by Samira Ahmed
“No. I mean, maybe? Sorry … I didn’t mean … I know you like to read,” Phil stammers. It’s actually a little endearing to catch him off guard.
“I do love that book. The movie, too. But it’s not only because I’m Indian, you know? Like, do you like every movie that’s about football?”
“Every single one,” he says, without missing a beat, back to form. “Including documentaries.”
I start to laugh. “Okay.”
Phil grins. The dimple appears. “As in, okay, you’ll help me?”
I nod, looking down. I don’t want to stare. On the other hand, he’s staring at me.
“Hiya, Phil.” Violet materializes at my elbow. Loudly.
“Hey, Violet.”
“I’m walking Maya to first period. Unless, of course, you want to abscond with her?”
My head jerks back up. My mortification is complete.
“Sure,” Phil says. But he stumbles to correct himself, “I mean, no. I gotta get to class, too.”
I shut my locker, ready to escape. I turn to Violet. “Let’s go. See ya, Phil.” We start to walk away.
“So maybe tonight?” Phil calls after me.
I turn my head to look back at him. “I’m working at the bookstore until seven—”
“I’ll swing by then.”
A meet-cute with the suitable Indian boy. The hot football player at my locker. I feel queasy. I was joking with myself earlier, but now I’m wondering how it’s possible that I’ve stepped into the most predictable teen rom-com ever. How is this my real life?
But I go with it. My mind plays a slow-motion close-up of Phil walking down the hall. An improbable gust of wind ruffles his just-long-enough, perfectly mussed chestnut hair. Low-key lighting casts intriguing shadows in the hall, and my filmic version of Phil turns to look at me, his twinkling green eyes catching mine.
Sure, it’s all my imagination.
Except the last part.
He really did turn to look.
The sun rises over the motel parking lot.
He stands in the middle of the small, spare room in his underwear. Despite a recent shower, beads of sweat form above his lip and on his newly shaven head. He wipes his face with the threadbare motel towel and pulls on a pair of faded jeans and an army-green T-shirt. The shirt is loose on his wiry frame. A pair of black leather boots stand at attention by the side of the bed. The young man strides over to the dirty window and lifts it the full six inches it will rise. Bending down, he takes three quick breaths of the tar-infused air.
Outside, a garbage truck pulls into the lot. It groans and screeches with its task, mechanically swallowing the contents of a foul-smelling dumpster. Neither the sound nor the stench registers. For a moment he is only conscious of the trees in the distance, across the highway, their green tops swaying.
Chapter 3
Violet drops me off at my house. I run to my room to change and frantically reapply my makeup before heading off to the bookstore. I leave a note for my parents: Back late, studying with Violet after work. Will grab dinner with her.
It’s a lie. And it’s not my first one, either.
Twenty minutes later I’m parking my mom’s conspicuous Mercedes in front of the Idle Hour.
For my parents, their matching Benzes signal the success of their practice or having made it in America. For me, the cars simply shout, “Hey, look at me.” I don’t want the attention, but I don’t have a choice.
Not wanting attention is part of why I love working at the bookstore. That, and opening up boxes of new books, their pages crisp, spines unbroken. My parents insist it’s unnecessary. They actually remind me that they provide me with whatever I want. What they don’t say out loud, what they mean, is that time working can be time spent on other activities that they prefer, like homework and learning to cook.
I want to make my own money to spend or save as I wish. It’s mostly spend, though, and honestly, mostly spent here. While I get a discount from the couple who owns the place, Richard and Anna, massive chunks of my paychecks still go toward the Idle Hour’s books on cinematography and the history of old Hollywood and the studio system and biographies of famous directors and actors. At least the DVDs are free.
Granted, nobody wanted them in the first place, but I pleaded with Richard and Anna to spare their celluloid (well, digitized) lives. It was how we met. I convinced them to open a DVD library in the corner of the store, like a public service preserving our cinematic history. They not only agreed, they offered me a part-time job. Since then, basically, it’s only been a public service to me because they let me borrow as many movies as I want.
