“I’ll do it.”
“—either. You can also—What did you say?” It’s not difficult to imagine Mahtab as a cartoon, her eyeballs bugging out on springs at my declaration.
I can’t help but smile. “I said I’ll do it.”
“Oh my God, Susan, oh my God, thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I warn her. “I still have to get my parents’ permission.”
“They’ll say yes.” Mahtab’s voice oozes confidence. “Have you completed your forty volunteering hours, already? No? That’s perfect, then! You can tell them it’s for that. I can’t promise you’ll complete all your hours with us, but we can still give you some.”
As she speaks, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Even if my parents agree, joining the committee will only mean seeing more of Malcolm, who I’m desperately trying to avoid. I glance at the flyer again, at the elements that need fixing. The old Susan would back out, would make any excuse to avoid a sticky situation. The one who threw up at a party and got mocked for it, who lost a boy to another girl knows there are worse embarrassments.
I think about what Heather told me—Who said scientists can’t be philosophers?—and replace philosophers with artists. The mosque I began drawing that night is now complete; I finished it this morning, right before heading to school.
“Sounds good,” I tell Mahtab.
This isn’t about Malcolm or my parents. This is about me.
Ms. Nguyen pokes her head out the door as the bell goes off. Today her hair is platinum blond. “Still want to join us, Susan?”
“Yes, Ms. Nguyen.”
I wave at Mahtab who’s already racing down the hall to her class. Once settled in front of my canvas, I pull out the flyer. TO SYRIA, WITH LOVE. I can hand-letter the words with a modern font, maybe look up some stencils online for ideas. My thoughts center, focus on the multiple ways in which I can design a new poster. In the process, I have a flash of inspiration. A warm feeling that prickles pleasantly across my skin.
I raise a hand. “Ms. Nguyen?”
“Yes, Susan?”
“I think I have an idea for my final project.”
Malcolm
I sense Susan’s presence before I see her in the parking lot, steps away from the cafeteria, which the school is letting us use for a couple of hours every Saturday and on the last two Sundays before the concert to organize everything. She steps out of the driver’s seat of a Corolla—the one I taught her to drive in—and waves goodbye to her dad, who moves over to take her place.
She passed.
“What are you smiling at?” Ronnie’s voice is cheery and way too loud.
“Nothing.” It’s easy enough to lose the smile when I remember I can’t congratulate her. Or talk to her. Or even look at her. Either of the three will show I’m still not over her and I don’t ever want to be known for that sort of mooning anymore.
“Need anything?” I ask Ronnie, hoping he’ll give me something to distract myself with.
“Yup. Write a speech to welcome the VIPs.”
“What?” Panic curls under my ribs. “I meant fund-raising.”
“You’re still doing that, Malc,” he says calmly, not seeming the least bit fazed by my reaction. “But Vincent Tran was one of the VIP liaisons and, as you know, he’s gone now. I was hoping you’d take over for him and be on the welcoming committee with Yusuf Shire.”
“Why me though?” I feel my nerves kick in. This isn’t some random speech or a class presentation. There’ll be kids at the event. Kids who’ve faced war and death. “Why not someone like Ahmed?”
“I thought about him first, but Ahmed has been working double duty, volunteering with us and at his local mosque as well. He can’t even come to every meeting. I could ask Isabel, but she’s busy, too. Steve is”—we both glance at my friend, who’s currently attempting to make Isabel laugh with arm farts—“Steve.”
I sigh. “I’m probably going to regret saying yes, aren’t I?”
“Great!” His beaming expression is instant, more overpowering than Mahtab’s. “You can coordinate with Yusuf over there and make sure your speeches are the same in English and Arabic.”
“Wait, Ronnie! What happened to the idea I gave you about publicity last week?”
Ronnie shakes his head. “We’ll talk about that later!”
