by Samira Ahmed
I laugh. “Oh, my God. I can’t imagine watching anything with my parents that mentions drugs or even has PG kissing. We mostly watch old Indian movies together. Ancient ones.”
“There’s no kissing in Indian movies?”
“Back in the day, it was totally banned. Not so much anymore, but there’s still limits. I tried to talk to my mom about how there are all these contradictions in Indian culture. I mean, if you have a real hard-core arranged marriage, you basically have sex with an almost stranger, but modesty is this huge part of the culture, too …” And I’ve managed to bring up sex again.
Silence. An unbearably long silence. “So are you … I mean … do your parents have a guy picked out for you already?” he asks.
I burst out laughing and give him a little kick under the table. “No. I’m only in high school.”
“Good.” He seems to relax, which makes me lightheaded.
“Besides, my parents had a love marriage—”
“A love marriage?”
“When you meet someone and fall in love and decide to get married. In India, it’s called a love marriage.”
Of course he’s confused. What non-desi wouldn’t be? Still, he continues gamely. “You mean dating, getting engaged—”
“In secret. It’s a lot more common for Indian Muslims here, I guess. It’s basically a don’t ask, don’t tell policy for dating.”
Phil nods and looks down at the cake. “So, um, does that mean you can’t date?” Somehow we’ve both managed to forget about eating.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell only applies to proper Indian Muslim boys. With limits.” I take a deep breath.
Phil glances up. “But that’s not how you want to do it?”
“No. I don’t want to hide anything, and I don’t want something … expected. I want to go to film school and be the first Indian American to win an Oscar, and then I can meet the One and fall in big, heart-bursting love, and we’ll travel the world, my camera ready to capture our adventures.” My cheeks flush; I know I’m blushing, but I can’t bring myself to shut up. “Oh, my God. I want my future life to be a cheesy romantic comedy.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You want it to be an epic.”
I nod. He stares back at me without blinking. And it’s not creepy at all. It’s perfect.
My phone rings. I jump from my seat. Suddenly our moment has a club-thumping Bollywood soundtrack. Maybe I should think about changing my ringtone.
I squirm, frantically checking the screen. It’s my mom. Of course it is. I let it go to voice mail and shoot her a quick text to give her my ETA.
When I turn back to Phil, he has picked up his own phone and is also furiously texting … someone. He doesn’t make eye contact.
There’s a charge in the space between us. Of course, the likeliest source of this electricity is my overactive imagination because right now he’s probably texting Lisa, making plans to meet up after this, to which she will respond with a string of heart emojis. I keep forgetting that the reason everyone seems to like Phil is because when he talks to you, he makes it seem like you’re the only person in the world even when it’s only polite chitchat. And I can’t even blame him, because it’s not pretense; it’s just being a nice guy.
I’m quiet while he finishes texting. He grins at his phone before putting it away. “What are you doing over spring break?”
The charge is gone. Like I thought, polite chitchat. I shrug. “Not much.” I think of Kareem, the date I’ve agreed to go on. I wonder if Phil is thinking about Lisa even as he listens politely to me. “My parents can’t shut down their office for vacation, so I’ll be stuck in Batavia, editing film clips, inhaling copious amounts of ice cream. Violet wants me to go to Paris with her and then pop over to the south of Spain for a couple days to try and get some beach time. Of course, my parents would never let me go. Anyway, I’m not a beach person.”
He blinks at me, as if this doesn’t compute. “You don’t like the beach?”
“I get antsy just lying around, and I can’t really swim and—”
“You can’t swim? Seriously?”
Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? I’m always having to explain my life. I hate explaining, but out it comes. “When my mom was young and on holiday in Bombay, she saw this girl get swept out to sea by a huge wave. So when my dad tried to teach me, my mom was constantly hovering with a life preserver in hand. I couldn’t deal with her anxiety, so I gave up … We don’t take beach vacations, anyway …”
Phil sits back in his chair, disbelief written all over his face. I cross my arms in front of my chest, my standard defensive position.
