How to Find What You're Not Looking For

by Veera Hiranandani

  An image comes to you of Leah lying on her bed, sitting up against the pillows, green curlers in her hair, doodling on the back of that Time magazine. She left it lying on her bed, and you saw the doodle after, her name and Raj’s together like they were married, with a heart around them.

  There’s no Time magazine in the desk drawer. It’s not in the night table, either. You stuff the envelope in your schoolbag and go into the living room. Ma seems busy in the kitchen, so you flip through the magazine rack. Ma and Daddy keep old magazines around for years. You find it, and when you turn it over, you see what she wrote—Leah and Raj Jagwani—inside the blue inked heart. You memorize Raj’s last name, Jagwani, as you stare at the heart. Jane makes the same kind of hearts with Paul McCartney’s name. Raj suddenly seems like just any crush doodled in a heart on the edge of a magazine. Was he worth losing you, Ma, and Daddy for?

  “Come have your breakfast, Ari,” Ma calls.

  You stick the magazine in your bag and hurry to the table. Breakfast is a piece of toast and butter. Normally Ma makes scrambled eggs, mamaliga, or at least pours you a bowl of corn flakes and slices a banana in it.

  “I’ll take my toast with me. I’m meeting Jane early today,” you say.

  “How come?” says Ma. She peers at you with her lie-detector eyes.

  “To practice my presentation. Jane said she’d help me.” Ma studies you but doesn’t say anything. “I’m giving mine tomorrow.”

  “I remember. Loving versus Virginia,” she says and takes a deep breath. Before she can ask you anything else, because you don’t want to talk about Loving v. Virginia with Ma right now, you grab your toast and head toward the door. “Don’t want to be late,” you call.

  You really do have your presentation tomorrow; at least that part you didn’t lie about. You’ve done a lot of research but still only have a few of the main facts down on the poster board. You learned that five weeks after Richard Loving, a white man, married Mildred Jeter, a Black woman, they were woken up at their home in Virginia in the middle of the night and arrested by policemen. But when you read further, it said Mildred was not only Black but also Indian.

  Somehow it felt like you were connected to her, because Leah is married to Raj and Raj is Indian, and Richard and Mildred ultimately won their case. Then you kept reading and found out that Mildred was part Native American, not Indian from India. But still, maybe it could be the same for Leah and Raj. Except what exactly would they win? It wasn’t illegal for them to be together. They weren’t going to be woken up and arrested in the middle of the night like Richard and Mildred were. Would they win over your parents? Did Raj’s parents feel the same as yours? Then you had to stop because your thoughts started to pile on top of one another and became a big alphabet soup.

  That was why it was so hard to write and think at the same time. You want to understand your problem more. You want to know if there’s a name for what makes writing difficult. Is that what Miss Field is trying to do?

  You walk toward the bus stop in case your mother is watching you, then pass it. You decide to write Leah Goldberg Jagwani, New York, NY, on the envelope and walk another block to the mailbox. All the writing is big and messy but still readable. You slide the envelope in the slot and stand there, looking at the dark insides of the mailbox as it falls in.

  At once, you wish you could grab it back.

  How could your own sister not have written you by now? She must really not miss you at all. Is this the terrible truth you’ve never known before? Suddenly, sobs shake your body, and you let it happen, like a wave crashing over you. After a minute, they stop.

  “Ariel,” you hear someone call. You quickly wipe your tears and straighten up. When you turn toward the voice, you see Jane hurrying down the sidewalk.

  “Oh no, what’s wrong? Have you been crying?” Jane asks in her usual direct way, her big brown eyes searching for the answer.

  “I had to mail something,” you say and start walking toward the bus stop.

  Jane puts her hands on her hips and shakes her bob back and forth. “But why would that make you cry?”

  “I wasn’t crying,” you say in a small voice. Your throat feels thick. Your face burns with embarrassment.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I wasn’t. We have to get to the bus,” you say and start walking faster. She moves in front of you. You try to go around her, but she blocks you. Imagine if you told her what was really happening—that your sister wasn’t in college, but had run off and married an Indian man and now they were going to have a baby. Also, your parents have disowned her, she hasn’t even bothered to write you a letter, and your parents are selling the bakery for some mysterious reason. Oh, and your teacher thinks you have a learning disability. That’s all.

  “You’re lying to me,” Jane says, pointing at you. “And that’s not what friends do.”

  You both face each other like cowboys in a Western movie. Is she going to let it go, or are you going to tell her something? You both stay still until you hear the gears of the bus already leaving your stop two blocks ahead.

  “Uh-oh,” she says, and now you’re both running. Jane yells and you wave your hand, but the bus driver doesn’t see either of you or doesn’t care and makes a left on the street ahead. You both stop, breathing hard.

  “Great,” you say. “That’s perfect.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Jane responds.

  “If you’d just ignored me, at least you wouldn’t have missed the bus.”

  “Oh, so you’re mad at me because I actually wanted to see what was wrong?”

