There's Something About Sweetie

by Sandhya Menon

  “Are you gonna flap your gums at me or are we gonna play?”

  Ashish narrowed his eyes. “Fine.”

  They played some one-on-one for about thirty minutes straight, and then Ashish tossed the ball to the side and shook the sweat from his head in a spray that doused Samir.

  “Okay, seriously disgusting!” Samir grabbed a towel and a water bottle from the cart on the side that the groundskeeper restocked twice a day. They walked over to the bench to sit together in the shade of an old oak tree after Ashish had done the same.

  Samir checked his watch. “We only played for thirty minutes. That’s a record low.”

  Squeezing some water from the bottle into his mouth, Ashish shrugged, trying not to let show how much that bothered him. He used to love basketball. No, he used to live basketball. And now it was just like … an orange sphere that you slam into the ground over and over? What was the point?

  “Don’t you have a game this weekend? You should probably practice a little more.”

  “We’re playing Osroff. I don’t think it’s going to require more than fifty percent of what I can give.”

  “If you do say so yourself.”

  Ashish shrugged, staring off into the distance at the swimming pool enclosure. “I know my strengths.” Then, glancing sideways at Samir: “At least I have strengths.”

  “Pssh. You’re just jealous of my baby-faced beauty.”

  “I’d rather have a rippling, masculine physique than baby-faced beauty,” Ashish said. It was their usual way of ribbing each other, but this time it felt flat. Even his teasing mojo was gone. Damn Celia. She’d taken all his best skills.

  “You’re like some cardboard-cutout version of yourself, bro,” Samir said, frowning. “I mean, I don’t even care, but seriously. If you don’t want to repel people more than you already do with your relentless body odor, you should probably do something about that.”

  Ashish focused on drinking his water. He could feel Samir staring at the side of his face.

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t know you were in love with her.”

  Ashish didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

  Later, when Samir and Deepika auntie were on their way out the door, Samir turned to Ashish and said, “Think about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Asking your parents.” Ashish stared at him blankly, and Samir leaned in. “You know. About setting you up.”

  Ashish rolled his eyes. “Are we back to that again?”

  “What’s the alternative? You zombie-shuffle your way through the rest of the year? Does that really sound fun to you?”

  Ashish opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. To be honest, this mojoless feeling was the literal worst thing he’d ever felt. His entire world felt off-kilter, like he couldn’t quite get his balance. It sucked.

  Samir punched him on the arm. “Didn’t think so.” Then he turned and left.

  Ashish walked back inside and headed upstairs to his room after telling Ma he had homework to do. Asking his parents to set him up was such a Rishi thing to do. Ashish found his own way around girls. He was born winking at the cute doctor who delivered him. He didn’t need help.

  Then he thought about this morning with Dana Patterson and felt a vague cringing inside that he knew would be full-on, cheeks-burning, armpits-sweating humiliation if he didn’t wall it off immediately, which he did. He’d done his fair share of being both the breaker-upper and the breaker-uppee, but at no point had he or the girl in question ever felt bad about it. All his relationships had been window dressing, just a way to pass the time for both him and his girlfriends. Until Celia, of course. And that had turned out so well.

  Groaning, Ashish lay back on his bed and covered his face with a pillow. He knew the truth; he just didn’t want to face it. Maybe he hadn’t ever needed help before. But he was all kinds of messed up at the moment, and he probably could use a little help. Or even more than a little. Maybe dating was like basketball. If the play wasn’t working, it was time to try something new.

  Still, asking his parents? That was totally outlandish and completely off the table, right? Ashish took the pillow off his face and stared at the ceiling. Yep. Completely off the table.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sweetie felt a heavy, sinking weight as her car edged closer to home. Her foot eased off the gas pedal automatically, and she turned up Kesha’s “This Is Me,” a favorite that always made her feel just a tad stronger. She pulled into the garage just as the song faded. Putting a smile on her face for her mother, Sweetie walked into the house.