“I’m going to teach you.”
“No. No. I can’t. You can’t—”
“I can. Literally.” He’s not letting me off the hook. “You know, I lifeguard at the Y in summer, and swimming is a necessary life skill. I can teach you. I want to.”
I nod along, but regret every word that has slipped out of my mouth. I don’t even own a swimsuit, something Violet teases me about relentlessly.
“It’ll be fun. I promise. I won’t let a rogue wave take you.” Phil smiles, giving rise to the irresistible dimple. Maybe I don’t want him to let me off the hook.
“Stop smiling. Fine. I’ll do it, but I’m not going to be happy about it.”
“Great. The weather’s actually supposed to be hot next week. We should take advantage of global warming while we can.”
“Don’t you have something better to do with your time than watching me potentially drown?” I’m hoping for one very specific answer, but then the image of him kissing Lisa in the art alcove pops to mind.
“I usually go to Michigan with Lisa’s family, but not this time.” Phil stares out the big plate-glass window. Then he turns back to me and says, “I guess I get to be the tutor now.”
The late-morning sun makes him squint. He hates driving east on the freeway at this hour. He leans forward in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel with sweaty palms. There’s hardly any traffic. Or maybe he just doesn’t notice it. His heart beats loudly in his ears. Voices fill his head.
The repetitive, barely audible prayers of his mother.
The rasp of his father’s demands to do something with his life.
The bark of the nasty woman, telling him he wasn’t needed for a second interview, thank you very much.
The calm whisper of the instructor: relax your shoulders, drop your elbows.
The talking heads in the basement. Sweat-beaded faces, lips moving all at once.
And a lone voice of encouragement: the middle school teacher who gave him a gold star. He remembers the teacher’s name. But he won’t allow himself to say it out loud or allow it to linger in his memory. He forces the teacher from his mind.
No time for sentimentality.
He eyes himself in the rearview mirror.
There is no turning back.
Chapter 5
Hina meets me at the train station, a squat green glass behemoth that looks too big for a city block. My pocket camcorder raised to my eye, I film the Saturday afternoon crowd entering and leaving. I love how inconspicuous this camera is; it fits in the palm of my hand. As we exit, I turn my lens to the pink banners fluttering from the lampposts—ads for a fund-raising walk for breast cancer in a few weeks. I make sure to capture them on film.
Hina designed them. They’re all over the city. I’m in awe of her again, as always.
I pan down the line of taxis, right up until Hina and I enter one. She squeezes my shoulder as I adjust my belt. “So glad you’re going on a date and doing teenagery things. Try to get into at least a little bit of trouble, okay? And where is the young, dashing Kareem taking you?”
“A fondue place not far from your apartment.”
“Geja’s Café? He must want to wow you.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not going to pop the question or anything,” I reply coolly, though my pulse quickens.
“Well, my wry litt
le niece, he’s definitely trying to make an impression. And he asked your parents for permission to see you, right? A very suitable boy, indeed.”
The driver pulls over in front of Hina’s place. I love my aunt’s condo—a two-flat walk-up in Chicago’s Old Town neighborhood. To me, it is freedom.
“Go ahead and get settled in your room. I’ll get lunch together.” Hina steps into the kitchen while I head down the hall.
The comfy bed is piled high with Indian patchwork pillows in rich hues of chocolate, burgundy, and emerald embellished with tiny mirrors and gold tassels. The raw silk duvet cover is a deep bronze color. A wooden partition carved with intricate floral designs serves as the headboard. It belonged to my grandparents and smells like the sandalwood incense my nani used to burn day and night.
I unpack my dark skinny jeans, the slightly wrinkled black silk camisole I borrowed from Violet. I hang them in the closet. Then I fold my cherry-colored cashmere sweater and place it on a chair. After that, I kick off my beat-up, round-toed black flats and flop onto the bed, turning to stare at the ceiling. Kareem is picking me up at seven. That leaves five hours for nervous anticipation. I need to get all the blushing out of my system now.
