mean it was a fart?”

  She groans. “Now I’ll have that image in my head for life!”

  I laugh. My fingers twitch, itching for a smoke, but I hold off for a while longer. It’s been five days since my blowup with Mahtab. Five whole days without a single smoke. Maybe I can last another hour. Another day. With Susan, though, it’s easy to remain distracted, our boots crunching the leftover ice glazing the sidewalk, our breath puffing into clouds.

  For the first time since I’ve known her Susan doesn’t tell me that we need to get back to school before the next period begins. We walk down the main road, passing hillocks of snow frozen into graying ice, and fir trees weighed down by the whiter stuff. I don’t know what Susan finds so fascinating about the trees, but she takes over a dozen pictures.

  “I’ve never seen snow on trees before,” she admits.

  I grin at the way her face colors; it’s really kind of adorable. It also gives me another one of my brain waves and I nearly smack myself for not thinking of it earlier. I quicken my pace. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  We bypass the mall and cross the road to Celebration Square—a large plot of land sandwiched between the sandy-brown central library and the Civic Centre. Susan and I walk across the snow-covered Astroturf and climb up the stairs to the upper level. The fountain that kids play in during the summer has been converted into an ice skating rink. A Zamboni’s parked nearby like a sleeping orange giant, ready to smooth out the cracks or imperfections in the ice every couple of hours.

  Susan stares at the rink and then at me. “Malcolm. No.”

  “Yes,” I say patiently. It being the afternoon means that the rink is mostly empty, with only a couple of stragglers, the metal of their skates sliding smoothly across the ice. It’ll be easier to teach her—and to help her up when she inevitably falls.

  “I don’t have ice skates!” If her voice goes any higher, she’ll sound like Minnie Mouse.

  I laugh. “That’s why we rent them.” I pull some cash from my wallet—enough to cover us both—only to find the rental place opens at 4:00 p.m. on weekdays.

  Susan heaves a sigh of relief. But then I have an idea. A wicked idea that will get us both kicked off the ice if a patroller catches us. I glance back at the Zamboni; the driver is nowhere in sight, and I pull Susan toward the rink.

  “What are you doing?” she cries out.

  “Skating,” I tell her, grinning.

  Or walking. And slipping. And sliding. And falling. For a small girl, Susan is pretty heavy. Or maybe it’s the impact of breaking her fall while trying not to break my bones at the same time. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. My chest heaves up and down.

  Why am I laughing even though I’m in pain?

  Susan helps me up. Her face looks more confused than I’ve seen it: like she wants to laugh and take me to the hospital at the same time. She finally chooses to laugh and we get off the ice and onto sturdy ground.

  “I wonder if those paintings are still there,” Susan says suddenly.

  “What paintings?”

  “Murals. In a corridor near the library, I think. Or was it the Civic Centre?”

  I can tell from the casual tone of her voice that she’s lying. Susan knows exactly where the murals are. But I don’t push it.

  “Who knows?” I say instead. “Maybe one day you’ll have something of yours up here.”

  Susan’s hand freezes in the air. “I’m not that talented.”

  “Are you kidding? Your drawing of that girl Zarin was as good as any of the stuff I’ve seen in comic books.”

  There’s a long pause before she responds. “You really think so?”

  “Yeah,” I say truthfully. “You’re really good.”

  Susan doesn’t speak again as we head to the bus stop. She simply holds my hand the whole time, her fingers laced tightly through mine.

  * * *

  “Hello, Malc.”

  I hear Afrin’s voice as I get down from the bus in front of my house. Smooth, low-pitched, with a lilt that I found unbearably sexy when we were dating. Now it only annoys me.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “No hi-hello?” Afrin rises to her feet from her seat on my front steps, her long legs in jeans so tight they could’ve been painted on. Her hair, once black and red, is wholly red now. I hate to admit it, but the look suits her. A familiar smile plays on her lips. “You didn’t call.”

  I stop at the foot of the staircase. “Your point being?”

  “Oh, no. I’m impressed, actually.” She curls her fingers inward and pretends to examine her nails. “It’s a wonder you managed to last that long. That Susan girl must be good in bed.”

  “What do you want, Afrin?”

  The mocking smile slips slightly. “I want to talk to you. My parents want me to start seeing the son of one of their friends.” She sneers at the last word and I remember something she told me a year back. How her parents never really had friends. Only business partners or people who could place Afrin’s dad in even more powerful positions than he is in now.

  The news still comes as a shock. “What? But why? Your parents weren’t … they never cared about that stuff.”

  “Let’s say they walked in on me and Justin in a … compromising position.”