The store is nearly empty tonight, so I can browse a bit before sitting at the register. Alone in the stacks, I run my fingers across gleaming paperbacks and matte hardcovers. I lose myself in the titles. It’s meditative, and it clears my mind, although being at the register also allows me to check out a bit and let my imagination wander. Before I know it, I’m in the film section, naturally. My eyes settle on a book I’d spotted earlier: Hoop Dreams. I pull it off the shelf and start thumbing through it.
“Anything interesting?”
I look up. Phil is heading toward me. He has this walk that is somehow languid and confident at the same time. Like a slow-moving river that doesn’t need to show its strength because it’s a known fact.
When he gets closer, I notice the tiniest speck of shaving cream in the little nook where his jaw meets his ear. Then he smiles, and all I can see is that dimple again.
I’m cotton-mouthed, so I clear my throat. “It’s a book about two high school athletes, actually. It was a documentary first, in the nineties. Then they expanded on it for the book.” I give him a hopeful look but stare into a blank face. I snap the book shut and point at the title. “Hoop Dreams?”
“A basketball movie?”
“It’s not just about basketball. It’s about family relationships and survival. And the world crushing your dreams.”
“So it’s a comedy,” Phil says.
I laugh. “It’s really great. You should watch it sometime. If you can bring yourself to watch a movie about a lesser sport.”
He shrugs. “I actually tried playing basketball in middle school. Loved it. Still do.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
“I got no vertical. Like literally, the coach told me I’d be warming the bench a lot, but I had a good arm and was kinda fast, so he suggested football.”
“And the rest is Batavia High School history.”
Phil looks down at his shoes. “Something like that.”
Crap. Did I say something wrong? I reach out to touch Phil’s elbow, but a terse voice makes me drop my hand.
“Hey, man, what are you doing here?”
It’s Brian, a football player in my French class.
I tense slightly as he comes toward us down the narrow aisle. He’s not as tall as Phil, but he’s more broad-shouldered. His eyes are sunken and hollow, fixed on Phil as if I’m not there. He sits behind me, so I never really get a good look at him during class. But right now, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He clearly hasn’t shaved the last few days, either.
“Hey, man,” Phil echoes. “Maya’s helping me with the independent study project.”
Phil and Brian bump forearms. All the athletes do this. It’s like they have the swine flu and are trying to avoid germs.
“That’s why I’m here, too.” Brian holds up a book. “I’m reading American Sniper.” He jerks his head toward me. “What’s with the help?”
Phil’s face darkens for an instant, and he takes a step closer to me. He laughs, sort of awkwardly—a boy who’s never awkward—and I sense an attempt to diffuse some sort of sudden moment I have yet to read. “She has a name, dude. It’s Maya. She goes to our school. She works here. But you know that.”
“Whatever.” Brian turns and walks away in the direction of the register. One hand clutches his book against his chest; the other is clenched in a f
ist at his side. “Say hi to Lisa!” he calls.
It’s a dig. At me. And it stings. I ignore it, because I’m not eager to talk about the possibility of a still-existent girlfriend whom Phil has most likely recently kissed. But I can’t ignore how despite my standing in front of him, despite us being in class together, Brian totally erased me. Also, he completely creeps me out—his face, his eyes, the simmering anger in his voice.
“Sorry about that,” Phil says. “He’s been weird this whole semester. Really since before the season ended …”
“Weird how?”
Phil stops himself. His unfinished thought lingers in the air for a moment. Then he shakes his head, smiles, and points to the café at the front of the store. “Shall we?”
I search for something to say, but I come up blank. We walk together silently to find a table.
Phil probably has a good ten inches on me, but unlike the other tall kids I know, he isn’t gangly or clumsy. He carries himself with a certainty and ease that make him appear older. He’s always had that air about him, even before his growth spurt. I envy how comfortable he is with himself.
As I settle into my seat, Phil walks to the coffee counter.
