How to Find What You're Not Looking For

by Veera Hiranandani

  Accelerate, homage, peevish, mirth. You know them all, but you stop on mirth. Usually words sound like what they are. Accelerate moves faster as you say the word in your head, like a little car. Homage sounds like you’re handing something to someone else, a gift. Just hearing the word peevish makes you feel irritable, and you think of the way your face looks when Ma tells you to clean your room even though you already have. These words all make perfect sense.

  But not mirth. Mirth sounds like earth, which reminds you of dirt, which makes you think of mud and mess and deep, dark holes. You picture someone falling in mirth, stuck in the mirth, sitting alone at night filled with mirth. But the dictionary says mirth means “gladness or gaiety as shown by or accompanied with laughter.” Mirth makes you believe that something can truly look and sound like one thing and mean something exactly the opposite.

  After the quiz, Miss Field makes an announcement.

  “Please put your quizzes in the basket. I’m happy to say we have a new addition to our classroom. An electric typewriter,” she says and walks over to it in the back of the classroom, where it sits on its own desk.

  All eyes follow her.

  “I’d like you to come around for a demonstration, but please try to make room for everyone.”

  The scrape of metal chairs becomes irritating. Then there’s talking, sneakers squeaking, everyone trying to get close. It makes you want to put your hands over your ears. Miss Field waits for everyone to settle down.

  “Let’s try to figure out a way for all of you to see.”

  Miss Field does this often, lets you order yourselves. She says she’ll wait and watches silently as the class figures out how to calm its own chaos. Most of the time it works, and it’s very different from the usual harsh directing and scolding from your past teachers. Last year, Mrs. McKenna used to make people stand in the corner, facing the wall for ten minutes, if they didn’t listen. She also pulled on people’s ears sometimes. Never yours, thank goodness.

  You stand back, waiting for the cheerful chaos to die down. Finally, people have arranged themselves around the typewriter in a large half circle, so everyone can see.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’m going to choose a student who can help me demonstrate.” She looks around. Hands shoot into the air. She keeps looking and locks her eyes on you. “Ariel, why don’t you come up here.”

  Normally, demonstrating anything for the class would be the last thing a teacher would ask you to do and the last thing you’d ever want to do. But since the presentation, you don’t feel like hiding anymore. You walk over slowly, and people move aside to let you get by.

  “Have a seat,” she says, and you slide into the chair.

  You place your hands on the keys, and the typewriter buzzes comfortably against the pads of your fingers. It says IBM on the front in big capital letters. Miss Field shows you a chart of where your fingers are supposed to go.

  Your left-hand pinkie is supposed to go on A, then the other three fingers on S, D, and F. Then your right-hand pointer goes on J; the other fingers on K, L, and the semicolon. You use your thumbs for the space bar. It’s like you’re playing the piano. She shows you how to reach with each finger to the keys above and below. You can hear everyone breathing around you.

  “Okay, try typing The sad dog sat on a log,” she says.

  The T is a little hard, then the H, then the E. Your fingers press down each key so easily, and there they are, the black letters on the white paper, as neat as a printed book. You think of how you would have handwritten the word, big and wavy, the E not really looking like an E.

  You think of how much faster you could write once you learn how to type. You would never have to think about why your fingers can’t make the words look the way you want them to.

  “Great,” she says. “Keep going.”

  You manage to type the whole sentence. Each letter makes a popping sound as you type it onto the paper. Pop, pop, pop.

  “Can I try?” asks Lisa. This unleashes a wave of requests. Hands shoot into the air. Everyone is begging Miss Field to try. She says everyone will have a turn and picks five more people to type the same sentence. Then she passes around a sign-up sheet for five people every day. You’re glad you got to go first, but you wonder when you’ll get another chance.

  The day goes by quickly. After the final bell rings, Miss Field calls you over. You stand before her desk. She rubs her hands together, like she’s warming them over a fire.

  “Ariel,” she says. “How would you like to do a lot of your writing on this typewriter? You’ll still work on your handwriting, but if you learn how to type, I think it will help you get your ideas out more easily.”

  You nod. You think she’s right. A letter, a sentence, a paragraph like magic on the paper with just a little press. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  “I’ve done some reading on this, and my understanding is that dysgraphia doesn’t just cause messy handwriting, it makes it hard to think about what you’re writing while you’re trying to write each letter. Does that ring true to you?”

  You think of how it feels when you pick up a pencil. First you have to think about holding it correctly. Then you have to think about forming each letter. Then there’s spelling. It hardly ever comes out the way you want it to, and by that time, you’ve forgotten what you wanted to say. That’s how one sentence is. A whole paragraph feels like climbing a mountain.

  “It sure does,” you say.

  “Great, let’s just get you typing and see how it goes. Our experiment.”

  “Okay,” you say. “But how will I practice?” You think of all the kids clamoring for a chance at the machine.

  “How would you feel about coming in at lunch twice a week? That might be easier than staying after school.”

  You nod; that way you don’t have to tell your parents. And the kids won’t know you’re spending more time at the typewriter than they are. That also means less time in the cafeteria. She said it was a gift for everyone, but now you wonder if it was mostly for you and Miss Field, your secret experiment.