I feel my insides deflate a little. So it didn’t work. It was still worth a shot. My most pressing problem right now is the speech. Sweat forms in a layer over my palms. I’ve done presentations at school before. A few years ago, I might have even done some good ones. But I’m so out of touch now, I barely know what I’m supposed to say. At least Yusuf, who was born in Somalia and lived in Dubai for several years, knows Arabic. I see him now, laughing and talking to Susan, snippets of his voice reaching me two tables away.
“… I lived in Dammam for eleven years before we moved here.”
Okay, so it wasn’t Dubai.
Susan says something in return and they both laugh. Great. Now they’re bonding over having lived in the same country.
“Wait, you have something…” He reaches out to touch her cheek, his hand resting way longer against her skin than it should, before finally holding up a finger to show her.
“Yo! Big brother.” Mahtab elbows me hard, shoving a legal pad and a pencil in my hands. “Time to get started.”
“Why don’t you or Ronnie write your own speeches?” I tear my gaze away from Susan’s happy, glowing face.
“Because you promised,” my sister tells me sternly. “Because these kids and this event are more important than your love life.”
The old Malcolm would flip her the bird and stalk off, finding the nearest liquor store that would take his fake ID or the nearest girl whose mouth he could bury a tongue in. I, on the other hand, take long, deep breaths until my simmering anger cools, allowing me to process my sister’s words. Mahtab’s right, of course. I am here for the kids. Besides, I was the one who messed up things with Susan. I have no right to get angry if she flirts with another guy. Or if she even starts dating him at some point.
Because it’s going to happen. I’ve seen the boys at school, the way they’ve watched her since we broke up. I even caught Steve staring at one point. I can’t blame them for it. Susan is a pretty girl and, now that she’s started hanging out with Heather and Preeti, she has begun drawing even more attention. I try not to stare at the way her leggings hug her calves or how her long sweater curves around her butt. I know I’ve been staring too long when Mahtab says, “Put your eyes back in your head.”
I pull up a chair, focusing on the blank yellow page in front of me. After five minutes of nothing, I sigh and decide to scroll through Facebook to pass the time. My thumb pauses at Susan’s name, and a photo she recently liked: a group of grinning girls at a restaurant in Jeddah.
Without really meaning to, I glance up and find her watching me, as if she sensed me looking at the picture. I’m about to say something—anything—when she turns away to focus on her own project: a giant sheet of construction paper with a pencil and a couple of markers. I turn back to my phone, swallowing the lump in my throat.
* * *
It’s hard enough to ignore Susan at school, but when she sits in front of me in English, the back of her neck and ponytail forever interfering with my vision, it’s damn near impossible. She’s doing her best to ignore me, though, refusing to toss me a single look, not even while passing classroom handouts back to me. One day, to spite her, I decide to brush my fingers against her desk the way I did during the first two weeks of school, earning a glare from her in response. This time, though, she doesn’t look. She stares straight ahead expressionlessly; her pale knuckles the only sign that she’s noticed. A part of me wants to crow in triumph (she’s not completely insensitive to me) while another part wants to sink lower (she still hates my guts).
The next meeting for the benefit concert is held the Monday before Christmas Eve. I pull myself together and coordinate w
ith Yusuf for the welcome speeches. He really isn’t a bad guy—if I ignore how he keeps eyeing Susan every chance he gets.
“Looks like I’m outta luck,” he says suddenly.
I glance up and find him—predictably—staring at someone behind me. I force myself not to look.
“With what?” My voice comes out gruffer than intended.
Yusuf’s smile dims for a second, as if remembering who he’s talking to. Then it widens again. “With your girl.”
Heat saturates the back of my neck. “Susan? She’s not my girl.”
“Does she know that? Do you?” He laughs. “Do you know how many times I’ve turned around to find you looking like you’d kill me?”
Now I’m genuinely embarrassed. I say nothing.
“But that’s not even what bothers me. I mean, jealous exes are a part of the package when it comes to pretty girls.”
I study Yusuf’s strong face, his clear deep-set brown eyes, the curls cropped close to his skull. Even when he’s wearing a thick sweater, you can tell the dude is ripped. If it comes down to looks, there is no contest; Yusuf wins hands down.
