Secret Keeper

by Mitali Perkins

  She stood up and began pacing the roof. “The name’s Gupta,” she said, trying to make the pitch of her voice sound less like a girl. That was all she’d have to announce to the boys who organized the tournament, and thankfully it was a common enough name. Her voice squeaked the first two times she practiced it. Lightning flashed, followed by the deep rumble of thunder. Asha tried to imitate it: “The name’s Gupta. Boom!”

  The storm was intensifying, so she ducked back under the angled sheet of rippled tin. She’d come to the hardest part of her plan, the step that would set things in motion. Bringing her braid in front of her shoulder, she stroked its length. Her sister combed Asha’s hair out every night before bed, humming or singing while she eased out the tangles. Then Reet wove it into a single thick, heavy braid. It was so long now that Asha had to move it out of the way before she sat down. How had Jay described it? “Glowing in the sunlight like silk.”

  It was no use; she had to save Reet. She had to do what came next.

  Opening the paper bag, Asha pulled out a pair of sharp kitchen shears, closed her eyes for a moment, and pictured her sister’s face. Then she held up her long, wet braid. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she sliced it off as close to the nape of her neck as she could manage. Snap! The braid dangled like a heavy rope from her hand, and she glanced again at Jay’s closed window.

  She wound the orphaned hair into a flat, tight coronet, took a few pins out of the bag, and pinned the spiral back into place. Hopefully, she’d avoid Reet’s nightly brush, and nobody would be able to tell that her braid was no longer attached to her scalp until after she’d carried out her plan.

  FOURTEEN

  ASHA KNEW THAT FOR PLAN B TO HAVE EVEN A FAINT HOPE OF succeeding, she’d need a bunch of miracles. To her amazement, they came.

  Miracle Number One: It didn’t rain the next day. The sun blazed down, drying the dirt roads by early afternoon, which was when Asha started getting ready.

  Miracle Number Two: Raj’s clothes fit her perfectly. She wrapped a white cotton towel snugly around her torso before putting on his shorts, and it hid everything. Good thing I’m as flat as a chapatti bread, she thought. She’d been secretly wondering how Jay was going to paint certain parts of her body in the portrait he was working on. Would he wish she was built more like Reet? For now, she pushed all those thoughts out of her mind. Plan B first; then her day-dreaming could drift back to other subjects.

  Her reflection in her cousin’s mirror looked exactly like a skinny first-year college boy. She swallowed when she saw her bony knees—she knew exactly what Ma and Auntie would say about a good Bengali girl showing the world her legs. Ma had gotten rid of Asha’s shorts and pants after that day and filled her closet with frocks and salwars, most of them hand-me-downs from Reet. But Indian boys wore shorts when they played sports, so today Asha was going to have to expose a bit of thigh in public.

  Miracle Number Three: She was able to tiptoe out of the house without anybody in the family seeing her. Grandmother and Auntie were busy in the kitchen. Raj had already left for the tennis courts. Ma was nowhere in sight, and the small cousins were in the living room playing with Reet.

  Asha stopped first in the side yard at the pile of garbage waiting to be burned. Using the sweeper’s fire-stoking stick, she shoved her braid deep into the middle of the pile. Sorry, Jay, she thought with a pang. You were right; it was beautiful. You’re going to have to imagine it to finish the rest of your painting.

  By now, Asha could close the front gate without making a sound. She rounded a corner and started down the narrow dirt path that circled the pond and led to the college. The grip of Raj’s extra racket felt good in her hand. Even though it was old, the wood wasn’t warped and the strings were tight. She tried not to notice how unfamiliar the sunlight and air felt against her thighs and how light her skull felt without the weight of her hair. A herd of cows stared with mournful, hungry eyes, and Asha fought the impulse to cover her legs.

  A dozen naked little boys splashed in the pond, wet skin gleaming like polished wood. Their mothers kept a close eye on them, chatting, washing sarees, scrubbing copper pots. None of them noticed Asha, nobody turned to gawk, and she felt a bit more confident in her disguise.