  “I would like that,” you say. Miss Field smiles, and you both stand there for a few seconds.

  “Miss Field?” you say.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just want to help get those amazing ideas out on paper.” As she says this, she taps her own head with her finger. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for you.

  That night, you think about the typewriter, the way it buzzed under your fingers while all the kids watched. You wish you had one at home, but at least in your poetry notebook you don’t have to worry about what your handwriting looks like. You scribble down another poem.

  Mirth

  Mirth is such a

  sad and grumpy word.

  I’m not sure if

  I believe that “mirth”

  actually means

  a happy feeling.

  Maybe

  I’m just used

  to people

  lying to me.

  Or perhaps

  the real truth is

  that lots of things

  are not what they seem.

  On Friday night after dinner, you go over to Jane’s apartment again to plan. Ma and Daddy don’t seem to mind. Ma hasn’t been making her usual Shabbat dinner. Tonight, it was chicken salad sandwiches and leftover split pea soup. She always lights the candles and says the blessings but hardly ever goes to services these days. It’s like that with Ma. Sometimes she goes a lot and makes you come with her, and she used to take Leah as well. But sometimes she goes months without attending; Daddy hardly ever goes.

  Still, for Shabbat dinner, Ma used to make matzo ball soup, kugel, and a roast. Often, she would also make cholent for the next day. It was your grandmother’s recipe, and Ma said she made it just to smell
it—the meat, beans, and barley cooking all day. Daddy would save the biggest and best challah to bring home.

  You didn’t like being dragged to synagogue, but you miss the routine, the dinner cooking when you got home from school, the glow of Temple Beth Torah’s sanctuary at night, the hushed rhythmic sound of the rabbi’s prayers. It was something you could always count on—even if you didn’t like taking the bus there, even if Rabbi Ackerman’s low, gravelly voice could put you to sleep, even if you wondered whether you actually believed in God the whole time.

  When you’re inside Jane’s apartment, you feel a weight lift. There’s no missing sister here, no sad, angry parents—just you and Jane sitting on her bed with a big bag of potato chips that you’ve brought from your place. Peggy isn’t home yet, so you have the apartment to yourselves. Jane gets out her red notebook.

  “This is what we know already,” she says, nibbling on the end of her pencil. “Leah’s in New York City.”

  “With Raj,” you say.

  She writes it down. “With Raj.”

  Then she looks up at you, and you both blink at each other.

  “That’s it,” you say. “I can’t find the envelopes her letters were in or the second letter she sent, telling us about the baby.”

  Jane taps the notebook with her pencil.

  “So what do you think Leah does all day?” she asks. “Where does she go, or where would she go?”

  You think about the city. You’ve only been there a few times. Twice for Broadway shows, once to see Leah in a special performance with her dance company at Lincoln Center, and once to meet your aunt Sheila to shop for your cousin’s wedding at Macy’s. You’ve been to your aunts’ and uncles’ apartments in Brooklyn lots of times, but when you go there, you never go anywhere else. You have no idea where Leah would actually live.

  “Do you know Raj’s last name?”

  “Oh, yes! Jagwani.”

  “Did you try calling information or looking them up in the phone book?”

  You shake your head. You wonder why you never have.

  “Come,” she says, and you follow her into the kit-chen. The phone book is in a shelf beneath the kitchen counter, the same place your family keeps it. There’s only one phone book, and it’s just for Fairfield County, Connecticut.

  “No problem. Just call information,” Jane says.

  “Will you call?” Calling people on the phone, especially strangers, always makes you nervous.

  “Okay,” Jane says and dials 411.

  As you watch the dial spin back after each number, your heart starts beating faster and faster.

  “Um, hello,” Jane says into the receiver. “Do you have a listing for either Leah or Raj Jagwani in New York?” Her cheeks turn pink. She seems nervous, too.

  “Manhattan,” you whisper and poke her gently on the shoulder. “Tell her to look in Manhattan.”

  “In Manhattan, I mean?” she says. You put your head close to hers so you can hear the operator’s response.

  “What did you say the last name was?” the operator asks. Jane looks at you and raises her eyebrows. She pushes the receiver toward you. You shake your head no. She nods and pushes it back to you.

  “Jagwani,” you say again, louder. The operator asks you to spell it. You remember again how it looked when Leah wrote it, and you spell it slowly for her.

  “What an unusual name,” she says. You’re not sure what to say and bite your lip. She puts you on hold and you hear a bit of static. The seconds go by slowly, then there’s a click. She’s back.

  “Can you spell it again for me, hon?” You roll your eyes at Jane and spell it again, letter by letter. You wonder if people always react to Raj’s name—which is now Leah’s name, too—like this.

  More waiting, then she returns. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a listing for either.”

  “Okay, thank you,” you say in a small voice and place the phone back in its cradle. Maybe this was why you never tried; you didn’t want to feel the way you do now. You hunch over and hang your head as you both walk back into Jane’s room.

