I want her to follow me. To shout that I have to come back and listen to what she has to say. But because she’s my mother she doesn’t. Nothing—not even a family breakdown—is allowed to interfere with the creation of her poster child: the daughter who never gets a bad grade. I open my calculus textbook and begin writing out equations on lined paper. I allow a single tear to fall, wiping it off before it smudges the edge of my perfect x + y.
* * *
The first Monday back after Christmas break, we find a substitute teacher in English. Malcolm and Afrin are missing as well—though I don’t care about this. No. I’m not thinking of them at all.
“I’ve been told you have independent study essays to work on. You may continue doing that.” The teacher’s voice edges on a yawn.
Which pretty much means that I now have a full hour to get a head start on my calculus homework since my essay on The White Tiger is already drafted and saved to Dropbox. On another day, I would be happy about the extra time. Or about not having chosen In the Skin of a Lion for my independent study; it’s a novel that seems to be tripping up everyone who picked it. Today, I feel resigned.
“Hey, Susan.” I turn around and see Ahmed’s trademark grin. “Have an extra pen?”
“Sure.” Even though I fully expected them to ignore me after Malcolm and I broke up, Ahmed and Steve have been nothing but nice, going out of their way to say hello whenever they pass me in the halls or see me at meetings for the fund-raiser.
From the front of the room, the teacher calls out our names for attendance. There’s a pause when she reaches the Ps. “Sa-ma-ran Patel,” she says, stumbling over the first name.
No one answers. A girl giggles up front. I glance up, wondering if there’s an error as I don’t recognize the student. “Smear—”
“It’s Smaran!” Steve bursts out. “Smaran, okay? And I’m here!”
More laughter, which makes Steve grow red with anger.
I wait until the teacher finishes taking attendance and then turn to face Steve.
“Your real name is Smaran Patel?” I ask quietly.
Steve says nothing, even though I can tell from his scowl that he heard my question.
Ahmed snorts. “It is! It’s the name on every attendance sheet.”
“Shut up, A.,” Steve says.
Ahmed grins. “Fine. I’m gonna use this time to pick some brains and find out the theme to In the Skin of a Lion.” He slips out of his seat and into Malcolm’s empty one to talk to the girl on the other side.
“How come everyone calls you Steve if that’s not your name?” I ask.
“I ask the teachers before class every semester to call me that,” he admits. “Smaran’s my grandfather’s name so I can’t even change it without upsetting my mom.”
“It’s a nice name.”
“Yeah, if you say it right.” The tip of his pencil breaks against the paper; he’s pressing so hard. “You know what, forget it. You won’t understand.”
Four months ago, I might have backed off. Today, I raise a brow the way Preeti does when people dodge her questions. “Oh yeah? Try me.”
“Susan Thomas? Your name isn’t even Indian. Give me one instance when you were made fun of in school because of it.”
Steve’s comment about my name isn’t exactly new. When I was younger, I’d heard similar comments at Qala Academy—from students who weren’t Christian or from states in India with large Christian populations.
“My name has more to do with my religion than my nationality,” I tell him bluntly. “India is a country with plenty of Christians—which makes my name as Indian as any other. And that’s beside the point. My physics teacher at Qala Academy called me Soo-sun. It wasn’t even on purpose—just her accent—but for a good chunk of tenth and eleventh grades, the girls in class called me Soo-soo behind my back. That means—”
“I know what it means,” Steve interrupts, looking surprised. “They really called you that?”
“People always find ways to embarrass you if they can.” I think back to the disastrous party this October, the video that’s now forever entrenched online. “You can’t control that, but you can control your reaction.”
“It’s not the same. I’m not Malcolm who’s so cool that he doesn’t care or Ahmed, who every girl at school is tripping over. I’m the clown. That’s how people know me. Imagine adding a name like Smaran to the mix—a name that maybe only one or two people over here can pronounce without butchering. I’d never live that down.”