  She stands in front of you, but you walk around her and keep your head down. Out of the corner of your eye when you pass her, you notice her face crumpling. Maybe she cares about you more than you thought?

  “We have to hurry,” you say, your loafers slapping the ground hard as you pick up your pace. You wish you had your bike, but if you went home and got it, Ma would get too suspicious.

  The walk to school is long and silent. The wind swirls around you, and you wonder when it got so chilly. You and Jane finally get to school and go to the office for a late pass. It’s the first time you’re late this year. Two more times will land you in detention. When you each receive your pass, Jane heads to her class and you go to yours without a word.

  All the kids look at you as you walk into your class. Miss Field is at the blackboard, working out more long division, so you put the pass on her desk, and to your great relief, she just nods and continues with her lesson.

  You sit down and start copying what’s on the board. You hear Chris whisper “loser” under his breath. You let the word hit you, but instead of looking at him or whispering something back, you grip your pen tighter. It’s still so new, writing poetry, but it’s become a way to feel better, a way to feel free. It’s like finding something buried in the ground, thinking it’s a rock, then realizing it’s gold. You flip your notebook page over to a blank one.

  Loser

  Call me a loser

  if that’s what

  you need to call me,

  but I’d like

  to be the one

  who gets to choose

  what exactly it is

  I’m losing.

  Once it’s out, you can breathe again. You turn back the page and get to work, pretending your hands aren’t shaky and your heart isn’t broken.

  How to Tell a Story

  The next day, you and Jane don’t speak on the bus, so you hold the small white poster board that you brought for your presentation on your lap and stare at it. It’s not very good. You knew filling it up with your handwriting would only make the other kids laugh at you, so you tried to put the least amount of writing possible on it. But deciding what to write took so long, you didn’t have time to decorate it. This is not what Miss Field wants. You think of how the other boards have b
een: brightly colored, filled with big block letter outlines, drawings, and magazine collages.

  When you get to class, Miss Field has your name and Lisa’s on the board. Lisa is going first. This makes you both nervous and relieved. After the bell rings, you say the Pledge and Miss Field takes attendance and makes the morning announcements. Then Lisa gets up from her desk, wearing a crisp blue skirt and a yellow sweater, her blond hair perfectly curled around her face. She props up her huge poster and stands in front of the class, holding some note cards.

  It’s beautiful. She traced and colored in the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover. There are lots of facts about it listed all over in thick black bubble letters and magazine cutouts of all the Beatles. Flowers and swirly designs in pink, orange, and green decorate the edges.

  You gaze at Lisa in her bright sweater and at her perfect lettering on her poster board and start to feel heat rising in your body because after she’s finished, you’re going to have to get up there with your boring board with its terrible lettering and a lump in your throat.

  Lisa keeps standing there, looking out at everyone. Seconds go by, and you see her hands shaking. You can hear people shift in their seats. Lisa is completely frozen. Normally nothing stops Lisa from raising her hand and asking tons of questions. But you haven’t ever seen her give a report in front of the class. A few more seconds go by, but Lisa isn’t making a peep.

  “Why don’t you start with the title of your report, Lisa,” Miss Field says in her smoothest, kindest tone. She sits in the back of the class. A few snickers leak out. Then Lisa starts.

  “Um. This is my current events presentation,” she says and clears her throat. Miss Field nods and smiles.

  “Um, it’s about the release of the Beatles’ album Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”

  More snickers. More of Lisa’s hands trembling as she grips her notecards. You sit up taller and face her with your full attention.

  So far, nobody has done a report on anything really serious, like the Vietnam War or Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches. There’s been nothing about the protests and riots, nothing about San Francisco and the hippies, or about Thurgood Marshall’s Supreme Court confirmation or the Six-Day War, and nothing about Loving v. Virginia, but that’s a good thing because Miss Field said you couldn’t choose the same topics.

  But why did you have to go and pick something that makes people think about difficult things like being part of a country that made it illegal for people of different races to get married and even put them in jail for it? Why did you pick a topic that only reminds you of why Leah left? It feels like there are a thousand butterflies in your stomach.

  “The album was released in May in the United Kingdom, but here in the United States of America in June,” Lisa says.

  Then she pauses. You hear Chris laugh a little on your left. You promise yourself you will snicker at him when he does his presentation.

  “You can keep going, Lisa. You’re doing great,” Miss Field says.

  “It has many musical influences,” Lisa says. “Rock, jazz, blues, big band, circus, and even Indian classical music. The songs on it are ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,’ ‘With a Little Help from My Friends,’ ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ . . . ” Lisa reads and lists all the songs in a flat voice, but it makes you want to listen to the album again, as if it can bring you closer to Leah, as if it could hold a clue. After the last title, more empty seconds pass. Then Lisa says, “That’s it.”

  “Oh, okay, thank you, Lisa,” Miss Field says. “And what do you think of the album?”

  Lisa shrugs. Her face is bright red. Seeing her uncomfortable calms you a bit. You wonder if that makes you a bad person.

  “Do you like it?” Miss Field presses on.

