Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  “I don’t think you need any more to—” But she’s busy. She snaps a quick smiley picture of the two of us, and has it up and posted within seconds. She’s good.

  Then this boy comes up from behind her, his arms lacing around her bare stomach like one of those generic letches from ’80s Bollywood films, and they’re making out before I even know what’s happening. I realize I’m staring, so I focus on the bar, pouring some sangria into a red plastic cup. I take a sip and grimace. Lizzie said you can hardly taste the alcohol, but I must have a refined palate or something, because I definitely notice it. Still, it goes down okay. One cup. Maybe two.

  She grins at me as she finally comes up for air. “This is Eric. You were in third grade together.” Eric and I both shrug. He’s about to kiss her again, but she’s still talking. To me. “Good stuff, huh? Go easy, though. It’ll hit you quick.”

  She pours me another cup, then downs one herself and refills her own. We cheers, and she takes another photo.

  “Don’t post that one,” I say as she clicks away on her phone. “My mom—”

  “Doesn’t follow me on Twitter.” She waves her phone at me. “It’s only on mine.”

  “Okay, but don’t—”

  “Tag you, I know.” She frowns. “Wouldn’t want to make it look like Saira Sehgal, Girl Genius, actually knew how to have any fun.” She turns back to Eric, and I take that as my cue.

  It’s like the bubbles are filling up my head, anyway, all of the logical thoughts just floating away in them. I ponder wandering, because the idea that Link might be here, somewhere, has taken hold of my heart and won’t let go. I have to go find him. I must.

  Or at least, like, Vish.

  I walk toward the back, where the barbeque is going, and the scent of grilling meat makes me queasy, so I turn and head the other way to where the fire pit would be going if it wasn’t July. There’s a group gathered there. A bunch of guys and girls. And guitars. That’s it. That’s where he’d be. I head toward them, peering confusedly, and one of the guys looks up. Swim trunks, pale skin, floppy hair. My heart leaps.

  “You lost, princess?”

  Not him. I must be frowning, because the guy makes a sad face back, standing.

  “You okay?”

  “I think … I’m looking for my friend.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Link.”

  “Oh, Link Rad! Yeah, he was supposed to be here. But he bailed.” The guy whispers something to the girl who’s leaning possessively on him now. I think I hear the word “cancer.” “Want me to text him?”

  My heart sinks, but one thing is confirmed: He’s not a figment of my imagination.

  “I know you, right?” I shake my head again, but the boy’s still talking. “You’re that girl genius doctor. I saw you on CNN.”

  “Tonight she’s just Saira Sehgal, party pooper,” Lizzie says, her arm snaking around me from nowhere. The guy laughs, and Lizzie steadies her gaze on me, all serious. “Pool?”

  “I am not a party pooper.” It sounds silly when I say it. But honestly, the thought of getting into actual water right now makes me want to throw up. I wonder if I’d float.

  “Did you bring your suit?” Her tone is stern.

  I shake my head, and she purses her lips. “You could probably borrow one from Cat.” She shouts toward the pool. “Hey, Caaaaat—”

  There’s Cat. Perched on some guy’s shoulders in the pool, playing volleyball.

  No, not some guy. Vish. My Vish.

  “SAAAAIRA!” He’s shrieking from smack-dab in the middle of the water, drunk, her arms resting lazy on the top of his head.

  “Hey!” Lizzie shouts toward the pool. I can barely hear her, but somehow, all eyes are on us now. “Look who’s here!”

  “My girlfriend! My girlfriend’s here!”

  He dumps Cat into the pool and she shouts with a mix of horror and glee, watching my reaction as she tries to latch back on. Vish’s already pulling himself up and out of the pool, water splashing everywhere, and within seconds his arms are wrapped around me, soaking my dress.

  “Saira’s here!” He’s sweaty and slick from the water, but the worst of it is the stench that’s seeping out of his skin—beer and something a gazillion times stronger than the sangria, which is enough to make me tipsy, apparently, even though I’m Punjabi and we’re known for holding our liquor. Though clearly I can’t hold mine. Like, at all. Tomorrow’s gonna suck.

  “Oh man,” I say, “Lizzie was not kidding.”

  “I missed you, Guddi,” Vish says, sloppy as he purses his lips and takes aim.

  I move just in time, and he makes contact with my ear.

  “Get off, Vish,” I say, shoving his arms away.

  Vish falls toward Lizzie, who can barely support his weight with her stick-straight frame. She giggles as he shakes off water again, like a sheepdog that’s recently had a bath.

  “Come on, we’re going home.” I hit home on the car service app and turn to Lizzie, who staggers under the weight of Vish’s arm. “Where’re his clothes?”

  Lizzie shrugs. “Jeep?” Then her eyes light up. “You gonna drive?”

  I flash my phone at her, shaking my head. “Three minutes until the car service gets here. I gotta find his clothes.”

  “I think I might be sick,” Vish says. His face is scrunched up like a squashed almond muffin.

  Ugh. The car pulls up, and the driver honks. Lowering the window, he smiles at me, then panics when Lizzie hoists Vish, still clutching his stomach, toward me.

