by Varsha Bajaj
Most of the comments are supportive, but there are plenty that aren’t. Folks who spew trash from accounts with names like Whitehope15.
I call Karina to tell her that her interview with Mrs. Maxwell is online.
“I know,” she says.
“Promise me not to read the comments.”
“Dad made me promise that too,” she says.
“This is important. Please don’t,” I say. “Please?”
CHAPTER 27
KARINA
EVERY PHOTO FROM my “Worth Keeping” folder is laid out in my room, till every surface is covered, even the floor. Walking requires me to tiptoe around moments from my life. They are all the objects and people that attracted my eye and made me zoom in with my camera.
There is the stone river that meanders through Ashley’s backyard. The blue bench that I saw in Maine. The wisteria climbing on a fence in a desolate neighborhood. A purple front door propped open an inch. Dogs of all shapes and sizes, because I want one.
I look from one photo to the other. They are all pretty. Beautiful even. But none feels right.
I call Ashley and fill her in on the happenings at the art gallery.
She comes over and stands at the door to my room. “Whoa! What in the world, Karina?”
“On your tippy-toes, Ash,” I say.
She enters, and does the Ashley thing. She surveys all the photos, and I am quiet as can be. Then Ashley stares at the pics for a while longer, closes her eyes, and picks.
It has worked in the past.
This time, Ashley picks the photo of the door. “I love the way it is open just a bit. I don’t know what’s inside, but I want to push it open.”
I pick it up and peer at it closely. “You think so?”
I put it down and pick up another one.
“These pictures were all taken by the old me,” I say.
Ashley raises her brows. “That is still you.”
“It is, and it isn’t.”
I feel like a new Karina now that hate has become three-dimensional for me. Since the attack, my story has changed.
A half hour later, after a few more suggestions I don’t take, I can see that Ashley is frustrated.
I can’t blame her. I am losing patience with myself.
After she leaves, I take a break from my room with all its pictures. I open my phone and look at the pictures that people continue to post with the #CountMeIn hashtag.
These are the pictures that make me happy now, less alone. I am looking at a picture of two little best friends. They remind me of me and Ashley in third grade.
I close my eyes tight. In my mind, I see all the pictures that have been shared over the last few days. Instead of being on the screen of my phone, they are all framed and they hang on the pristine walls of the art gallery with spotlights illuminating them.
I keep my eyes closed tight, because that is the exhibition I want to see. I want the whole world to see. But I can enter only one picture, not hundreds.
Then I check out Mrs. Maxwell’s article online. I promised Dad and Chris that I would not look at the comments—I know they just want to spare me further pain—but I go there anyway. I have read negative comments before, with a hashtag some jerk started called #CountMeOut.
It’s like opening Pandora’s box.
The majority are supportive, offering love and support. But the negative ones sting like a hundred fire ants on a Texas summer day.
Whitehope15 says: Americans are white and Christian.
Angryman says: We don’t want no Arabs here.
OriginalAryan says: They are robbing the system, these brown people. Do they even have jobs?
Realcitizen says: I don’t believe a word any of these people say. They need to all go back.
There are others. They can be hateful on the internet because no one knows who they are.
I slap my laptop shut and stare at it as if I have trapped a rat in there.
I go outside and stare at the night sky. The waning moon is milky white. The stars feel especially bright tonight, like they are speaking to me and urging me on. I feel my heart pounding. I feel the breeze on my face. I keep seeing all the pictures. My mind races from one picture to another and matches my heartbeat. I keep staring at the stars till all the pictures in my head blur and become one.
* * *
Mom drops me off to visit Papa in the morning. He takes one look at my face and asks, “What’s the matter, Karina?”
“Why is there so much hate in the world?” I say.
“Come here,” he says, and pats his bed. “There is good and evil in this world. There always has been, there always will be. You know there is a constant struggle between love and hate.”
“I do?” I say.
Papa reminds me of the stories he read to me about those battles—with the churning of seas, the serpents emerging from the ocean, and the lightning bolts from the sky. Together we’ve read stories of the battles between Harry Potter and Voldemort, and between Rama and Ravana.
With patience, Papa reminds me that evil exists everywhere, in every corner and every country on Earth—but so does good.
“We can’t stop fighting for good,” I say.
The physical therapist arrives for Papa’s walking practice. Papa takes painful steps all over again, but he has his mojo back.
“Mr. Chopra, you have amazed me this week,” the physical therapist says. “You can do this, right?”
“Oh, I can!” Papa proclaims. “I have a new grandchild on the way that I have to chase. I have to work harder, but I have been doing that all my life. Nothing new.”
* * *
On the drive home, I am quiet. My thoughts whip around like the trees in a storm.
Having seen the dark side of the world on the internet, I know that it is even more important to fight for love, and to find the silver light. To make Papa proud.