“But,” he says, emphasizing the word, “if the girl doesn’t like me back, it’s a different story.”
“What do … Nothing. Forget I asked.”
But Yusuf answers anyway. “When I see a girl stealing glances at another guy when he’s not looking at her, I know I’ve been relegated to the role of the lovable movie sidekick. Which, to be honest, stinks.”
I feel myself grin. He smiles back.
“She’s all yours,” he says as he pats my back.
The relief I expect at hearing Yusuf Shire isn’t my competition isn’t quite there. Because Susan isn’t mine and one day there will be competition. Serious competition, in the form of a Malayali Christian boy who won’t make the mistake of kissing his ex. A boy both Susan’s parents approve of. Who Susan herself may fall for. I take a deep breath and scribble something down on a piece of paper and fold it four times. Before I can think too much about it, I walk toward Susan’s table and drop it on her binder. This time she looks up, right at me.
I’m the one who looks away first.
* * *
The last few minutes of the meeting are dedicated to a special announcement that Ronnie has in store.
“I’ve been sitting on this for a while now,” Ronnie declares.
“Clearly.” Isabel nods at the way Ronnie’s bouncing on his toes and I smother a laugh.
“It’s about publicity. And Malcolm was the one who gave me the idea for it.”
I blink as Ronnie flashes me a grin. He can’t possibly mean—
“He suggested reaching out to this special segment on the six o’clock news that covers local human interest stories—”
Electricity buzzes under my skin. The ad for the TV show splashed across the city bus along with the reporter’s smiling face.
“—and they’ve agreed to publicize the event a week before the concert! We’ll also get some TV coverage the day of the event!”
Instead of joining the cheering that erupts, my brain races. On impulse, I decide to text Jay, who’s working at the café this morning.
hey, will michelle be in today? To my surprise, a little text bubble pops up on the other end, and seconds later, a message from Jay: She comes in at 12. Why?
have to ask her something important.
I rise to my feet. “Hey, Ronnie. Is it okay if I cut out a little early? The owner will be there at my café at noon. Gonna try again and see what she says.”
Ronnie looks surprised. “Didn’t she already sponsor us?”
“Yeah.” I clap his shoulder. “But the last time, we didn’t have confirmed TV coverage. Maybe I can squeeze a little more out of her. I mean, there’s no guarantee she’ll say yes. But no harm in trying, right?”
He smiles. “No harm at all.”
Without really meaning to, I glance at Susan, whose brows are drawn together as she draws furiously on a piece of chart paper. I’ve never seen her draw before. Never seen her this focused, like there’s an entire world locked away inside her. She looks up when Mahtab taps her shoulder and talks to her—presumably about the poster. I pull up the hood of my jacket, seconds before Susan’s gaze collides with mine. The paper I left on her desk earlier remains untouched.
Susan
I hope you will find a way to forgive me someday.
A single line, etched into my brain, even though I crumpled the paper and threw it away after reading it.
Someday. Like he didn’t expect it to happen immediately. Like he’ll—I stop that train of thought. Even I’m not foolish enough to think Malcolm will wait for me.
“Commitment,” Amma said on Tuesday morning, “is entirely impossible for the male sex.”
I laughed, not because what she said was particularly funny, but because she used the word sex for the first time in front of me. Even if it was in an entirely nonsexual way. I tell Heather and Preeti the story before homeroom, expecting them to give me blank looks like they usually do when I try to crack jokes, but this time they laugh with me. I guess we’re still first graders at heart.
Mr. Franklin surprises us that day during physics by announcing that he’ll not be counting our grades on the last lab—the one on which I got the C-plus.
“Wow,” a girl in front of me says amid the whispers that break out. “I know I did badly on that lab, but the class average must be really low.”
“Didn’t you know? Half the class failed it,” the boy next to her replies. “Even Dupuis only got a B and she’s, like, a genius.”
“You’ve all been working hard this semester”—Mr. Franklin’s calm voice cuts through the chatter—“and have done fairly well on average with the exception of that lab. I also realize university admissions are coming up and don’t want to give your parents any reason to worry.”