  An unwanted image flashes through my head—built on old memory and my own knowledge of both my former friends. I shake it off. “It doesn’t make sense. You’ve had boyfriends before, Afrin. Your parents knew about that.”

  “They didn’t,” she says quietly.

  “What do you mean, they didn’t?”

  “I
mean. They. Didn’t. Know. Anyone,” she snaps. “Except you, of course. You were the only one I ever brought home.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not!” Her shoulders hunch. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “I know I’ve never been much of a girlfriend, but I’m not lying about that part.”

  I think back to the first time I saw Afrin’s parents. How nervous I was. I didn’t realize until later that they seemed especially pleased to see me—a Parsi boyfriend, Afrin told me, was what they had always wanted for her.

  “Please talk to them, Malc,” Afrin says now. “They’ll listen to you. They’ve always listened to you. It would be even better if you pretended you’re my boyfriend—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “Afrin, we broke up and with good reason! And you know I’m with Susan now.”

  “Yeah. Susan.” Afrin rolls her eyes. “What do you see in her? She’s such a stick-in-the-mud.”

  “People asked me the same thing about you. Only they replaced stick-in-the-mud with stuff I’m not going to repeat out loud.”

  Afrin’s lower lip trembles. She bites it down.

  “I never thought you were any of the things they called you,” I say. “I mean you really hurt me, but I didn’t agree with those people. Just as I don’t agree with you about Susan. I care about you, Afrin. Maybe we can be friends again someday. But I can’t talk to your parents. I can’t be that guy for you anymore.” The guy who covered up her messes without question. The guy who always pretended he didn’t care about anything other than a good time. I take a deep breath. “I never want to be that guy again.”

  I think I hear a sob when I turn away from her, followed by the clatter of heels on the pavement. I don’t look back.

  Susan

  “You’re seeing that boy, aren’t you?” Amma throws a bomb at me the minute I enter the apartment. “That Malcolm character.”

  My hands are clammy under my gloves. I slip off my shoes and hang up my coat in the closet. As calm, cool, and collected as I always want to be in these scenes, it never happens in real life. Heat rises up my neck, burning my face. It takes about twenty seconds—even though it feels like twenty hours—before I turn around and say, “I am.”

  There’s no point in denying this. Malcolm wanted to go back to school after lunch today, but I told him I didn’t want to. “Can we stay out?” I pleaded. “A little longer?”

  We stayed. Ate frozen yogurt at the mall. Afterward, we took the bus to the lakeshore, where we spent the rest of the afternoon drinking hot chocolate at a café. I’m not sure what made me act like this today. Maybe it was simply the joy I felt at being outside—away from the world of grades and parents and broken promises. Or maybe there was a part of me that wanted to be discovered. To be looked at by my parents with an expression other than guilt or pity.

  After today, even my mother must have figured out that the recorded calls she was receiving from the school about my absenteeism weren’t computer glitches.

  “That’s it?” Amma shouts. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “Where’s Appa?” I ask, ignoring her and the guilt that begins to creep up on me.

  “Stop changing the subject!”

  “We’re dating, okay?” I’m half tempted to add that he’s my boyfriend, but Malcolm and I haven’t really defined each other in those terms. Besides, that will only make things worse for my mother.

  The tip of her nose goes white, the way it always does when she’s angry. “Susan, I forbid you to see him.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Because he’s not from Kerala, or Christian? Or is it because you can’t stand seeing someone else’s relationship work out when yours didn’t?”

  I want to take back the words the moment they leave my mouth. But they’re out there in the open, venom dripping. Instead of smacking me the way I expect her to, she droops like a flower that has begun to wilt.

  “Your father is seeing another woman,” she tells me after a pause. “A nurse at his hospital.”

  Now I’m the one who feels small. My father? An affair? For the first time, I notice that my mother is not wearing her minnu.

  “He found someone else, he tells me,” Amma says in a distant voice. “Just like that. It seems you both are alike in that sense. Neither of you think I have feelings. Or maybe I have been cruel to you in the past. I must have been, to deserve such words now.”

  The sorry rests on the tip of my tongue. But by the time it comes out, Amma has already walked away and my voice dissipates in an empty corridor.

  * * *

  “Winter holds the highest rates for driving test failures,” Joseph tells me for what feels like the tenth time that week. “Slippery streets, bad visibility—”

  His voice cuts off when I make a wide right turn. As he criticizes me for this, I begin to wonder about what I’m doing. My test is this weekend. And Joseph isn’t exactly wrong. Winter is a bad time to drive if you’re inexperienced, especially when it’s snowing. To fail would be alarmingly easy.

