by Varsha Bajaj
“Well,” Detective Willis says, “yes and no. He drove straight into a tree, and his car exploded into flames.”
Dad sucks in his breath.
“They had to identify him from his dental records,” the detective says.
The monster is dead. The world seems to stop spinning for a moment.
The officers are talking to Dad and Papa, but their voices are far away. All I hear is, The monster is dead. He is no longer walking around hating on others.
I move from my chair to sit next to Papa on his bed and hold his hand.
We both breathe a sigh of relief.
After the officers leave, I call Chris and tell him the news. He is quiet, but he doesn’t have to say a thing, because after a few moments of silence, I hear him exhale too.
CHAPTER 18
CHRIS
AS WE BOARD the bus on Monday morning, Karina points to her blue T-shirt. “My lucky shirt. I need it for my first day back.”
I smile and point to my striped socks. “My lucky socks. I need them for the math test.”
“Daniels,” Quinn pipes up, “you slumming with the nerds?”
“Nope, Quinn,” I say. “I’m hanging with my friends.”
I plonk my backpack next to Diego and Trevor instead of Quinn and his posse. I am changing teams, and I like it.
The monster who attacked us is gone, but there are still plenty of Quinns in the world.
* * *
When we arrive at school, Ashley tells Karina and me we are going to take a quick detour before going inside. “Diego, Trevor, and I have a surprise for you guys. Come see what we did.”
They lead us across the soccer field to the tree near the sidewalk at the edge of the school grounds. The spot where it all happened.
A big green heart has been chalked on the street around the berry stains.
“It’s just like the leaf hearts you drew on my valentine,” Karina says as she hugs Ashley.
Then she reads the sign pinned to the tree—also in the shape of a green heart: “Spread Love, Not Hate.”
A few others have copied Ashley’s heart and hung their hearts on the tree. They flutter in the breeze.
What they’ve done for us is so cool—it makes me feel that with all of them on my team, I’ve got the best lineup.
Then Karina does her thing. She takes pictures. Click. Click. Click.
We head back to the school building. Before we go our separate ways, I tell Karina I hope her lucky shirt does the trick for her. And then I add, in my deepest voice, “May the Force be with you!”
She cracks up. “May the equations work for you!”
* * *
When I walk into the gym, Coach is watching me like a hawk. Maybe he’s worried about another fight, I think. But instead, he comes up to me and says, “How you doing, Chris?”
“Okay,” I say. “Why?”
“Ms. Trotter told me what happened,” he says.
Coach is a man of few words, but I know what stuff he’s talking about.
“Karina’s grandfather is in the hospital,” I say. “With a bad broken leg.”
“What’s happening to this world?” Coach says, shaking his head.
During gym class, we begin our game, and Quinn refuses to pass the ball to me. Even when it’s clear I can probably make a shot and I yell, “Quinn, here,” he doesn’t listen.
We are behind in the first quarter.
There’s also a moment when I am right under the basket, unguarded. It’s like a gift from God. “Pass the ball!” I yell.
Thump. Thump. Nope. Nope.
He passes it to his friend Alex. Alex holds on to the ball and dribbles it across the court. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s as if they can’t hear or see me. Alex doesn’t make it. Coach whistles time and gives me a look that says, Hang in there. I take a deep breath.
The next time Quinn runs to the basket, he passes to Alex and then, out of nowhere, Diego comes charging in like a galloping horse, steals the ball, and passes it to me. I am so stunned, I almost don’t catch it.
I hear Trevor yelling for me to shoot, and I do. I score!
In the locker room, I keep out of Quinn’s way, but he finds me. “You think you’re pretty great,” he says, “but you’re really not.”
Diego comes over. “Chris,” he says, “let’s go.”
Quinn elbows Diego against the locker as we walk out.
At lunch, Diego, Trevor, and I join Karina, Ashley, and a few others.
I notice kids whispering and giving Karina and our table side glances. I know she sees them too. She knows most of them are supportive, but she is adjusting to the attention. I watch her take a deep breath, then lift her burrito.
“Why can’t you trust a burrito?” I say to lighten the mood.
“Why?” she says, playing along.
“Because they spill their beans.”
Karina laughs. “What kind of music does the burrito like?” she says.
“Wrap, of course!” I say.
Success!
After lunch, the corridor is packed with kids all trying to get to their classes. Karina, Ashley, and I are like salmon swimming upstream. And we can’t help hearing the murmurs of a bunch of eighth graders in front of us . . .
“That picture she posted was intense.”
“Is she the pretty Indian girl?”
“Did you see all the notes and stuff on the tree?”
“Jennifer’s little sister is her friend.”
“Her grandfather is in the hospital.”
“Why did they attack him?”
“They thought he was like a foreigner, a terrorist.”
“He’s not, though,” Karina says in a loud, clear voice. “A foreigner.”
Her words ring out, stopping everyone in their tracks. Kids turn to look at her.