A few cheers break out. I feel my face turn red and avoid looking at Mr. Franklin when he hands out a new assignment to replace the canceled one.
I take the paper quietly and scan it. Relief spreads through me. This isn’t lab work. With this assignment, I can probably bump my final physics grade up to something decent, which, when combined with my other courses, will probably take me right into medicine or engineering at a reputable Canadian university—just as my parents want.
I should feel happy, I think, as the relief seeps away, leaving behind a strange, hollow feeling. Right?
I don’t want to be a doctor or engineer. I wonder how many desi kids have said these words out loud and withered to bits under their parents’ glares.
During lunch, Preeti says I should take the easy way out. “Fail a course or two. They can’t force you to go into a program if you aren’t any good at it.”
Heather disagrees, of course. “Only you could do something like that and still get away with it. The rest of us have a conscience,” she tells Preeti.
As if my conscience isn’t causing me enough problems, there’s Malcolm as well, who never really leaves my thoughts, whose presence was strangely palpable during yesterday’s fund-raising meeting, even when he wasn’t looking at me. Except when I talked to Yusuf Shire. That’s the only time I sensed Malcolm’s stare boring a hole into my back. There was a moment when I looked at Yusuf yesterday and wondered what it would be like to flirt with him or at least pretend to. It wouldn’t be difficult. Yusuf is handsome and we have quite a few things in common, both having lived in Saudi Arabia for so long.
But deep down, I know that flirting with Yusuf won’t work, and my parents aren’t the only reason for this.
* * *
I find a package on my desk during English. Wrapped in brown paper, it’s flat and feels strangely soft to touch. I first think someone left it there by accident, but then I see my name, stuck to it on a card, along with the words Merry Christmas. There is no sender.
Behind me, Malcolm is laughing at something his friends said. I feel his gaze on the back of my neck when I unwr
ap the package, a strange, anticipatory quiet settling into the space right behind me, even as Steve and Ahmed continue to talk.
Blood pulses in my ears as I see the gift. A scarf made of a sleek rayon fabric, with tassels at the ends, in a shade that could be yellow or green, depending on your perspective. The perfect chartreuse.
* * *
I always looked forward to Christmases in Kerala as a child. Carols ringing in Ammachi’s courtyard in the weeks leading up to December 25. Giant star-shaped lanterns strung over every house in the neighborhood. My cousins and I were usually in charge of making the Christmas crib in early December, constructing the nativity display out of cardboard boxes and hay before adding in the little clay figurines of Joseph, Mary, the lambs, baby Jesus, and the three wise men at the end from a set that my grandfather kept on a high shelf in a Polystyrene box.
My aunts and Amma would spend a good two days cooking for the family. Bowl-shaped rice cakes called appam with beef stew for breakfast. Kerala-style biryani and karimeen fish curry for lunch. An equally heavy dinner, followed by an array of desserts including Christmas cookies, plum cake, achappam, and caramel custard. I was seven when Appa gave me my first taste of homemade Christmas wine in a teaspoon—a taste I barely remember thanks to having spit it out seconds later.
While my cousins most looked forward to their presents on Christmas morning, I looked forward to the things I could not have in Saudi Arabia, where Christmas celebrations are banned in public. Like the giant Christmas tree inside Ammachi and Appachan’s living room twinkling with ornaments and lights. The midnight mass on Christmas Eve in a nearby church, the smell of frankincense clinging to my clothes long after it was over. The laughter of my cousins and my family, the one time all year when I didn’t feel the void of having no siblings.
The years we were in Saudi Arabia for Christmas, Verghese Madam’s family was in charge of organizing the celebrations, their house the only one large enough to host several families at once. Black screens covered the windows. Polystyrene and plastic cushioned the main door to muffle any sounds from going outside. “You’d think we were preparing for a war,” Appa muttered to Amma, seconds before giving Pastor Verghese a broad smile and saying: “Wonderful setup, George.”
The Beauty of the Moment Page 24