  I take his other arm and Lizzie and I drag him toward the car, his wet shorts dripping a trail of chlorinated water down the path.

  “No! No way!” the drive says, hopping out of the car, and crossing his arms to block our path.

  “Please, sir,” Lizzie says, her pout practiced. “He needs help.”

  “No!” He shakes his head. “He’ll puke in my vehicle. I won’t allow him to ride.”

  “Sir, seriously,” I say, putting on my most professional tone. “He’s not capable of driving, and should something happen, you’d have that on your conscience.” I look at my phone and note the name. “Mr. Kershaw. You wouldn’t want that, right? I mean, I’m happy to cancel. I’ll just tell the car service you weren’t willing to drive a couple of brown kids home.”

  Mr. Kershaw looks pissed, but he also looks torn. The belching noises Vish’s making aren’t helping. But it seems my twisty legal intimidation may have done the trick.

  “Okay,” he says. “Wait.”

  He runs toward the back of the car, and for a minute I think he’s going to get in and take off anyway. Then he pops the trunk and pulls out a giant blue tarp, the kind my dad uses to cover our outdoor furniture during a storm. He lays the tarp across the back seat and motions at us.

  Lizzie and I drag Vish over, and haul him into the back of the black sedan. He sprawls across the seat like he’s on his couch at home, falling asleep while binge-watching The X-Files. He’s a big Mulder fan. The belching turns to snoring.

  I slam the door shut and head to the front seat.

  “Hey, hey,” Lizzie shouts as I crack the window. “You coming back?” Her face is red, splotchy, and so very hopeful.

  “Of course,” I lie. Then I close the window. Then open it again. That’s better.

  “Thanks, Mr. Kershaw. I appreciate your cooperation.” The guy nods, staring straight ahead, silent as he drives the five minutes it takes to get back to my house.

  * * *

  The house is nearly dark when we get there. Mr. Kershaw is kind enough to help me drag a still-snoring Vish up the path. I perch him seated against the porch railing and ponder my options.

  I need to focus, to figure this out before I get caught, but my brain feels fuzzy.

  Getting him up the stairs to my room seems pretty impossible, given physics, my body strength and the fact that Vish has about ten inches on me. Plus, my parents are probably still watching movies.

  I could take him to the
garage. But it’s ninety degrees out at 10:46 p.m. The best bet: the basement. Dadima’s bedroom is down there. If she wakes up, I’m done for. But she sleeps with old Bollywood songs playing at top volume, so maybe it’ll be okay. It’s not like I have that many other options.

  I unlock the door, drag Vish in as quietly as I can, and seat him up against the wall near the basement door.

  I’m still dripping with sweat when I climb up the front stairs to the foyer. I open and close the door loudly. Then I hang up my keys and take off my shoes, stomping up the stairs to scope things out as if I just got back. The TV room lights are dimmed, the light from the big screen flickering.

  I poke my head in. “Hey.” Am I slurring?

  “That was fast,” my mom says, her voice sleepy. They’re curled together on the sofa, her head on Papa’s shoulder, a blanket spread across their laps because the AC is blasting. She always zonks when Papa does Bollywood-movie Fridays. She says it’s okay, though, because she’s seen them all before.

  “Stay,” Papa says, patting an empty spot on the sofa. “I skipped Sholay because I know you love it. So tonight is Laawaris, in which a young, orphaned Amitabh Bachchan once again does the angry, young, and frequently drunk man thing that’s a signature of his early days.”

  “Sounds thrilling, Papa, but I’m so tired. And I’ve got files.” The lies slip out hot and melty, like butter on Dadi’s fresh paranthe. Too easy, too fast, almost mindless, like they always do when it comes to Vish. “Actually, I’m hungry.” The munchies? Or wait, is that pot? Yes. But I’m still snacky. “I’m going to get a treat and head to bed.”

  “I can’t hear Amitabh over your chatter,” Papa says, suddenly cranky. “And bring me a snack, too.”

  I putter around the kitchen, hand my dad some chana chor garam and a fizzy Limca, ice cold and still in the bottle (his Bollywood-night staple). I make a little bowl of chor garam for myself and Vish, too, in case he wakes, and pop a few of the spicy chickpea bites into my mouth on the way back downstairs to the front hall. Vish is still slumped asleep near the door, his snores tapering as his torso slouches downward. Time to get back to work.

  He swats at me, mumbling, “Five more minutes, Ma,” as I hook my arms under his and drag him through the basement door. It reminds me of playing toy soldiers at the park when we were six, rolling down the hills, our moms yelling about the inevitable grass stains that ruined countless pairs of pants. Harper would always play the sergeant, and Vish was always super patient with her. We nearly tumble down the stairs as I slide him down, though I manage to get to the bottom without too much clatter or pain. Dadima’s golden oldies are playing—at the moment it’s “Yeh Raat Beeghi Beeghi”—so she’s still out cold. And thank gods for Papa’s insistence on tacky-but-soft ultra-plush carpeting. Although it now probably stinks of sweat and chlorine.

