by Varsha Bajaj
I prop my bike and pick it up.
Curry stinks is written across the front in black marker. Undeniable. Indelible.
I remember that note that was passed to Karina last year, and it’s a pretty easy guess who might’ve put that menu among the flowers.
I tear the menu to bits.
CHAPTER 21
KARINA
TODAY IS THE day Papa gets discharged. A nurse pushes him in a wheelchair to the hospital foyer. My arms are full of flowers and a bouquet of get-well-soon balloons.
“I wish I was going home,” Papa says. “But I need the rehab.”
“Papa,” I say. “Two weeks will fly by—you’ll be home before Halloween.”
It turns out the rehab center is much nicer than the hospital. We settle Papa in his room. Dad steps out to take care of insurance business, and I arrange Papa’s family photos and his Krishna idol on his bedside table.
Papa says, “Karina, Rita Aunty called me this morning. She said you had put a picture from that day on the internet?”
He sounds surprised that I would do that. I guess I am surprised that he didn’t hear till now.
“Can I see it?” he asks.
I hand him my phone, and he takes his time looking at the picture, reading my caption and other people’s comments.
When he hands my phone back, he says, “Beta, does the world need to know our pain?”
I don’t say anything.
“We were raised to keep family matters within the family,” he says.
I don’t know how to respond to that. I guess there is some truth to what Papa believes, but sometimes sharing a burden makes it easier to bear.
“We are immigrants,” he says. “We have to be careful.”
“Yes, almost everybody is or was an immigrant in this country, Papa,” I say.
“Not the way we are,” he says forcefully.
“You remember when you said we can’t let hate win?” I ask.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, Papa,” I say, “sharing my photos is my way of speaking up. Of fighting hate.”
Papa nods at me, and I think he gets it.
Then he scrunches his forehead and says, “I am trying to understand this posting thing. So each person can share with their friends?”
I nod. “Yes, if they want.”
“And then they share too. So it becomes an exponential equation?”
“Yes, I guess you are right.”
Papa thinks for a minute, then says, “That is really something.”
Trust Papa to like it when he can see it in mathematical terms!
CHAPTER 22
CHRIS
I’M SHOOTING HOOPS with Diego and Trevor in my driveway when Karina comes over waving the Lonestar Times. She folds it open and hands it to me. There’s a big photo of the memorial.
Diego reads the caption under the photograph out loud: “Hope and love fight hate. The students of Spring Hill Middle School lead the way in demonstrating how tolerance can fight hate. The kids are all right.”
We all stand there and grin at each other.
“Ashley is going to love this,” says Karina. She takes a picture and sends it to Ashley. “And, guys, I just called Mrs. Maxwell to thank her. I’m going to meet her at the memorial. Ashley’s coming too. Y’all want to come along?”
“Sure,” I say, and Diego and Trevor agree.
“We can wait while you get your bike,” I tell her. “We all have ours.”
“Do we have to ride?” Karina asks.
When I tell her it’ll be fun, she gives me a funny look but goes to get her bike.
Diego, Trevor, and I are on our bikes waiting when Karina comes pedaling out of her garage. She raises her chin and shoots us a look, defying us to say anything.
Her bike is Barbie pink—all glittery and tasseled. It was probably a perfect fit when she was like eight.
She points to the unicorn stickers on the handlebars, and then we all crack up. None of us can stop laughing.
“Lastly,” she says, and turns her bike around, “behold the rhinestone-studded license plate with my name. It was my seventh-birthday present. I stopped riding it a few years ago and, obviously, never bothered to get a new one.”
“Man,” I say, “I’ll never complain about inheriting Matt’s old stuff again.”
* * *
Ashley’s in front of the school when we arrive. We stop at the playground so we can shoot a few hoops while we wait for Mrs. Maxwell to show up.
The girls sit on the swings, and after a few shots, Diego drops the ball to join them. “When I was a kid, I was a king on the swings,” he says with a straight face.
“The ‘swing king’ has a ring to it,” Karina says with a half smile.
“The swing king is a thing?” says Ashley, getting in on the rhymefest.
“Did the swing king sing?” Trevor says, and bursts into song.
How can I resist? I’m drawn to the peals of laughter, and I race over and grab a swing.
I think it’s been years since any of us have played on the swing set. But we haven’t forgotten how, and we push off from the wood chips and pump our feet.
Ashley makes Diego a crown of leaves and tells him it’ll be years till he lives down the swing king title.
We’re the only ones on the playground, and it feels so good to act like we’re six years old—back when the only monsters we knew were villains in fairy tales and video games.
* * *
When it’s time to meet Mrs. Maxwell, we head over to the memorial.
A group of sixth graders is just leaving, and when they spy Karina, they wave. Then some eighth graders who are hanging by the fence give us a thumbs-up.
“You know them?” Diego says in awe.
“Not personally, dude,” I say. “But I guess we all know each other a little bit now because of Karina’s pictures.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Diego says.
Mrs. Maxwell arrives, waving the paper, and Ashley gets a look at it.