  Amma looked up from the stove, where she’d been stirring something that smelled like a heaven made out of cardamom, coconuts, and sugar. Amma didn’t have a full-time job, but she did keep the Indian stores and bakeries within a fifty-mile radius stocked with her delicious sweets. She could be a serious businesswoman if she chose; she just didn’t choose. Her full-time occupation, she always said, was being Sweetie’s mother. (But her love of baking had obviously bled into the naming of her only child.)

  “Hello, mol!”

  “That smells so good, Amma.” Sweetie walked over and dipped a finger into the pot and then stuck it immediately into her mouth before it could burn her. “Mmmm.”

  Amma swatted her arm. “No sweets for you.”

  Sweetie sighed. “Amma …”

  “Go in the backyard.”

  “Can I at least have a minute to get a snack?” At Amma’s arched eyebrow, she raced to add, “An apple.”

  “No. No snack. First you run, then you can eat.” Amma brandished her spatula at Sweetie, and sighing, Sweetie made her way out into the yard.

  The utter indignity of having to run laps around her backyard every day after school had not faded at all over the past three years. This had been going on ever since freshman year, when Amma decided there was a link between Sweetie’s size and her activity level. The fact that Sweetie was on the track team meant almost nothing; Amma was convinced that Sweetie somehow slacked off during practice. Of course, Amma weighed about ninety-five pounds soaking wet, which might have something to do with her sincere belief that if only her daughter tried a little bit harder, she could be just as thin. The fact that Sweetie was built like Achchan and the rest of his family was totally lost on Amma.

  The weird thing was, Sweetie thought as she ran, Amma wasn’t happy with her own appearance either. She frequently pinched the skin on her hips and complained that it was too fat or that she was gaining weight in her “old age.” If she ate more than a tiny serving at dinner, Amma moaned about how she’d have to eat only kanji the next day, this really disgusting, tasteless rice gruel she made Sweetie eat when she had a stomach bug. But Amma didn’t seem to notice the contradiction in her own actions and words. She was adamant that Sweetie would magically gain happiness when she lost weight.

  After the requisite ten laps, Sweetie came in and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “I bested my time on the sixteen-hundred-meter run, Amma. And it’s the best time on the team, too.”

  Amma, who was now scraping the mixture onto a pan, smiled at her. “Wonderful, mol. Now just imagine how much faster you’ll go once you lose weight.”

  Sweetie froze on the way to biting into her apple. Her brain reacted in the perfect way: But I’m already beating my own time and everyone else’s, it said. Like, there’s literally no one faster than me.

  But no matter how confident she felt in her own skills as a kick-ass athlete, all of that confidence evaporated under her mother’s gaze.

  “Everyone knows,” Amma continued in the silence. “Thinner is healthier.”

  Sweetie bit into the apple, swallowing all the things she wanted to say: How she’d legit downloaded research papers off university websites about how what you saw on the scale did not necessarily correspond to what was going on internally. How this entire freaking “We’re afraid for your health” angle was perpetuated by a society too afraid
and too shallow to recognize a person’s worth in any other way besides their dress size but too “polite” to always say it in those words.

  What would it feel like, to just let loose? To finally tell her mother how she felt? Sweetie imagined it would feel like the sweetest, freshest breath of a spring breeze, but she really wouldn’t know. The words always shriveled up before she could expose them to light and air.

  “I’m going to the farmers’ market this weekend,” Amma said, washing her hands at the sink. “You want to come?”

  Sweetie cleared her throat and finally broke her silence. “Sure.” She always helped Amma run her baked-goodies stand at the farmers’ market. Amma and a few of her Indian auntie friends all had booths for various things, and while the pretext was that it was good for a bit of pocket money, it was really more of a social networking (aka gossiping) opportunity for them all. Sweetie liked sitting in the sunshine, letting their rapid-fire accented English wash over her. “By the way, Amma, what do you know about Ashish Patel’s family? You know, the basketball star at Richmond?”

  Amma looked at her over her glasses as she took off her apron and sat at the table with a cup of chai. Sweetie went to sit by her with an apple and a chai of her own. “Why?”

  Sweetie shrugged. “Just … I saw a picture of him in the paper. And I wondered if you knew the family.”