A minute later he returns, balancing two coffees and a piece of chocolate cake. “I thought we could share,” he says.
“Thanks. I love cake.” I want to slap the palm of my hand against my forehead. I sound like a sugar-obsessed three-year-old. I wonder if I’ll ever not be bumbling and weird around Phil. Probably best to just concentrate on the reason I agreed to meet him, instead of on his twinkly green eyes. “Do you have your essay?”
“Cake, then homework,” he protests. “Unless … you’re in a rush?”
“Not at all. Dessert definitely takes precedent over homework.”
I want to high-five myself for managing to sound breezy and casual. Then I realize I’m smiling like an idiot, and my face warms with embarrassment.
Phil smiles back. Oh, God. My cheeks all-out burn. “You blush a lot,” he says.
“It’s a weird genetic anomaly. I call it the Maya Paradox. I’m a world-class visible blusher despite loads of melanin. I’m pretty much a scientific wonder.” I have to eat. Now. That way words will stop falling out of my mouth.
We sit there, devouring cake, occasionally locking eyes until I look down at the disappearing slice between us. Phil and I reach for the last piece at the same time. He battles me for it before cutting it in half and nudging the bigger piece toward me.
I finally relax a little. “So you picked The Namesake?”
He nods, his dimple vanishing, his brow furrowing. “I missed a day of class, and so I got stuck with this book and the topic of ‘forging identity.’”
“Then you got lucky. That’s pretty much the theme of the whole book. What ideas do you have so far?”
“I have zero ideas.” He pauses and meets my gaze. “Well, okay, there’s that weird thing with Gogol’s name. Like, why does he need two names? It’s actually kind of confusing.”
“It’s confusing to him, too. Plus Gogol is not an Indian name, so he’s like a total outsider, even in his own culture.”
Phil pauses and leans back into his chair. “So that’s why he introduces himself as Nikhil to the girl in the bar, even though she already knows him as Gogol?”
I nod. “Moushumi. That whole relationship was so sad.”
“Not for her. She cheated on him,” Phil responds.
“True. But they were all searching for belonging. She was, too. Not that it’s an excuse to have possibly mind-blowing sex with a French dude …” My mouth clamps shut, but it’s too late. I can feel my face heating up once more; it started the moment the word “sex” slipped from my lips.
Phil chuckles and raises his coffee cup. “To not having random sex with French dudes.”
I lean in to touch the tip of my cup against his, then pull it away. “I feel like I should keep my options open,” I blurt.
Phil laughs, nearly spilling his coffee. His laugh is round and deep and makes his shoulders shake. The dimple in his cheek is back. I think I was making a joke; I think I wanted this reaction, but part of me isn’t sure.
It occurs to me that this is the longest time we’ve ever spent alone together in all the years we’ve known each other. Yet somehow I’ve stopped being nervous and started to have fun. I reach for Phil’s book to find a quote on identity.
Our hands touch briefly.
His skin is warm, a heater for my icy fingers. I hold my breath and tug at the book; Phil teasingly pulls it back.
My phone buzzes.
Violet! I curse silently, snatching the phone off the table before turning it over and pulling it closer to my chest, expecting a shouty caps demand for details.
You’re right. Senna is amazing. But I’d like your IRL color commentary. Next weekend?
It’s not Violet. It’s Kareem.
I run my thumb over the screen to wipe away an unexpected pang of guilt. I look at Phil and think of his fight with Lisa at the dance. I think of his sudden desire to be a good student. Overwhelmed, I seek refuge in The Namesake and turn to a dog-eared page—and a familiar line jumps out at me:
You are still young. Free … Do yourself a favor. Before it’s too late, without thinking about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on his black boots, wrapping the long laces twice around the tops. Last night, he polished and buffed the leather, not that it’s necessary. Not that it matters.