  “It’s pretty neat, I guess. I haven’t listened to it much.”

  “Then why did you choose it for your presentation?”

  “Well, the Beatles are really famous.”

  “Yes,” Miss Field says, giving her a small smile. “Thank you again, Lisa. Very nice poster board. And remember, everyone, I’m inviting you not only to present the facts but also to discuss your opinions.”

  Lisa quickly sits down and stares straight ahead. You realize how hard it is to know anyone. You would have thought that Lisa’s presentation would have been big and loud, mostly filled with her opinion.

  You steal a glance at Chris. He plays with a little hole in the leg of his pants, squinting at it, his face curious. If he noticed you looking at him, he would suddenly change into Chris the bully. Is he only that way with you? You see him with his friends on the playground, laughing and joking around. He doesn’t seem as if he’s mean to them. You wonder what he’s like at home. Do his parents know he’s a bully, or is he another Chris entirely?

  Miss Field suddenly calls your name, making you jump.

  You stand up and walk to the front, prop up your poster board on the easel, and stare out at all the faces. There are only four points on your poster—the date the Lovings got married, the date they got arrested, the date they sued the state of Virginia, and the date the Supreme Court announced its ruling.

  You wrote it all in capital letters in pencil and then traced it in marker. There are smudge marks all around your words because you had to erase many times and start over until you finally had four clear lines. When you practiced last night in front of your mirror, just looking at the lines made you remember everything you read about the case. It was easy to talk about it by yourself in your room. But here in front of the class, you suddenly can’t remember a thing.

  It takes you half a minute to state your topic and read the lines on your board. The kids stare blankly at you, and your heart is about to explode through your chest. No wonder Lisa was so nervous. Not knowing what else to do, you go back to the top of the list and read the first line again, slowly.

  You see Chris out of the corner of your eye. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He looks like bully Chris now. Your eyes meet, and he sticks out his tongue. You’re tempted to return it, but not with Miss Field watching you. You look back at your four lines. Chris might think you’re a loser, but if that’s true, then you have nothing left to lose.

  You look at your board again and take a breath. The fact that the points are so simple reminds you of what you know about the case, and your mind lights up. You’ll show Chris. You’ll show all of them. Ma and Daddy. Even Leah.

  “Okay, so I’m going to tell you what these dates mean like it’s a story,” you say and wonder where your words are coming from. Your heart is still beating fast, but not in a bad way, in a way that makes you feel stronger.

  “Because it is. It’s a love story,” you continue. “But that’s not why this case is called Loving versus Virginia.”

  People start to sit up straighter and pay attention.

  You point to the first fact, which says 1958: Richard Loving and Mildred Jeter get married in Washington, DC.

  You explain that they couldn’t get married near their home in Virginia.

  “The main reason was because Richard was white and Mildred wasn’t. She was Black and Indian, but Native American Indian, not India Indian,” you say.

  You start getting distracted by the questions that won’t leave you alone. What if Raj and Leah had fallen in love last year in a state where it was illegal? Were the laws only for Black people and white people or all marriages between people with dark skin and light skin? You shake off your thoughts and keep going.

  “But five weeks after their wedding, they were arrested in their home at two in the morning. To stay out of prison, the judge said they would have to leave Virginia for twenty-five years,” you say. “Imagine if you fell in love, got married, and were told that your love was illegal just because of the color of your skin. Imagine if you were arrested in your own home, in your ow
n bed, because you married the person you loved.”

  You gaze out and see all these white faces looking back at you. You see the backs of your own pale white hands. There was only one Black student in your grade, Danielle Walker. What was it like to be Danielle in this school? As hard as it is to be you sometimes, what makes you different from most of the students at your school—your religion, your handwriting—can’t be seen on your skin.

  You take another breath and continue. “After that, they couldn’t even travel to Virginia together to visit their families, so in 1964 the American Civil Liberties Union helped them sue Virginia. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court.

  “And after three years, they won,” you say. “The Supreme Court announced its ruling this year on June 12, stating that it was unconstitutional to make laws against interracial marriage. At the time of the ruling, sixteen states still had laws against it.”

  Miss Field looks at you and nods. “And what’s your opinion about the Supreme Court ruling?”

  “My opinion is that I’m happy about this ruling, and I think it’s wrong to stop people of different races from marrying each other.”

  Everyone is silent, so you keep going. The words are flowing from some part of you that you didn’t know you had. “Because laws like this will never stop people from falling in love. People who are in love will still want to be together even if it means their families or other people don’t want them to. Isn’t love between people a good thing? Isn’t it supposed to make things better for everyone?”

  After you finish, the class sits under a deep blanket of quiet. You’ve never talked this way in front of anyone. You wonder if you’ve said too much.

  Miss Field stands up from her chair and starts clapping. She is beaming. “Wonderful, Ariel. Just wonderful.” You’ve never seen her smile so big. Then suddenly the class joins in and claps. To your complete shock, even Chris is clapping. A wide grin spreads over your face, and for the first time, you feel the opposite of invisible. You feel seen.