As much as I want to tell him it doesn’t matter, I know this isn’t entirely true.
“You teach them,” I say after a pause. “You correct them until they start saying it right.”
The teachers at Arthur Eldridge aren’t like Verghese Madam, who would have thrown a piece of chalk at my head for correcting her, or scolded me for being cheeky.
“I’m sorry for what I said before,” Steve says after a pause. “About your name not being Indian. I mean, I get mad at people who ask me where I’m from and then, when I say I’m Canadian, they ask again where I’m really from because of my last name or my skin color.”
“It’s okay.” I accept the apology with a smile. “And I’ll keep calling you Steve if that’s what makes you comfortable. I just want you to know that your real name is nice, too.”
He smiles back. “So, why are you still single, again?”
I’m not attracted to Steve, but the mild come-on is flattering. “Taking a break from dating at the moment.”
“Yeah, I know.” There’s a gleam in his eyes that tells me he knows more, but then he shrugs, changing the subject. “Besides, you rejecting me is only payback for all the times I dissed desi girls in the past.”
My jaw drops in mock-horror. “No. You, Steve?”
“Call me Smaran.” He flashes me a grin and then turns both ways to make sure our convo is still private. “Only when we’re alone though. I have a reputation to maintain.”
I grin back. “Of course.”
* * *
I look for Malcolm the next day as well, going as far as trying to spot him in the cafeteria at lunch, a place he usually never bothers stepping into during school hours. I don’t see him. Afrin, on the other hand, is at her usual table, laughing with a group of friends. Someone nudges my shoulder from behind. “Hey, do you mind? You’re blocking the way.”
“Sorry!” I move out of the way of a pair of girls who glare at me and press my back against the wall. I take a deep breath, allowing the greasy smell of the cafeteria fries to fill my senses. Malcolm hasn’t called or texted after seeing the poster. He hasn’t sent me any more notes, either. Is he waiting for me to make a bigger move? Or did he finally give up on me? Maybe he and Afrin got back together. Or maybe he’s with someone else now. That’s what happens in the real world, the one outside teenage movies and young adult novels.
Alisha scoffs at insta-love, calls it an unhealthy trope that doesn’t happen in real life. “I mean it’s literally not possible for anyone to fall in love when they’re so young,” she told me once. I square my shoulders and head for the other end of the cafeteria, where Heather and Preeti are seated.
“So, did you bring them?” Preeti asks—her way of saying hi.
I pull out the lunch box I packed for the day. “I did. Dosas for everyone!”
“Oh my God, Heather you’re going to love these. They’re the South Indian version of savory crepes, but way better than any others you’ve tasted. You’re so lucky your mom makes these, Suze.”
“I made them.” I can’t help but smirk when their jaws drop with awe. “Hey, I don’t only know how to crack open books, you know.”
It had also taken several tries to make one perfectly round dosa last night, but by the time I was on my second, Amma was in the kitchen, giving instructions from the back. When I finally turned around after finishing up the sixth, she and Appa were both standing at the kitchen entrance with odd smiles on their faces.
A pair of fingers sn
ap in the space before my eyes. “Hey, Susan, where’d you go?”
“Sorry.” I blink. “You were saying?”
“I said you are so lucky to be able to eat this every day!” Heather’s eyes are squeezed shut, a blissful smile on her face.
I grin. “Well, I like them, too, but trust me when I say I don’t want to eat dosas every day.”
In Jeddah, Alisha and I went out of our way to make dosas and idlis and any other South Indian staple more interesting. Alisha’s latest attempt was a peanut butter and grape jelly idli sandwich, which was too experimental—even for me. A pang goes through my chest. It’s during times like this that I miss Alisha the most. Times when we would be able to simply look at each other and know what the other was thinking. Now though, little holds us together during conversations, our calls ending within a few minutes, like we have nothing to say to each other.
Except for the times things really go wrong. Like Alisha’s running bad luck with the boys her parents set her up with. My breakup with Malcolm. On Christmas, when I told her about the scarf he gave me, I only got a hmmm in response.