  The college was just beyond the row of tiny shacks where the neighborhood’s servants lived. The campus was small, but Asha noticed that the cricket pitch was in perfect shape. She took a deep breath and walked toward the group of boys gathered beside the four clay courts. Again, nobody paid any attention at all, and she easily placed Raj’s rupee in the empty tennis ball can and joined the queue waiting to sign up for the tournament.

  “Gupta’s the name,” her voice grunted perfectly. Miracle Number Four.

  But then the unexpected happened: Raj, who was practicing on one of the courts, recognized her. He tripped, regained his balance, and let his racket slip out of his hand. Asha hadn’t taken her cousin’s reaction into consideration. Would he wreck the whole thing?

  Raj bent down to pick up his racket. Then, to Asha’s amazement, he turned away and went back to rallying with his opponent as though nothing had happened. Oh, he was wonderful! Somehow she managed not to race across the court and hug him, thereby ruining the whole plan herself. Instead she vowed to repay him with hours of cricket practice. Miracle Number Five, she thought.

  Now how was she going to hit? Baba had taught her strategies to defeat every kind of player, and she was naturally consistent. She’d been at the top of her game before Ma had made her quit playing at the club. After that, she and Kavita had practiced in the garden every chance they could, but it had been a while since she’d held a racket in her hand. During the warm-up, Asha was relieved to see her skills returning and her shot placement growing more accurate.

  The rules were to play seven games, with the first player who won four moving to the next round. Asha’s first opponent was a chubby boy who was panting heavily by the second point. She dropped one game out of sheer nervousness, sending double faults into the net as though she were a beginner. Score: 4–1. No more unforced errors, she told herself sternly as they shook hands at the net.

  In her second match, Asha played a dim-witted fellow who hardly understood the basics of the game. It was quick work, and she started to feel the old thrill of placing a shot perfectly, or racing after—and smashing—a high ball that seemed impossible to reach. Score: 4–0.

  Third round, she was pitted against a fairly decent player who got nervous under pressure and lost the big points. Asha had settled into her game by now, and she wasn’t missing her slice shots or volleys. Score: 4–1.

  After only an hour, she reached the fourth round. There she discovered with some concern that she was about to face Raj. The desire not to crush her cousin was short-lived as her competitive spirit asserted itself, and she settled into the rhythm of their long rallies with gusto. Raj was good, but she was better. She won 4–3, but this match took about as long as the other three matches put together.

  Raj raised his eyebrows when they shook hands at the net. “Nice shorts,” he whispered. Asha’s cheeks felt ten degrees hotter, but she grinned and nodded.

  Finally it was time to face her target—the Y.L.I. He had demolished his opponents even faster than she had and had been watching her play against Raj. She’d had no chance to watch his game and spot weaknesses, but he’d obviously been taking note of hers.

  Asha checked him out from head to toe while he spun his racket. She had to admit he was handsome, but his expression was smug, full of confidence that he could get what he wanted, do what he wanted, be what he wanted. How dare he think he could get her sister just because he desired her? Asha had never hated anyone more in her life.

  “Up or down?” he asked, getting ready to spin his racket.

  “Down,” Asha said, keeping her voice deep.

  “It’s up,” he said.

  Asha fought a wave of fear as her opponent served the first point, but the fear disappeared quickly. Miracle Num
ber Six: The Y.L.I. was a serve-and-volley man who couldn’t handle lobs and passing shots. They got to deuce several times, but he didn’t manage to win even a single game. He was quivering with rage by the last point, which she ended by placing a gorgeous, spinning lob just out of his reach.

  Furious, the Y.L.I. stalked to the net for the required handshake, and Asha trotted up to join him. Just before their hands met, she whipped off Raj’s cap and gave her head a good shake. What was left of her hair—now chin-length—came tumbling down.

  “Your uncle spoke with my uncle a while back,” she told him, using her normal voice. A girly voice, she’d always complained to Reet. It’s got no ooomph to it. Now, however, she felt immensely powerful as she used it to make a public declaration: “My sister’s not interested in your offer. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  He pulled his hand out of her grip as though it were on fire and backed away.