  “They’re very prominent. Kartik Patel is the CEO of Global Comm, and their first son, Rishi, is supposed to be matched with a good girl at Stanford, Dimple Shah. I don’t know much about the younger boy, but he seems to be on track to get into a good university. He’s very handsome, Tina auntie says.”

  Of course she did. Tina auntie had a rating system of the prettiest desi girls and handsomest desi boys in her head at all times. She was like a walking Indian version of People magazine. Needless to say, Sweetie did not rank anywhere on her list. In fact, she was probably on some anti-list of some kind, knowing Tina auntie. “Top Ten Fat Feminist Desi Girls to Keep Your Boys Away from Before They Go Over to the Dark Side” or “Five Girls Whose Bodies Do Not Match Their Pretty Faces—BEWARE.” To Tina auntie, Sweetie’s fatness was both outrageous and personally offensive.

  Amma turned around the magazine she was reading. “You can wear this for your birthday party, mol.” It was a voluminous, somewhat shapeless salwar kameez made of thick silver brocade fabric. Sweetie was pretty sure she’d seen the mother of a celebrity wear it in one of Tina auntie’s Bollywood gossip magazines.

  “Um, yeah, I guess I could. …” Setting her apple down, Sweetie grabbed a catalog from the stack in the center of the table. Her sweaty palms stuck to the pages as she flipped through it, her movements feeling artificial and weird. Surely Amma could tell something was up? Wiping her palms on her shirt, Sweetie took a few surreptitious deep breaths. Come on, Sweetie, she told herself. What would Aretha Franklin do? She’d toss the catalog to Amma and demand some R-E-S-P-E-C-T, that’s what. Sweetie flipped to the dog-eared page in the catalog and stared at the picture for a good ten seconds, psyching herself up. “Actually, Amma …” Her voice came out a squeak. Dang it. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I was, um, kind of thinking maybe something like this instead?” She slid the catalog over, her eyes on the page and nowhere near her mother’s.

  Amma took the catalog and studied the page, her face giving away nothing. Sweetie could see the outfit through her eyes: It was an Anarkali suit. The top was made of the most gorgeous emerald-green georgette fabric—long and flowy and mid-shin-length—and would expose just a bit of the pale-gold leg-hugging pants underneath. But the style of the top was what had caught Sweetie’s eye and heart. It was a halter cut, and her upper back would be bare. Best of all? They made it in plus sizes.

  Sweetie knew Amma wasn’t opposed to halter-cut clothes like some other Indian parents. Last Diwali, when Tina auntie’s daughter, Sheena, had shown up in one, she had actually complimented her. Of course, Sheena was a size two. And therein lay the rub.

  “It’s really cute,” Sweetie rushed to put in when Amma continued to study the picture in silence. The sound of her thundering heart almost drowned out her words. “And I think that color would look really good with my eyes. You know how you say they’re light brown until I wear something green and then they look green? Plus, it comes prestitched, so you wouldn’t have to take it to—”

  “Mati. That’s enough. You can’t wear that.” Amma put the catalog in the stack without looking at Sweetie.

  “But …”

  “No. People will laugh.”

  Sweetie swallowed the lump in her throat. Of course Amma was embarrassed. Why wouldn’t she be? Sweetie was no size two, and apparently to her, that meant Sweetie was shameful, something to be hidden. Sweetie felt the bitter burn of hurt. “So?” she found herself saying. “Who cares?”

  Amma looked up sharply. “Me. I care. You would too.”

  Sweetie stared at her, feeling that old pressing, weighing sense of disappointment. “Right. Okay, then. I won’t wear that. I wouldn’t want you and Achchan to be embarrassed by me.” She got up.

  “Sweetie, it’s not … That is, I’m not worried about …,” Amma said, but when Sweetie waited, she stopped and shook her head. “Nothing. There’s nothing to say.”

  Sweetie nodded and turned to go to her room. “Big surprise,” she said under her breath, her eyes glinting with tears.