He doesn’t like the way his fingers shake. It’s weak, but he chalks it up to adrenaline. He takes a breath to steady his hands. Satisfied, he takes a sealed envelope from the black gym bag on the floor and lays it across the veneered pressboard desk, making sure it’s straight. He surveys the sparsely furnished room.
Everything is in order. He steps to the door and wraps his clammy hand around the knob. Then pauses. The door still closed, he moves to the middle of the room. Looking out the eastern-facing windows, he falls to his knees, bows his head, and recites something like a prayer.
Chapter 4
“Hey,” I say as I approach Phil’s table for another evening of tutoring. He’s been waiting for me for thirty minutes while I finished my shift at the Idle Hour.
Phil pushes a chair forward for me.
As I sit down, I see a slice of chocolate cake with two forks resting on the plate. I smile at Phil.
“Chocolate cake is like our tradition, so …” he starts.
“So two times officially equals tradition?”
“Well, football players are superstitious creatures of habit.”
“I thought that was only for game days.”
“It is,” Phil says, dimple bared as he grins.
“Well, who am I to flout tradition?” I look away. “Plus, you know, cake is pretty much my favorite thing.” I add, raising a forkful to my mouth.
“Cake, not barfi?” Phil asks.
I’m gobsmacked. I look up. My eyes widen. “The barfi? You remember that?”
“Of course. Though the name is kind of unfortunate.”
I laugh. “Tell me about it. Like, every boy in the class started calling me ‘barfy’ or making barf jokes. But when you took one of the sweets and ate it. It, like, shut them up. I never forgot that.”
I’m not lying when I say this. I was seven and made the colossal mistake of asking my mom to bring my favorite Indian dessert to school for my birthday. Phil eating the barfi might not seem like a big deal, but to a quiet girl who was shrinking into herself with every “barfy” shout-out, Phil walking up and taking one little square of almond paste and sugar and popping it into his mouth was a lifeline.
Phil looks at the floor for a second and then back at me. “I think I ate, like, eight of them. Total sweet tooth.”
I smile. He smiles. There is smiling,
I know I shouldn’t read into Phil’s memory. The fact is, barfi is a pretty memor
able word. Also, fact: two days ago, Violet and I spied Phil and Lisa kissing, and apparently making up, in an alcove by art class. I guess sometimes a barfi is just a barfi. Except when you have my imagination. Then it’s … more.
“So you guys look busy today.” Phil’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“It’s a Sunday night bookstore rager. Not like there’s anything else to do in this town.”
“You really don’t like living here, do you?”
“There are things I love about it. My friends. This place. But I want to be in New York already. You know, a place where I can live and do what I want and not be the Indian girl or the Muslim girl. A place where I can just be me.”
“Do you really feel that different here?”
“I am different. I mean, literally; we’re the only Indian Muslim family in town.”
Phil taps his pencil against his cheek. “I never thought of it that way. To me, you’ve always been the girl who knows the right answers.”
“Funny, because I don’t even know all the questions.”
“Really? What don’t you know?” Phil asks.
I hesitate, choose my words deliberately. “I guess I don’t know how to live the life I want and still be a good daughter.”
“Can’t you do both?”
“I wish. I want to go to NYU. My parents want me to go to school close to home. They want me to be a lawyer and learn to cook and marry a nice Indian doctor and—”
“You want to make movies. Like you did for class.”
“What?”
“You did three movie projects for health class. Health class. A class that requires barely any work. Like for the whole tobacco will kill you unit? You made that movie with all those clips about the smoker from The Breakfast Club …”
“Judd Nelson,” I name the actor for Phil. I’m in disbelief because Phil has memories of me. Plural. As in, more than one image encoded in his brain.
“I thought Mr. Chandler was going to die.”
“Yeah. He called it ‘highly unusual.’ For some reason he gave me an ‘A,’ anyway.”
“Of course he did. It was awesome.” Phil pauses after he says this. He looks at me. “I actually downloaded The Breakfast Club after that. My mom loves that movie, so she watched it with me. She sang along to the credits. That was embarrassing.”