It’s been two weeks since we met at the wedding, and weirdly, it feels like a million years ago, but also yesterday. We’ve texted or messaged each other lots. But that also means my contact with Kareem has been virtual, and my contact with Phil has been real. But for years—literally years—Phil was neither real nor virtual; he was a faraway dream. Until now. Only now I’m about to go on a date with a guy who is actually available, infinitely more suitable, and definitely interested.
This is why they invented drugs for heartburn.
The guest room door is half open, but Hina knocks anyway before coming in. I sit up on the edge of the bed as she perches next to me. “How about we eat a quick lunch and go to a movie before your big date? Or we can on-demand something. Have you seen Roman Holiday? You know, about a princess who feels trapped in her life?”
I smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“Trust me: Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn are pretty much Saturday afternoon perfection,” Hina says, giving my hand a squeeze.
My mom picks Bride and Prejudice. Hina picks Roman Holiday. Somehow their movie choices totally define my relationships with them. They both try. One misses the mark. The other nails it.
After the movie, we sit on the couch, sipping cups of creamy spiced chai.
“Did I ever tell you about Anand?” Hina asks out of the blue. She rarely talks about the guys she dates; it must be some tacit agreement she has with my mother. So I immediately perk up.
“Ummm, no. But I am all ears.”
Hina smiles. “It was in India, before I left to study in England. He was such a beautiful boy. You know I went to the same Catholic girls’ school as your mom, in Hyderabad? Well, there was a brother school run by priests. We shared the same athletic fields. That’s how I met Anand. I was at field hockey practice, and he was playing cricket.”
“Awww. And it was love at first sight?”
“Not exactly. Maybe? I don’t know. I never really thought about it in those terms. Anand just started showing up to my field hockey practices and our games, and one day I finally asked him if he was going to talk to me.”
“Bold move, Hina.”
Hina chuckles. “My friends were so scandalized. But you know, I’ve always been a straight shooter.”
It’s one of the things I love best about my aunt.
“Well, he started bringing tiffins, and we would have little picnics of samosas and chaat and pakoras with mango juice in glass bottles.”
“So he would cook for you? How adorable.”
“Oh, no. He had his cook do it, and then his driver would bring it to the fields so it would still be warm after practice.”
“Must be nice.”
“It was. Of course, we could never really go anywhere, so the entire fleeting romance took place on school grounds.”
“I’m guessing from his name he was Hindu?”
“Exactly. But honestly, we barely even talked about that. We both knew nothing more could come of it. So we spent that spring talking and eating and laughing, and then he went to Bombay to study architecture at university.”
“That’s it? That’s the whole story? You never saw each other again?”
“We saw each other once more, when he came home for holiday. I went to see him at Nampally Railway Station just when he was leaving to go back to school.”
“And …”
“And that was my first kiss. A little peck in a dark corner of a bustling train station.”
“That is so cinematic,” I say.
Hina laughs. “From you, that is high praise, indeed.”
“So were you heartbroken? Did you regret it?”
“Heartbroken? A little. Regret? No. What was there to regret? I wasn’t going to Bombay with him. We were both young and different religions, and I had no desire to elope and bring down the entire wrath of both our families on our heads. So now it’s simply a sweet memory. That’s all it was ever going to be.”
I sit back and stare into my half-empty teacup.
“Something on your mind?” Hina asks. “First kisses, perhaps?”
“Yes. No. Maybe, but not necessarily with Kareem …”
Hina raises an eyebrow at me and gives me a warm smile and settles into the couch.
I hadn’t planned to, but I end up telling her about Phil and the tutoring sessions and how my stomach roller-coasters every time I’m around him and about how he has a girlfriend. Then I talk to her about Kareem, who is the parental dream of suitability. But he’s a lot more than just his biodata.
“The thing is,” I say, after my breathless debrief, “the timing is all so bizarre, I mean why now? Why me?”