“My grandfather has lived in this country for fifty years. He is a citizen. A good one. Not a terrorist.”
Nobody knows what to say at first.
A few kids say they are sorry for what happened.
Then the bell rings, and everybody runs off.
Karina hugs herself, as if she doesn’t believe that she said something aloud.
“Chris, should I have kept my mouth zipped?”
“No way!” I tell her. “What you said was great. It was so cool you spoke up!”
But Karina doesn’t seem convinced. I notice she spends most of social studies staring into space. At the end of class, Ms. Trotter gives her a card and a hug.
On the bus ride home, I ask her about the card.
“Ms. Trotter said to open it later,” she says.
Ashley nudges Karina and smiles. “Now is later already.”
“Maybe she gave you a gift card for ice cream? And you want to treat us?” I say hopefully.
Karina pulls the card out of her backpack and tears the envelope open.
The card has a globe on it, circled with red hearts. She glances at it and then reads it aloud.
Dear Karina,
You may not know who G. K. Chesterton was, but he said, “We are all in the same boat upon a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty.”
I am here for you,
Amelia Trotter
Karina hugs the card.
We are all quiet for a moment. Absorbing the words.
“Did you know her name was Amelia?” asks Ashley.
“A-me-lia. It’s perfectly right for her,” says Karina. She and Ashley both have goofy grins on their faces.
“The Chesterton dude is all right too,” I say.
“He is on point,” says Karina. “We are all in this together.”
“That’s the truth,” Ashley says.
When we get off the bus, Karina says, “Chris, if I
ever get a gift card for ice cream, I will totally share it with you.”
“Can we get sprinkles too?” I ask.
“For sure,” Karina says, “because life is better with sprinkles.”
CHAPTER 19
KARINA
THE PHYSICAL THERAPIST and a nurse are in Papa’s room when we get there after school on Monday. The physical therapist is a slim woman with biceps that ripple, and the nurse is a huge man with a sweet smile.
While they talk, I check out the giant card someone left for Papa. It looks so cheerful that a stranger might think that Papa just slipped and fell, rather than the more brutal truth. It is full of hearts and signatures and get-well-soon messages. Some are even written in Hindi.
I take a picture of the card and post it with a bunch of hashtags—#SurgerySuccessful, #HatersWontWin, #StayStrong, #OneStepAtATime, and #SupportHeals.
Now as the physical therapist helps Papa up, she says, “You can do this, Mr. Chopra. You have fans out there.”
“Yes, yes, I can,” Papa says.
Papa grunts as they hoist him up. The nurse and the physical therapist hover on either side. Papa takes a step and then another.
I watched Papa wince in pain as they made him stand for the first time after his surgery. I can only imagine how hard this must be. Papa has to regain his muscle strength and learn to bear weight on his injured leg. Each day, he will take a few more steps.
I think back to when we were upset because Papa was reorganizing our house and could not sit still. I remember Mom with her coloring book and Dad stressing over the Daniels’s fence, and I thought the world was ending because I couldn’t find computer paper. I miss those problems.
After a walk around the room, Papa is helped back into his bed. The physical therapist and nurse joke with him and cheer him on before they leave.
Papa’s forehead glistens with sweat. I sit on his bed and hold his hand while he closes his eyes for a bit.
This is the hard part of the day. But I have noticed that Papa’s face lights up when he has visitors. He speaks in Punjabi, Hindi, and Hinglish, and laughs and laughs. For a few hours, he forgets the needles and the blood pressure gauges, and the long, uncertain road to walking again.
I would do anything for my grandfather, and as I sit close to him, I decide that when he comes home, we are going to give him the best party ever. The doctors have said that if all continues to go well, Papa could be discharged from the hospital later this week and then go to a rehab facility for a few weeks. That will give me plenty of time to try to figure out the recipe for Grandma’s famous strawberry cake.
* * *
When Papa has some energy back, he sits up and points to the album I placed beside his bed. “I am so happy you found my album,” he tells me.
“Mom thought it would cheer you up, and I wanted to see if you were always this handsome,” I tell him, eager to look through the old pictures.
Opening the album is like finding a video of laughing babies on the internet. Then you want to watch the next one, and the one after. I keep turning pages.
“Why haven’t you shown this to me before?” I exclaim when I see pictures of him as a boy with his grandparents. His grandfather looks just like him, and his mother and sisters wear flowers in their long braids, and silky saris.
“I am happy you are seeing it now,” he says. “You should know our family’s stories.”
Papa points to a picture of him and Grandma in front of a blue single-story house. “Once upon a time, we lived here.”
They look so young and so proud of being first-time homeowners in their adopted country.
“See, we planted marigolds in the garden to remind us of India.”
I lift the album and take a closer look at my grandparents’ dream home.
“In that house, we had an oven,” he says. “It was yellow. That is when Grandma learned to bake. Back then, not even the richest man in our small village in Punjab owned an oven. Oh, we felt rich, your grandma and I.”