  “Hey, come on,” Jane says. “That’s just one step. No good mystery is easy. We have to figure out what her daily life is like. Is she an uptown girl? Or maybe a hippie type? Where do hippies live in New York City? Greenwich Village? I think I read that somewhere.”

  Has your sister become a hippie? Maybe she has. You picture her in bell-bottoms, a headband around her forehead, flowers in her hair.

  “In Nancy Drew, Nancy’s always spying on people to see what they’re really up to. We should probably spy on your parents.”

  “I guess.” You wonder what you would find out if you did. You kind of do all the time just living with them, but it hasn’t led you to Leah.

  “Is there any place either Leah or Raj have to be? Does Raj have a job?”

  “I think Raj is going to business school.”

  “Good,” Jane says and gets ready to write. “Where?”

  “Oh, of course!” you say, smacking your forehead. “New York University. Leah said he was going there for business school, but I’m not sure where it is.”

  Jane tosses the book on the floor and hugs you. The bag falls over, spilling potato chips on the bed.

  “What?” you say, surprised, but you hug her back.

  “That’s where they must be, at New York University. Now we just need to go there and find them. We’ll call information again. Or the library must have something about it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” you say.

  “You said you wanted my help,” Jane says as she quickly puts loose chips back in the bag, eating a few as she goes.

  “True, I did,” you say in a tiny voice. Jane could be like a little tornado when she got an idea in her head, swirling everyone up around her. Last year she read in some tabloid that Elizabeth Taylor was spotted at 21 Club, a restaurant in New York where all the stars went, according to Jane. She wanted to go there just to see a place that Elizabeth Taylor had been in. She had this idea that you both would take the train to the city and then a cab to the restaurant and try to have dinner there. “Bring all the money you have. Maybe we can get a hamburger,” she had said to you.

  The plan was that you were supposed to tell your parents you were going to be at her apartment, and she would say she was going to be at yours. But you didn’t have the guts. Ma could smell a lie from miles away.

  “So we can take the train there. We’ll try that old—”

  “There’s got to be another way,” you say, starting to feel nervous again. You picture your parents catching you in a lie or worrying them for some reason. You’re finally the good child in Ma’s eyes. You don’t want to ruin that.

  Jane puts her hands on your shoulders. “Ariel, you want to find your sister, right?” she says.

  You nod. “More than anything.”

  “Then this is what we have to do.”

  You picture seeing Leah and Raj from far away on a college campus. They’re holding hands. You call out Leah’s name. She turns. She runs and hugs you and tells you she’s so sorry for leaving, so sorry for not writing, that she misses you more than anything. Raj holds out his hand for you to shake, but you hug him, too. Then you tell them everything, and it’s all okay. They come back with you on the train, right then and there.

  “You’re right. It’s the only way,” you say and take a huge handful of potato chips, some greasy pieces falling onto the bedspread. Jane smiles and wipes some crumbs off her face with the back of her hand. It’s almost like you didn’t really know each other before even though you’ve been friends for years. If you never asked her for help, you might have missed this: the chance to have a real friend.

  How to Have a Nightmare

  After an early dinner a few days later, you sit on the couch with your parents, and everything seems fine, almost cozy. Daddy’s
doing the crossword in his chair, and Ma is in her rocking chair with her stockinged feet in slippers, crocheting something in fuzzy yellow and white yarn. She hasn’t crocheted in a long time.

  You wonder if you need to let Leah go. Maybe you need to have faith that she’ll come back when she’s ready. Because if you actually find her, what do you expect will happen? She might be mad at you. Your parents will also be angry, and it won’t bring Leah home. Even worse, what if you don’t find her? Won’t that be harder?

  Walter Cronkite is on the TV, telling you how many more soldiers died in Vietnam last week—hundreds more, he says—and that fighting is hard during the rainy season. You think of all those families the soldiers belong to, hundreds and hundreds more people who will never be the same. You know girls can’t be drafted, but would Raj ever be drafted? You remember Leah said he was in school so he wouldn’t be. But will it change when he graduates? You don’t want to ask Ma and Daddy what the rules are.

  “We saw a Realtor again today,” Ma says during a commercial. “We might have found a place.”

  “Already?” you ask. “You didn’t tell me it would be that soon.”

  “They’re raising the rent here next month,” Daddy says.

  “Can’t we just wait until after the bakery is sold?” you ask. “Just a few more months?”

  “Every month counts,” he says. “But we’re still not sure. This place isn’t available for a few months anyway.”

  “How far is it from here?” you ask.

  “It’s closer to the train station, but on the other side of town,” Ma says, her voice suddenly too cheerful. “Just a couple of miles from here on Cedar. It’s a little smaller, but the kitchen has more space. There’s good light. It only has one bathroom, though.”

  “A few miles?” You’re about to ask how you’ll walk back and forth to Gertie’s, but then you remember that eventually you won’t need to. Only one bathroom. Leah took forever in the bathroom. You were always banging on the door, trying to get her to come out. But this new apartment will probably never be a place Leah lives in. And then there’s Jane. You wouldn’t be in the same building anymore. Would you stay friends?