“You think I should ignore him.”
“I’m not sure,” she said, to my surprise. “I mean, if he was a two-timing jerk, I would tell you that right away, but this is different.”
“You’re saying he isn’t a two-timing jerk?”
“I’m saying don’t write him off completely. Besides, you have too much going on right now. Deal with your family situation first. If Malcolm is the right guy for you, you’ll get back together. Have faith.”
A text pops up on my phone now—Alisha, appearing again as I was thinking of her. You free to talk? You have lunch, right?
I smile. You’re going to live a hundred years. How about later tonight? Or is it urgent?
Nah. Just miss you. Tonight’s good.
I send a photo of two old ladies dancing, along with the caption: When we grow up, we’ll be the ones causing havoc in the nursing home.
I laugh out loud at the photo she sends right after—it’s the two of us at age ten, sticking our tongues out at the camera. I tear off a corner of the dosa in my box, dip it into a small container of coconut chutney, and pop it into my mouth.
A familiar face smiles and waves at me from another table. Yusuf Shire. When I wave back, he winks. It reminds me of another boy and another wink, and I wonder if Alisha was right about the insta-love thing. If what happened between Malcolm and me wasn’t love at all, but simply a precursor to it—a step that showed our hearts were capable of more than simply pumping blood.
Malcolm
The first day of school after Christmas break—exactly the day I’m planning to gather the courage to talk to Susan about her poster in English instead of sending her another note—I get held back by a case of such terrible flu that Mahtab and Freny quarantine me in my room.
“I will call the school, dikra,” Freny says.
“And I’ll handle anything that needs to be handled for the concert,” Mahtab adds.
“That’s still twelve days a”—the word gets cut off as I hack up a wad of phlegm and spit it out in a tissue—“way.”
“Yeah, hopefully you’ll be better by then.” Mahtab grins. “See, big brother, this is why I keep telling you to get your flu shot.”
“Yeah, buzz off, will you? You got the flu last year after getting the shot.”
Mahtab sends me a flying kiss and leaves: a whirlwind of colorful winter clothes.
Freny gives me a smile. “I’ll get you some of my special tea with haldi. That will make you feel better.”
“I don’t like turmeric,” I croak out. Great, now I can’t even speak.
“No excuses.” I’ve never heard Freny sound this decisive before. “It will break up that horrible cough of yours. And I’ll add some honey so that it doesn’t taste as bad.”
I groan.
But in spite of my complaints, I secretly admit it’s nice being fussed over. It’s been a while since that happened. With Mom being sick from her meds and surgeries, Mahtab and I had learned to take care of ourselves early on. And we’d been lucky in a way that we hardly ever got sick.
“You have your father’s genes,” Mom told me once. “He rarely ever gets sick either.”
It’s probably also why the old man never really understood Mom’s illness. Or why he found excuses to get out of the house each time she wasn’t well, leaving her alone to fend for herself. Mom told me theirs was a love marriage, but I wonder now if my father would have fallen for my mother if she hadn’t been healthy back then.
Heavy footsteps tread in the hallway outside my room. I grip the duvet; it’s been a while since Tehmtun Vakil made a trip down this hall. I look up at him when he enters, his body filling the doorway with little space left over. My father isn’t as tall or broad as Mancher Mama, but he’s still a big man.
“Freny tells me you’re sick.” His hand curls around the doorknob.
Does he think I’m faking illness to get out of school? “Yeah,” I reply, my answer making me hack up more phlegm. To my surprise, the old man grabs a thick wad of tissues and passes it to me.
“Double up. It works better.” His hands hover in the air for a second, as if hesitating, before he slips them into the pockets of his jacket. “And drink some haldi-milk.”
“Freny’s adding the turmeric to my tea,” I tell him.
“Good. Good.”
Just when I think it’s the end of this strange conversation, my father’s lip quivers under his mustache. “I didn’t mean to hurt your mother. Or Mahtab.”