Karina introduces Mrs. Maxwell to Ashley, Diego, and Trevor. “This was their idea,” she tells Mrs. Maxwell. “They started it.”
“What an amazing way to show that this community stands by Mr. Chopra, Karina, and Chris,” Mrs. Maxwell says. She has us all stand by the memorial for a picture and promises to send it to Karina. Then she takes a selfie with all of us.
“Speaking of pictures, I really like what you’ve posted, Karina,” Mrs. Maxwell says. “Your shots are so moving. Would you mind if I share one or two?”
“I don’t mind,” says Karina. “Sometimes, I feel like the whole world should know. Other times, I worry that my grandfather would not like it. But I think he’s beginning to understand that it’s important to talk about all this.”
Before we leave, Karina takes a picture of Mrs. Maxwell, me, Diego, Trevor, and Ashley against the pink streaks in the sky.
In the evening, Karina posts it online with the caption Friends. And I love her hashtags: #GoodPeople, #GoodDay, #HateHasNoHomeHere.
CHAPTER 23
KARINA
AT THE REHAB center, a staff member points Mom, Dad, and me to a room. “He’s in a physical therapy session,” she says. “If he doesn’t want you there, he’ll let you know and you can wait out here. He’s had a rough night, which is not unusual at this point.”
Papa is walking between two railings. He faces away from us. A physical therapist hovers as he takes each step.
As we walk in, we hear Papa saying, “I am too tired. Let me take a break today.”
It’s the first time I have heard Papa say something like this. The physical therapist brings the wheelchair and lets him sit.
When the physical therapist sees us, he wheels Papa over. “Your family is here, Mr. Chopra. Why don’t you visit with them, and th
en we’ll reassess.”
I greet Papa with a hug and he smiles, but his smile does not seem wholehearted. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
Dad wheels Papa out to the courtyard. It’s October, and finally getting a little cooler.
“You didn’t sleep well?” Dad asks.
Papa nods but does not say a word. I’m not used to him being low-energy. He’s the one who gives the rest of us pep talks.
Mom moves her chair closer to Papa and holds his hands. “Papa,” she says, “I have some important news.”
The urgency in her voice surprises us all. It’s as if she is willing Papa to listen.
“Trisha?” Dad says, but Mom doesn’t even look at him.
“Papa, I know it is hard, but you have to keep going and getting stronger,” Mom tells him. “You have to be there to greet your new grandchild.”
I look at Mom like she has lost her marbles. Is she lying to give Papa hope?
I glance over at Dad, and now he is grinning.
“Papa,” Dad says, “did you hear that?”
Papa smiles, and this time it transforms his face. “Of course I did.”
“We wanted to wait till Trisha was safely at three months to share the news,” Dad says, putting his arm around Mom. “We are almost there—a few days away.”
I can’t believe my ears. What? Mom is pregnant? Not that I’m not excited or anything—I have always wanted a sibling. When I was five, I asked Santa for one. I promised Mom that I would be the best big sister in the universe. When I was seven, I said I would give up my American Girl doll, the one that looked like me, if I had a baby sister instead. Slowly, though, I understood that it was not to be, and by the time I was around eight I stopped asking.
Now I think back and remember Mom feeling sick a lot this past month. She wasn’t really sick; she was pregnant, and it was nausea.
Papa holds Mom’s hand and says, “I promise I will work harder than I have ever worked before.”
The physical therapist returns and tells Papa that they can call it a day if he is tired.
“No,” he says. “I need to work harder. I have a new grandchild on the way. I need to be walking before that baby arrives.”
On my way out, I hold my mom’s hand. She squeezes back. We both giggle.
Many years ago, on my one and only trip to India, I rode a camel. It was sitting on the beach, and my cousin and I climbed a ladder to get on it. We were told to hold on when the camel rose to its feet. As it got up, it lurched and rocked up and down before it straightened itself out. To five-year-old me, it was like being on an animal roller coaster.
That’s what life feels like right now. The ups and downs are making me dizzy.
* * *
At night, I can’t fall asleep. I read all the messages of support on social media till my eyes cross. Hang in there, everyone says.
By three in the morning, I am still awake. The light of the almost-full moon streams in through the slats of my blinds. I toss and turn, and can’t help worrying about what will happen if Papa is not able to walk independently again. What would that mean to our family?
But I cannot allow myself to go there. He must get better.
I get up and find the album of Papa’s old pictures that we brought back home. I find the photograph of Papa and Grandma standing in front of their sweet little blue house, with the marigolds blooming.
They have the biggest smiles on their faces. Their lawn is perfectly manicured, and there is a garland of flowers on the front door. Their beaming faces say they have made it. After years of hard work and jumping through every immigration hoop, they had achieved their dream. They had a place of their own. Papa said it had felt like a palace.
I keep staring at the picture. I take a photo of it and try to find the right words.
Finally, I type, What does an American look like? #Immigrants, #WeBelong, #IAmAmerican.
Then I add #CountMeIn, and I post it.