  “Chef really outdid himself this time,” Pappa said, leaning back and belching quietly. “That kulfi was out of this world. Never tasted anything that came close to …” Then, seeing Ma’s expression, he added hastily, “Of course, it’s nothing compared to yours, Sunita!”

  Ma laughed easily. “It’s okay, Kartikji. After twenty years of marriage, I suppose I can take a little competition. Plus, if Chef frees up my evenings and I don’t have to cook, then I’m a happy woman!”

  She turned to smile at Ashish, and he returned it just a moment too late. Her smile faded. “Thik ho, beta?”

  “I’m fine,” Ashish replied. Then, forcing himself to take a bite of his dessert: “Yeah, this kulfi’s great, Pappa.”

  There was silence around the table, punctuated only by Ashish’s spoon scraping against the small clay pot, or matka, the Indian ice cream had been served in. Ashish glanced up at both his parents; they were watching him with concern. Pappa’s bushy eyebrows were pulled so low, Ashish could barely see his eyes. Jeez. As much of a pain in the butt as Rishi was, at least he’d been another person for them to pay attention to. Since Rishi left for college, it felt like 149 percent of their attention was always laser-focused on him.

  Ma darted Pappa a knowing glance. Why did parents think their kids never saw that stuff? Ashish could practically touch the thought bubble she was transmitting at him: TALK TO YOUR SON.

  “What’s this, beta?” Pappa asked. “Ma tells me you’re having some … problems? Ladki vaali problems?”

  Oh God. The fact that Pappa had just said “problems of the girl variety” did not bode well. He was probably gearing up for a relationship talk. Pappa would just tell him again that this was his youth, aka javaani, talking, and in due time he’d find Ashish the perfect Indian girl just like he had for Rishi. To not take any of this seriously. To just live life. As if the pain Ashish was feeling were only as serious as a stomach upset, nothing that a cold glass of jal-jeera wouldn’t fix. (Which, okay, the cumin drink was delicious, but it smelled like farts and no one ever talked about that. Anyway.)

  “You know, Ashish, you’re young. And in our javaani we must all make certain mistakes. Don’t be so serious, beta!” As if on cue, Pappa laughed heartily. Ashish was pretty sure he’d laughed in exactly the same spot during the last relationship talk. Did he have a script stashed somewhere? “When the time comes, Ma and I will make that decision for you. And then you’ll see the difference!” He and Ma smiled at each other.

  Ashish glared at them from over the top of his matka kulfi. So smug. Oh, so smug. “Oh yeah? What difference is that?”


  Pappa raised his eyebrows in a Really? Are you serious? way and then began to count off on his fingers. “Crystal. Heather. Yvette. Gretchen. And Celia.” Then, holding up his other hand, he raised his index finger. “Dimple. See the difference?”

  Ma cleared her throat and glared at Pappa. “What Pappa means to say, beta,” she said in that gentle way of hers, “is that we have years and years of life experience that you don’t have. So of course you’re going to make mistakes. And be … hasty, hmm? It’s no wonder you feel like this.”

  Ashish knew she was trying to help. But it just rubbed him the wrong way. They kept saying what a mistake this was. They kept implying he was just some silly kid, whereas they, in their infinite wisdom, would never make the same mistake he did. Like, the instant they thought of a girl for him, Cupid himself would descend from the clouds and rope Ashish and the girl into an everlasting bond. “So you’re saying you’d never make a mistake? Whatever girl you found would be the perfect one, no question?”

  “Of course that’s what I’m saying!” Pappa said just as Ma said, “Not exactly in those terms, but …”

  They smiled at each other and shrugged, like, Well, if you want to put it like that, we won’t stop you. …

  Ashish pushed his matka kulfi aside. Samir’s voice began to echo in his ears. Something else, probably his survival instinct, told him not to listen to it. Walk away, Ash, man, it said. Walk away while you still can. Before you make a gigantic mistake. But Ashish was in no mood to listen. He just wanted to prove Ma and Pappa wrong. “Okay, then. Do it.”

  Ma and Pappa sat back and looked at him. “Do what?” Pappa asked.