Then he turns the page, and there is Grandma wearing pants and a shirt with big flowers on it, carrying a matching purse.
“Your grandma learned enough English to get a job as a teller, in a bank near our house. Her English may not have been the best, but she could account for every penny, at home and at work.” The pride in his voice is unmistakable.
These stories of their early life make me wonder about it more, and I say, “What did it feel like to leave everything behind?”
“I missed my family—my mother worrying if I had eaten enough, squabbling with my sisters over card games. And we missed having people around who had known us since birth. We even missed the man in the market who made barfi, the sweet milk dessert that you love, and the woman who haggled over the price of okra and tomatoes. And we missed the smells of the market, the air after the rain . . .”
Papa is quiet for a minute and looks as if he is far away.
Then he says, “We used to live for those visits back home. But then Rita Aunty was born, your father was born, and this became home. With each visit to India, we felt more like visitors.”
I’m not sure I understand all he is saying, but I file the words away so I can figure them out later.
We keep looking at more pictures till the question bursts out into the open: “Papa,” I say, “are you angry?”
Anger has overcome me so many times over the last few days, coming in waves that feel like they will knock me off my feet.
“I am glad that your grandmother isn’t around to see this day,” he tells me.
“What are we going to do, Papa?” I ask.
“For years, I thought that maybe people did not know any better when they made fun of our accents, because for the most part, America welcomed me and my family. But now I understand there are just some people who do not want people like us here. Karina, maybe we have to give back now by fighting for the America we believe in.”
I nod as Dad appears with coffee. Papa and I get silent.
“Did I miss something?” Dad asks.
Papa shakes his head.
Dad picks up the photo album. “I have not seen these pictures in decades,” he says, and flips it open, adding details to the stories Papa had told, pointing to his first bike lying on the lawn in one of the pictures, and telling me how he and his sister first baked chicken nuggets in that same yellow oven.
As we are leaving, Papa says, “Karina, I know you have been busy, but have you decided which of your pictures you will enter for that competition?”
“No, I haven’t had time,” I say, and the truth of that surprises me.
“Well, do not forget about it,” Papa tells me. “We are going to celebrate when you get in the show. And that reminds me, I left some math worksheets in the kitchen for Chris, and for you too. Please get them. I want you both to practice.”
At home, I find the folder marked “Math” exactly where Papa said I would find it. It has separate worksheets for me and for Chris. And at the bottom of the stack is the cake recipe.
My heart surges with love for my organized Papa. He was going to make the cake for Chris when he got the A and for me when I got in the art gallery show. Papa had the recipe in there, ready to go for us. Now we will make it for him instead.
CHAPTER 20
CHRIS
TYPICALLY ON FRIDAY, we order pizza for dinner. A Daniels family tradition. On Saturday, there’s usually a basketball game, and on Sunday, we go out to eat after church and then I do homework.
But last Thursday, Mr. Chopra was attacked and I was called a “Muslim lover.” On Friday, he had surgery and I worried all day. On Saturday, I visited him in the hospital and identified a criminal, and on Sunday, I was told that a man had died and it made me relieved.
Is this really my life?
I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks everything is out
of whack in the world. On Tuesday afternoon, I can’t believe what I see when I pass the memorial Ashley, Trevor, and Diego made for Mr. C.
Everything has multiplied. There are lots more flowers and cards, and a couple of balloons. People have also hung a bunch more of the green hearts with notes showing support. Someone has placed a picture of Karina and her grandfather on the tree too. It’s almost as if the flowers and hearts are pushing away the hate.
It makes me feel so much better to see this. It’s like everyone in school knows what happened now. They’ve seen Karina’s pictures, and they have her back.
When I see a familiar-looking woman walking toward me, I try to remember how I know her.
Then it clicks.
Duh, I tell myself. It’s the lady who saved you when she rolled out her trash can. If it wasn’t for her taking the picture of the monster’s fleeing car, he might not have been caught.
“Chris?” she calls out in a voice that’s so different from the panicky one she used that day.
She reaches out a hand to shake mine. “I’m Anne Maxwell.”
She’s carrying a small bunch of flowers and points to the memorial. “I was so happy to see this.”
She asks about Karina and Mr. Chopra, and I fill her in.
“I want to help in any way I can,” she tells me.
When she hands me her card, I see that she works for the Lonestar Times.
Mrs. Maxwell takes some pictures of the memorial. “I’d like to put a picture of this in the paper and post it online. It’s such a hopeful sign for our community. I want people to see that love can fight hate.”
“Karina has been sharing pictures online too,” I say. “I’m sure she’d like you to follow her.”
“Has she? I’d love to see them,” she says, and I share Karina’s handle.
“Thanks!” Mrs. Maxwell says as she walks away. “I’ll see you soon, I hope.”
I’m about to ride off on my bike when I spy a menu from an Indian restaurant next to one of the cards. I recognize the logo of the restaurant. Bombay Palace. What’s that doing there?