CHAPTER 24
CHRIS
RAIN LASHING AGAINST my window wakes me up earlier than usual. When I look out at the street, it’s like there’s a river flowing.
I pick up my phone to check the time and see if Karina has posted anything new. She has.
I can barely recognize Mr. C—he looks so young in the picture that Karina has shared. Then I read the hashtags, and I literally fall back on my bed. #CountMeIn. Whoa!
I want to post a photo with that hashtag too. I scramble around in my room to find the picture I need.
It’s one of my great-grandpa, with his sandy-blond hair, in his overalls, riding his tractor in the wheat fields of Nebraska. #CountMeIn. I tag Karina and Mrs. Maxwell.
Mom has woken up. I can hear her putzing around in the kitchen, and soon I smell coffee. “Chris,” she calls. “Did you see the text from the school?”
School has been delayed this morning, due to flooding on some of the low-lying streets like ours. Buses can’t run their routes. Instead of the bus coming as usual at 7:20 a.m., it will come at ten.
After a celebratory dance around the kitchen, I text Karina. She has already heard about the late school opening and invites me over.
“Is that your grandfather?” she asks as I walk in her door. She saw my post.
“My great-grandfather,” I say.
“I love it,” she says.
“Karina, do you think the rain might have ruined the tree memorial?”
“I sure hope not,” she says.
The doorbell rings, and Karina’s mom peeks out. “It’s Mrs. Maxwell,” she tells us, surprised.
Karina’s mom opens the door, and Mrs. Maxwell walks in wearing a raincoat.
Mrs. Maxwell gestures to a colossal F-150 Raptor parked outside. “I borrowed it from my neighbor to safely drive through the water,” she says. “Have y’all seen what’s happening?”
Mrs. Maxwell opens her phone and shows us Karina’s photo, which she shared on her social media. “Oh, Karina,” she says. “‘Count Me In’? How could I not share this picture?”
Mrs. Maxwell is not the only one who connected with it.
It has been shared. And shared.
And then shared some more.
We look at each other in disbelief.
Now pictures with #CountMeIn are coming in faster than the rain outside the window.
There’s a picture of a black man with eyes as blue as the ocean.
There’s one of a newborn baby, and another one of an old dude with more wrinkles than hair.
There’s a picture of a Sikh man with a turban, and one of some teens wearing hijabs.
There’s a picture of a man with dreadlocks down to his shoulders, another of a Chinese American family, and one of an Indian woman wearing a bindi and a sari.
There’s a woman wearing a suit, a construction worker, and a kid riding his tricycle, which is decked out in red, white, and blue.
There’s a picture of the El Último taco truck with the owner and his family serving a line of people.
And on and on it goes.
The shares remind me once again of the drums in the forest, beating to communicate messages in the old days.
I want to bang the drums so hard now that everyone will pay attention. I can imagine my hands thumping the skin of the drum, beating it till they turn red.
Then Karina spots pictures posted by our friends and family—Ms. Trotter, Ashley, Diego, and Karina’s mom. And, yes, even one from my dad pops up. I didn’t even know my dad knew how to use social media!
Then it hits me.
This is what it means for a post to go viral.
I need to post another picture, so I put one up of the basketball team. Yes, Quinn is in it too. But there’s also Diego and Trevor. We come in all shades. I tag it with #IAmAmerican, #CountMeIn.
* * *
When we ge
t to school, the first thing we notice is the tree memorial. The rain did not ruin it, because someone had covered it with tarp. Karina gets teary.
There’s a group of students and staff in the foyer, and they all have their phones out, raised above their heads, and they’re waving them at Karina. One of the kids explains that his mom saw the viral post and showed it to her. A few other kids come to high-five Karina.
Karina looks at me, shocked, like school suddenly moved to Mars or something. Then she squares her shoulders.
I grin.
She bows and waves her phone at them.
Sweet!
When I see Quinn, he tells me that I should have asked his permission before sharing the picture of the team.
“Whatever, dude!” I say. Then I add, “Maybe you should open your eyes a little wider.”
At lunchtime, I sneak into the bathroom and see that there are pictures coming in from all over—Alaska, Minnesota, Kentucky, and New York City.
It’s like Karina has pushed a ball down the hill, and there’s no stopping it.
On the bus ride home, Karina gets a ton of high fives. Quinn and a couple of his buddies keep their heads down—but at least they’re being quiet.
When the bus turns onto our street, I see a Channel 3 van in front of Karina’s house.
Karina’s eyes get wide and she clutches my arm. “Chris, what should I do?”
Before we can come up with a plan, the bus screeches to a halt.
“Maybe we can ride the bus back to school,” Karina says. “Why are they even here?”
I have a plan. We’ll get off and walk in the opposite direction, to the park, then we’ll call Karina’s parents.
But then we see my mother standing at the bus stop. She hasn’t met the bus since I was in third grade, but I’ve never been happier to see her. Mom pulls a stunned Karina to her side. The two of us shield her as we rush toward my house.