  “That’s not a boy!” Asha heard the other players shout. “It’s your cousin, Raj! It’s that girl from Delhi! The younger one!” And then: “Look! She’s wearing shorts!”

  Asha strode off the court without looking back, the jeers and hoots and catcalls fading behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Y.L.I. disappearing fast in the other direction. Head down, just as she’d intended.

  Raj caught up with her at the cricket pitch. “You weren’t lying about your game,” he said. “You’re good. Really good.”

  Asha was surprised by how relieved she felt. Raj was grinning; he wasn’t mad. She handed him the racket she was carrying and tucked her hair back under the cap. “Sorry for the shock. And thanks for the racket, by the way.”

  “No problem,” he said. “But you should have told me what you were up to. I’d have loaned you my good racket. Anything to put that fool in his place. Oh, and here’s your prize money. They took a vote and decided to give it to you.” He held out a tennis ball can stuffed with rupees.

  Asha didn’t take it. “Keep it. It’s rent for your clothes and racket, plus I nicked a rupee from your desk drawer.”

  “No,” he said. “You earned it.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t go out to spend it.”

  “I insist.”

  She took the can and counted out a few rupees and handed back the can. “I’ll keep some for beggars. Buy my ma sweets, though, will you? And then get a new cricket magazine or two. We’ll both read them.”

  Raj shrugged, slipped the rest of the money into his pocket, and tossed the empty can to a shirtless boy, who caught it with delight.

  “They’ll find out at home, you know,” Raj said.

  “I know,” Asha told him, her pace slowing as they reached the pond. The women and children had gone, and the still water gleamed like a mirror in the late-afternoon light.

  The cousins walked on in silence until their ancestral home loomed in front of them. “Can you teach me to hit that topspin lob?” Raj asked just before they entered the gate. “It’s fabulous. Just like Virginia Wade.”

  Asha smiled wistfully. “You mean Vijay Amritraj.”

  She engraved her cousin’s words on the back of her mind as she crept upstairs to take a bath. His compliment about her tennis was probably the last nice thing she’d hear from a relative for a long time.

  FIFTEEN

  IT STARTED DURING DINNER. UNCLE, REET, RAJ, AND THE twins were already sitting, sleeves rolled up, fingers of right hands shaping balls of rice on their plates. Ma, Auntie, Grandmother, and the cook hovered around the table filling plates.

  Asha made a late entrance, missing her braid the way a soldier must miss an amputated limb. Her whole family stared at her, openmouthed.

  Ma dropped her spoon. “Oh, Bhagavan! Asha! What happened to your hair?” She put her hands along the sides of her own head as though it suddenly weighed too much for her neck.

  Asha shrugged and slid into her seat, trying to sound casual. “I cut it off. Girls wear their hair short in America, Ma. I wanted to be ready.”

  Now Ma lifted both hands in the air. “Eesh!” she said.

  Asha flinched.

  “Her hair’s all wavy now, Ma,” Reet said quickly. “See? Before, it was too heavy for the curls to show. I think it suits her.” But she didn’t meet Asha’s eyes, and Asha sensed her sister’s confusion. Usually she would have told Reet before doing anything so rash.

  Auntie double-flicked her tongue against her front teeth, making that clicking noise Asha hated almost as much as the word “eesh.” “At least her hair used to be beautiful,” Auntie said. “Now what does she have?”

  Somebody knocked at the front door, and everybody jumped. “Is it the telegram boy?” Grandmother asked urgently.

  The housemaid lifted a curtain and peered out of the window. “No,” she answered. “Just a neighbor, memsahib.”

  Raj got up and went into the living room to open the door. “Come in, come in, Uncle,” they heard him say. “I’ll get my baba for you.”

  It could be any older man in the neighborhood, Asha told herself, her heart pounding. Raj calls all of them Uncle.

  Uncle hated being interrupted during dinner. After rinsing the curry off his fingers and drying them, he stalked out of the room to greet his guest.

  Raj closed the door behind the two men. “It’s him,” he told Asha in a low voice as he headed back to his seat.