The first thing I do is gather all the pictures in my room, put them in neat piles and manila envelopes, and put them away. I am going to need every clear surface to accomplish what I imagine. And help.
I call Chris, then Ashley, to tell them I need their help, and they are both over in a few minutes.
They help me choose pictures from the hundreds that have been posted with the hashtag #CountMeIn.
“We need to pick some from the hashtag ‘Count Me Out’ too,” I say.
They wrinkle their noses. “Do we have to?” Ashley says.
“You know we do,” I say.
“You don’t want to leave out anyone, not even the haters?” says Ashley.
“No. Because they make the whole,” says Chris. “The good and the evil.”
I upload the pictures to the drugstore website to be printed. It will take an hour.
“Do you have the money to pay for it?” asks Chris.
I have been saving all my birthday money for years to buy a camera, but this is bigger than that. “Yes, I have it covered,” I say.
Then we head out on our bikes to the office-supply place. We buy extra-large foam poster board. Two boards in case we mess up. But we can’t balance the boards on our bikes and ride safely.
Chris calls his brother, who is home for a visit. Matt comes to our rescue and drives to the store to pick up the foam boards.
Ashley has to take off, but Chris, Matt, and I head back home, and I grab my colored pencils and bring them next door. I decide to get Matt’s help drawing the outline of the East Coast. Matt is a history major—and good at art—and will do a better job of all the squiggly little lines. I would hate to mess it up and cut off Delaware.
“Did your grandfather come to America in the sixties?” he asks me.
“He did,” I say. “1968. Wait, how do you know that?”
“Because I’m studying immigration,” he says. “And the Immigra
tion Act of 1965 allowed lots of people with skills to come here from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.”
“How was it before?” I ask.
“In the fifties and earlier, there was a quota system,” Matt tells us, “which favored people from Europe.”
“Wow!” I say. “I need to talk to Papa about that.”
I wish I had more time to talk to Matt, but I have this poster to finish.
I have a few hours to put my thoughts and my feelings onto this poster.
Chris helps, but there is only so much he can do. I feel this project more than I know it. Putting it into words is difficult even though I know how I want it to look at the end.
So I snip and cut with my scissors. With all the focus I can summon, I piece together the puzzle. I cut small pieces, and others that are bigger. I want to try to get in as many of the five-hundred-plus pictures that were posted as I can. I start placing them onto the board, inside the outline of the map.
Soon, photo by clipped photo, the map starts filling in, like brushstrokes on an empty canvas. The collage is coming together. I squint my eyes, stand at a distance, and stare at it till it all melds into one beautiful whole.
Chris is quiet for a bit. Then he says, “This is the most amazing thing ever, Karina.”
“Not yet, Chris,” I say, because I can see I need to move pictures around. The balance is off. There are too many men in the right corner and too many people wearing blue on the left.
Finally, I have the photos all laid out and in place.
The space in the center is blank, but Chris and I both know which picture goes there. The picture of Papa and Grandma, with their first house, where they stare into the camera as if they are daring the world to give them a chance. I wonder if Papa dreamed that day that he would have an American granddaughter who would want to speak up for him.
I clip the new print I got of the photo into the shape of a star, and I place it in the center of the collage. It feels like placing the last and most important piece in a thousand-piece puzzle.
Now I must glue them all in place so I can take it to the art gallery to show the boss lady.
Chris says what I am thinking as I marvel at the finished poster: “How could she refuse to display this?”
“I hope she can’t,” I say. “This is all of us.”
CHAPTER 28
CHRIS
MATT DRIVES US to the art gallery and waits in the car.
Riley greets Karina with hugs and crossed fingers. She introduces us to her boss, Margaret.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Karina says. “I am so excited to show you my work.”
Karina and I turn the board around and hold it up.
Margaret stands. She peers and squints like Karina and I did.
Finally, Margaret says, “You can put it down.”
She sits back at her desk, fiddles with a pen, and clears her throat.
“Karina,” Margaret says. “Honey, I love this.”
Karina breaks into a smile.
Then Margaret stands, clears her throat again, and says, “But I’m sorry, I can’t make an exception to the rules. You see, it wouldn’t be fair to those who did submit their entries on time.”
What? After all Karina’s been through, this makes no sense.
I look over at Karina. The smile has disappeared.
“You see, Riley meant well,” Margaret says, “but she didn’t know that I went through all the submissions yesterday morning and chose the ones we wanted to exhibit for every category. I already sent out confirmation emails to the winners. If I made an exception for you, I would have to drop someone after having already informed them that they’re in.”
Now Karina looks like she’s struggling not to cry.
Margaret puts her hand on Karina’s shoulder. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I wish there was more space on our walls.”
I want to scream, Figure it out. Place it on an easel and put it in the middle of the room. Put it on the ceiling. Michelangelo painted on the ceilings. People will look up.