  Who says you’re going to fail? A voice that sounds like Malcolm says in my head. The bald guy?

  I bite back a laugh. Adrenaline buzzes through me and, apart from that one wide turn, I follow the rest of Joseph’s instructions perfectly.

  “Please drive like this during the exam on Saturday!” he tells me, which I guess is his way of giving a compliment. “The examiners are looking to cut points in various areas.”

  For the first time since I’ve had Joseph as an instructor, I really listen to him. Even then, I can’t help but remember how patient Malcolm was in comparison. How he managed to get down to the real problem—my nerves—and figure out a way beyond them.

  Malcolm, who shows remarkable aptitude and skills when it comes to people, who has absolutely no idea how my stomach clenches every time he excitedly talks about raising more money for the benefit concert. It’s not Malcolm’s fault that I’m terrible at the very things he’s so good at. I do my best to push aside the insecurity.

  Once Joseph drops me home, I head straight to my room without acknowledging either of my parents. Word document and Excel spreadsheet icons nearly obscure the background of my laptop screen—a painting I made last year, of Elsa and Anna from the movie Frozen, one Alisha insisted on keeping when she saw it.

  People in India say that when a person you’re thinking about telepathically appears in real life, that person will go on to live a hundred years. Alisha might be one of these people because when I log on to Skype a few minutes later, wondering if I’ll see her, I suddenly do, the gray icon beside her name going green.

  I’m not sure who dials first. Maybe it’s me. But seconds later, when I’m staring at my best friend’s familiar grin, her hair a curly mess behind the headband, I can’t help it. I burst into tears.

  “Oh my God, Suzy! What happened? Okay, okay, breathe first. I’m here. I’m right here.”

  I press the heel of my palm to my eyes and inhale deeply. The whole story comes out: Appa’s arrival, the announcement of the separation, the divorce papers I found.

  “They’re going to a marriage counselor now,” I say, my voice dull. “When they aren’t fighting about each other, they’re fighting about me and what my future is going to be like. Whether I should be a doctor or a bloody engineer.”

  Alisha says nothing for a long moment. Then: “You know what I’m thinking?”

  “What?”

  “That I’m glad no one died.” A nervous laugh emerges. “I mean, that’s what I thought when you started crying. That there was an accident. Not that what you told me isn’t serious but—”

  “I know.” And I do. A part of me wants to smile at her attempted joke. Only I can’t. “Alisha, it feels like my whole world has turned upside down. And to top it off”—I take a breath; it’s now or never—“Malcolm and I are dating. In secret.”

  Bug eyes, check. Dropped jaw, check. And then Alisha blurts out a word I’ve never heard her say in all the years I’ve
known her.

  “That’s what makes you swear for real?” I can’t believe my ears. “What happened to the food subs?”

  “Even falooda can’t solve this mess!”

  She says it so seriously that I can’t help it. I make a sound that could pass for a laugh. After a moment’s hesitation, Alisha laughs as well, and a tiny bit of the weight I’ve been carrying around lifts.

  “I know I’m a big mouth when it comes to giving advice, but even I’m coming up empty this time,” she admits. “Does Malcolm know about your parents?”

  “Yeah. He’s been really nice about it. He keeps trying to cheer me up.”

  “As he should.” There’s a surprisingly fierce look on Alisha’s face. “Suzy, have you tried talking to your parents about art school again?”

  I blink. “Again? Now? They already said no!”

  “Sure. But it doesn’t mean it’s a final answer. Look, your parents mean well. It’s hard to get work as an artist. But does it make you happy, Suzy? That’s the bigger question.”

  “It doesn’t matter what makes me happy!” I don’t understand why she can’t see this. “I still have to take care of Amma. If the divorce goes through and Appa gets remarried, it won’t be the same anymore.”

  Even though Appa has promised he will be there for me and for Amma, no matter what. But that isn’t the biggest issue.

  “Let’s face it,” I tell her. “I’m no Schulz or Seuss or R. K. Laxman. I have no idea if I can make it big as a cartoonist.”

  “Neither did Schulz, Seuss, or R. K. Laxman when they first started out,” she retorts. “But could you live with yourself if you didn’t try?”

  I say nothing. It’s a question that I’m still too terrified to answer.

  Alisha sighs. “Never mind. Know I’m here for you no matter what.”

  We end our conversation a few minutes later, Alisha asking over and over again if I’m going to be okay. I pull out my school binder, divided into three neat sections by course, except for art, for which I keep a separate portfolio. My fingers itch for my sketchbook. I want to draw my anger out in flames, blue, red, and orange over an entire page.