  Suddenly the chili pepper Asha had been enjoying seared her tongue. The room was stifling, the air chafed her skin like a wool blanket. The voices in the front room grew louder; then everybody jumped as the front door banged shut. Uncle returned and took his place between Reet and Raj.

  Asha didn’t look up. Her armpits were starting to itch, and the space between her shoulder blades felt damp.

  “Raj, get up,” Uncle said grimly. “Sumitra, sit down.”

  Raj stood up and held out his chair. Ma landed in it with a thump. It wasn’t proper for a woman to sit at the dinner table with her older brother-in-law. But Uncle had issued a command, and Ma couldn’t disobey him. It was even stranger that he’d called her by name. Now Asha and Ma were sitting beside each other, across the table from Uncle, as though they were on trial. The whole family was silent, even the small cousins.

  Uncle started talking. Asha tried to tune out his voice as he recounted the details of her afternoon’s activities. But even as the sweat poured down her back, she was impressed by the accuracy of the gossip chain. The length of Raj’s stolen shorts was described as reaching only to the middle of the thigh, which was exactly right.

  “Why did she do this terrible thing?” Uncle demanded. “Haven’t we taken your daughters in and treated them as our own?”

  Ma’s face was blank. She didn’t answer.

  Uncle turned to Asha. “What do you have to say?”

  Asha’s chair felt like a gas burner with the flame turned up high. She fought the urge to empty the entire pitcher of water over her steaming head. “I—I wanted to stop that fellow from marrying Reet,” she said.

  “I am in charge of this household,” Uncle said fiercely. “Don’t you think I know what’s best for your sister?”

  No, I don’t, Asha wanted to respond. But she didn’t; it would seal her fate forever. And Ma’s, too. “Reet doesn’t want to get married,” she said instead. “At least, not yet.”

  “What? She hasn’t told me this. Shona, is this true?” Uncle asked.

  Reet looked at Ma, whose face was a stone. The Jailor was fully in charge now, and Asha could almost hear a malicious chuckle.

  “Well?” Uncle asked again.

  Reet reached across the table for her sister’s hand. “Uncle, I’m not ready to get married,” she said, quietly at first, but her voice gained confidence as she kept on. “Not yet, anyway. When I’m a bit older, I know you and Grandmother and Baba and Ma will find me a wonderful husband.”

  Uncle frowned. “I was told you were ready. I certainly wouldn’t have started this conversation otherwise.” His expression softened. “But you are gr
owing into a lovely young woman, Shona, and the proposals will begin to come whether you’re ready for them or not. We have to start thinking about the best possible match for you before too long.” He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “As for your sister, I’ve never heard of such an unwomanly, disrespectful act in all my life. As though we couldn’t handle this situation without her humiliating every boy in town!”

  “It’s Bintu’s fault,” Auntie added, dragging Baba’s name onto the list of the accused. “He’s always treated her like a boy. Teaching her tennis and whatnot. Now my own daughters will have to live in the shadow of this ridiculous behavior. People will think our whole family is mixed up.”

  Grandmother entered the fray. “Bintu was never the one who taught her how to dress like a boy. Bintu never tried to pretend they had a son. Bintu is not the one to blame for Asha’s behavior. Unless you blame him for choosing his wife.”

  Everybody gasped. Grandmother had never expressed her disapproval of Ma and Baba’s unarranged marriage so vehemently. Ma stood up, but Grandmother wasn’t finished. “You treated her like a son,” she said, blocking Ma’s exit. “It’s your fault. Look! Just look at how you dressed that poor girl for years.” She lifted her hand and made a sweeping wave at the wall behind her.

  The framed photos on the dining room wall were so familiar that nobody ever really looked at them closely anymore. But now Asha scrutinized them along with everybody else, wondering what in the world her grandmother was talking about. Slowly, the truth dawned. In most of the photos taken when they were small, Reet was always dressed in frocks and frills, while Asha was wearing shorts. Reet’s hair was in braids, but Asha’s hair was cropped like a boy’s, shorter even than she had just cut it herself. In fact, to a stranger’s eyes, those younger versions of her looked much more like a boy than a girl.