She stares at me as if I’m totally clueless. “Why not you?”
Even Hina can make me blush. It really is a disorder.
“What is, in fact, bizarre, my dear,” she continues, “is that you don’t see what a beautiful, brilliant young woman you are. You still think of yourself as that gawky, flat-chested seventh grader with braces and two braids.”
I’m not sure how to respond. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone, not even Hina; I can barely even think it when I’m alone, but there are moments when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I’m happily surprised at the reflection—it’s me but not me. I can see the shiny black hair that falls below my shoulders, the woman’s body that looks good in a fitted sweater and tight jeans. Plus I can see I’ve been upping my lipstick game.
Hina clearly wants more juicy details, wants to know which boy I prefer, but even getting near that thought makes my stomach lurch. I don’t know who the Gregory Peck is to my Audrey Hepburn; I have no idea if either boy is or isn’t. I check my watch. “Crap. Kareem will be here in an hour. I need to get ready.”
I hear Hina chuckling to herself as I bolt off the couch and run into the guest room.
Forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and changed into Violet-approved denim and silk, I slip into my black satin shoes. I put on a pair of dangly silver chandelier earrings and grab my sweater, then study my reflection. There is a lot of skin. My skin. I chew on my lip, hoping it’s not too much. For my final task, I dab on a bit of bronzer and a claret lipstick like I promised my mom. My word is my bond—at least about lipstick. Finally, I decide to go big and add eyeliner and mascara.
The bell rings. He’s five minutes early. How un-Indian of him.
Hina buzzes in Kareem and then disappears into her bedroom. I’m glad I’m not home. My parents would linger, inquire after Kareem’s parents, demand that we stay and chat over a cup of chai while insisting that the restaurant would hold our reservation.
I open the door.
Kareem is taller than I remember. Maybe cuter, too? I try not to stare into those sparkly dark eyes. He’s dressed in indigo jeans, a navy blazer, an
d a light blue collared shirt, the top two buttons unbuttoned.
“Hey.” God, I hope I’m not trying too hard, because that’s the exact opposite of cool. Eau de desperation.
He steps in and bends down. I think he’s coming in for a hug, so I move forward. Our heads bump as he tries to give me a kiss on the cheek.
Awkward. I step back, cheeks already aflame.
Kareem laughs. “Ah, there’s the blush. That took, what, fifteen seconds?”
“Ha, ha. Come on in.” At least I’ve provided the icebreaker.
“You look amazing, by the way,” Kareem adds casually. He steps forward and puts his hand on my forearm. If he’s trying to keep me blushing, he’s doing an excellent job.
“Uh, thanks …”
Thankfully Hina chooses this moment to appear from the back.
“As-salaam-alaikum, Auntie,” Kareem says. His respectful nod oozes tameez, proper Hyderabadi-boy etiquette.
Hina laughs. “Please, Kareem, call me Hina. No need to stand on ceremony with me.” Then she raises an eyebrow. “So, Geja’s? Going for dark, romantic, and sophisticated, are we?”
I’m going to die.
“Uh, yeah,” Kareem smiles. “I … we … uh … have a seven-thirty reservation, so we should probably get going.” He turns to me. “Are you up for a stroll? Nice evening for a walk.”
I nod and snatch my purse. I’ve already double-checked it for my mini-cam. I couldn’t leave home without it—in case I want to record any part of the evening or, more likely, hide behind my lens if things go from awkward to painfully bad. “I’m set.”
“Khudafis, Auntie—I mean, Hina. Thanks again for letting me pick up Maya here. Does she have a curfew?”
Hina shakes her head. “Not at my house. Have fun.” She kisses me on the cheek and winks as she closes the door behind us.
“One of us has to say something soon. Ideally a witty or brilliant observation,” Kareem says. We’ve been walking silently for almost ten minutes. I keep trying to think of something to say, but apparently I’ve lost the connection between my brain and mouth.