As we leave, Margaret says, “Karina, I hope you will enter next time.”
Karina nods, but her face is a blank canvas.
As we step out, Riley comes running out from the back. It’s clear she can tell it did not go well, and she squeezes Karina’s hand. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m following your posts.”
One look at us, and Matt can tell what happened too.
On the drive home, we are all quiet. Sometimes there is just nothing to say. Karina stares out of the window. The radio announcer is all cheerful, talking about Halloween costume ideas and pumpkins and candy corn. Like anybody cares.
* * *
Mom makes Matt’s favorite dinner—spaghetti and meatballs—which is usually my favorite too. But tonight, I’m not that hungry.
After dinner, Matt suggests we go outside to look at the stars. “It’s gonna be a spectacle tonight.”
I text Karina to join us, so then there we are, the three of us in my backyard, looking up at the darkening sky.
“Chris, Karina,” Matt says, “I’m proud of you both. I know it hasn’t been easy.”
Karina sighs and mumbles, “Thank you.”
“It’s been hard in so many ways,” I say, and I tell Matt about the internet comments.
“Let them go,” he says. “They are on the wrong side of history. This country is way more diverse than it was in the fifties, and no one can turn back time.”
Soon, the light has faded completely, and the stars emerge like actors on a stage.
Karina points to the brightest. “That must be the star everyone wishes upon.”
“Nope,” Matt says. “That’s actually a planet—it’s Venus.”
Then Matt points to another bright object by its side. “And ta-da! That’s Mercury. Typically, it’s faint and hard to see, but Venus shining nearby makes it visible.”
Being near Venus makes Mercury visible. I like that. It makes me think how being Karina’s friend has made me stronger.
“Karina, if I had a wish,” I say, “it’d be that I owned that art gallery. I would make room for your poster.”
“For real,” Matt says. “Karina’s poster is our America.”
I swear a star drops when he says that.
CHAPTER 29
KARINA
MOM TAKES ONE look at what Chris calls my “sad-sack face” and insists that she needs help at work. I would rather stay at home and mope around. But Dad is at the rehab center this morning, and you can’t refuse when your pregnant mom asks for help. That’s a no-no.
I get put to work chopping and filling the vegetable bins. Onions, cucumbers, banana peppers, olives, spinach, lettuce, tomatoes. All the basic toppings for sandwiches.
Mom is still fielding calls from friends and family about Papa, about me being on the news, and of course about the miracle baby. No one can believe that Mom is pregnant after all these years!
I hear her cutting off a conversation with her aunt. “I am busy at the store, but Papa is up and walking and truly on the mend,” she says.
Instead of dumping the sliced cucumbers into their bin, I find myself arranging them in pretty patterns. It is soothing.
“Karina,” Mom calls from her office in the back of the store. “Are you done with the vegetables?”
I am done with the cucumbers, and they are a work of art. I hustle to get the rest of the vegetables ready with no fuss.
I hear Mom’s phone go off again—her ringtone is a song from the Bollywood film Kal Ho Naa Ho.
“What?” I hear her say. “How? When?”
She sounds frantic. “What time will you be home?”
I race over. What’s happening?
Mom hangs up and leans against the bench seat, cradling her tummy, which has popped out in the last few
days. My brother or sister is growing fast.
“Papa is coming home,” she says.
“On Monday, I know,” I say, heading back to my job in the kitchen. “That’s a good thing—why the twenty questions?”
“Karina,” Mom says, “he’s coming home today. Later this afternoon.”
“What?” I say.
But it makes sense. Papa was so much better when I visited last.
Turns out the doctor went to see him this morning and said to Dad that Papa looked great, and why keep him there in the rehab place the whole weekend? He ordered the staff to get everything done today and release him for discharge this afternoon.
Mom, Dad, and I had counted on having tonight to get everything ready.
“Mom,” I said, “I wanted to have a homecoming party for Papa.”
“I know you did,” she says, “and I wanted one too. But there’s no time today.”
Mom calls Lisa and Amit, who both work at the store, and tells them what’s going on. They rush over so that Mom and I can go home.
Back at the house, we assess the situation. Fortunately, Dad and his friends have already cleared out the den to make room for Papa’s bed, since Papa can’t climb stairs yet. Mom gets the linens to make the bed up, and I bring down some of Papa’s photos and books.
I make a sign that says WELCOME HOME, PAPA! and Mom helps me color it and add glitter.
I think back to the party we had to welcome Papa to Houston, when Chris hesitantly walked into our lives. That seems like a lifetime ago.
I text Chris to let him know Papa is coming home today, and in a minute he is over at my house, whooping and cheering.
“There’s no time to plan a party,” Chris says. “So how can we make it special?”
“I’m not sure,” I say.