It doesn’t escape either of our notice that he’s left me out of the equation.
“So hurting me was okay.” My voice is hard.
“You weren’t exactly an easy child to deal with. Always snapping back, never listening.” His mouth pinches, as if this is difficult for him to admit. “After Daulat passed, you were even more out of control. I didn’t know what to do with you.”
“You’re a sorry excuse for a father.”
His shoulders stiffen, the tips of his ears turning red.
“You want to hit me even now, don’t you?” I ask curiously. “You want me to shut up. You always hit me when you wanted me to shut up.”
He closes his eyes, as if trying to compose himself. When he opens them again, there’s an odd expression on his face.
“You’re right,” he says. “I am a sorry excuse of a father. And a husband. I took out my anger on your mother first for falling out of love with her. Later, I took it out on you for looking so much like her. For questioning me the way she would have.”
It’s the closest he has ever come to an apology. It feels so strange that I don’t know how to respond.
“Malcolm, here’s your tea—oh hi, dear. Shouldn’t you get to work?” Freny’s voice is high, bright. A clear sign she’s heard everything we’ve been saying.
The old man nods at her. “See you,” he mutters into the air, and then leaves without a single backward glance. I’m still glaring at the open door, when a mug is thrust right in front of my nose.
I glance down. “This tea is yellow!”
“So is turmeric. Come now, think of it as medicine and drink up.”
I am thrown back in time to the dining table downstairs and another woman stroking my hair, coaxing me to eat my vegetables.
“Why did you marry him?” I ask Freny, more out of curiosity than anything else. “What in the world attracted you to a man like that?”
Freny’s cheeks lose some of their color, but instead of running away, she sits on the edge of my bed. “Tehmtun’s not a bad person. He’s old-fashioned in some ways. It makes him a hard man, a hard father. He reminds me of my own, in some ways. I know how to talk to him, to manage his moods. It doesn’t excuse his behavior with Daulat. Or what he did to you children.”
It’s strange hearing my mother’s name out of Freny’s mouth. “You knew my mom?”
“We never met,” she answers. “But I knew
her. We grew up in the same colony back in Mumbai. She was four years older than me. Pretty. Smart. I was so jealous of her. Even more so when she married the boy I’d given my heart to as a teenager.”
I grow silent.
“Young love can be so strange,” she continues. “My first husband was a friend of Tehmtun’s. When he died, your father came to the funeral in Detroit. I heard Daulat was dying from cancer. He and I…” She licks her lips. “Well, we got back in touch again. I felt I was getting a second chance.”
The confession makes me sick. But it explains a lot as well. I put the tea on my nightstand. “I’d like to be alone now.”
“Malcolm, I’m sor—”
“Please.” I don’t want her false apologies. “You’re not sorry for marrying my father.”
“But I am sorry for the man he turned out to be.” She rises to her feet. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
I close my eyes, not opening them until I hear Freny’s footsteps fade in the corridor. Mahtab tells me it’s pointless to dwell on the past. Especially when someone is trying to right a wrong and make amends.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Can we talk?
My heart skips a beat, does a couple of leaps around my rib cage before my eyes fall on the number of the person who sent the message. My body sinks like a stone into the mattress. I’ve been ignoring Afrin for a whole month now. Her texts, calls, attempts to talk at school. The Afrin I knew was far too proud to chase a guy after he’d snubbed her in public the way I did in early December, telling her that I never wanted to see her again. The phone buzzes again, more messages flashing on my lock screen.
Please.
I know I shouldn’t have kissed you like that in front of Susan.
It was selfish of me.
Wrong.
I need to explain myself.
Can I see you at your place after school today?
I close my eyes for a few moments. My relationship with Afrin, in a funny way, mirrors the one my mother and father had, the one he has now with Freny. For a second I have an idea of why my mother kept going back to the old man even after he messed up their relationship.
The Beauty of the Moment Page 26