  I fumble around in the dark, wondering where to stash Vish. Dadima’s room is tucked in one corner, and the TV area in the middle is the most obvious and inviting—the couch is the perfect place to sleep off a hangover.

  Or, it would be if:

  (1) you were allowed to be at your girlfriend’s house at nearly midnight.

  (2) you were allowed to drink.

  (3) you were allowed to be drunk off your ass.

  Since all three of those things are resounding NOs, the couch is out. The laundry room? The steady thrum of the washer warns me that he’d be quickly discovered there.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Vish grumbles, and I run back toward the base of the stairs, where he still lays, his head at the bottom, his legs still elevated. He slides down and looks confused.

  “How’d we get here? Toilet!” He shoots up and runs toward Dadi’s bathroom, shoving the door open. He hurls his body toward the throne, which wears a fancy electric bidet—or butt washer, as Taara and I like to call it—as its crown.

  “Wait, lift the seat!” I whisper-shout.

  Then he throws up on Dadi’s pale blue handwoven Indian cotton bath mat, which she brought with her from her old house in Delhi. Of course.

  I grab a bunch of towels from the rag stash Dadi keeps under the sink and clean up the area—and Vish—the best I can. He reeks of sweat and vomit, and it triggers my gag reflex, so I stop and splash water on my face and then scrub him down with a damp towel.

  “Saira?” I hear Dadi shout from her adjacent bedroom, over the swell of music. “Is that you?”

  Shit. She’s up.

  I rush out, shouting so she won’t come looking.

  “Yes, Dadi, peeing. Go back to bed.” I hold my breath, hoping she will. I count to sixty. She doesn’t stir again. Thank gods.

  “Come on,” I say to Vish, who’s whimpering and rubbing his face. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  He stands, bleary-eyed, and looks around. I grab the towels, the rug, and any other evidence and race out of the bathroom, motioning him to follow. We tiptoe across the basement to the other end, where I open the laundry closet door. It’ll have to do. I shove Vish inside, and he crashes on top of a pile of blankets. He’s already snoring as I empty the freshly done laundry into the dryer and dump the dirty towels into the washer.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and text Taara.

  Two things!

  (1) How do you cure a hangover?

  (2) How do I get vomit out of organic cotton?

  I want to text her a third: (3) Do you believe in love at first sneeze?

  The three little dots appear, but no actual response.

  I slide down beside the machines, letting them rock me, and sigh. I can feel a migraine coming on. I glare at Vish, watching as his chest rises and falls, peaceful despite the snores. I kind of hate him right now. I’ve known him since I was six, and I’ve saved his ass a million times now. I mean, I’m saving his ass even by just being his girlfriend at all. The thought burns as soon as I think it, or maybe it’s just kati roll reflux. Or, like, alcohol poisoning?

  I stare at my phone again. Still no response from Taara. I open my phone’s browser and google vomit and organic cotton. Apparently, vomit is a protein stain. Ugh. Definitely no bleach. Enzymatic cleaner? Do we even have that?

  Still no response from Taara. Sigh.

  I open another window and find myself typing the words before I even realize what I’m doing.

  “Link, Princeton.”

  Golf course. Nope.

  “Link Rad, Princeton.”

  Nothing.

  “Link Rad, Princeton. Rock Star Boot Camp.”

  Boom, there he is. An online video. He’s smiling, playing his guitar and singing. The dimple dents his cheek, and his mouth makes a little O when he croons the chorus, even though I can’t hear it because it’s on silent.

  I watch it on a loop, over and over again, until I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 10

  On Saturday morning, I awake to a migraine—or is it a hangover?—and the mingling scents of detergent, freshly brewed chai, and aloo ki tikkis—the crispy potato cakes are my absolute favorite. That means Dadima’s up and didn’t come into the laundry closet last night—which is good news, because Vish’s still sleeping on a pile of dirty bedsheets.

  But she:

  likely did use her bathroom.

  knows the rug is missing.

  probably heard him snoring through the door.

  The question is, is she going to give me away?

  I pull myself up and off the floor, and poke at Vish, who has dents in his cheeks from his uncomfortable bed.

  “Hey, Guddi,” he says, bleary-eyed. “What happened?”

  “You were drunk. And threw up. On Dadi’s rug.” I grin. “She’s never gonna make you egg bhurji again. And you owe me like a gazillion rupees because it’s from that old flea market in Delhi and priceless. You’re very lucky I didn’t use bleach.”

  “Oh no!” He jumps up, apparently not hungover at all. Of course. I put my hand to my throbbing head. Two cups of sangria? That’s all? Never. Again. “Yeah, that sangria wa
s spiked with tequila and rum.” Oh. “And I had a few shots.”

  “You okay? Need water? Juice?” What do they give people when they’re, like, totally drunk? I’m itching to look it up. I could really go for some guava juice right now, but the thought also makes me strangely nauseous. “You were so wasted last night.” And apparently, so was I.

  “Did I make out with anyone, though?” he asks with a laugh, all wide-eyed.

  I grin. “Not that I know of. But Liz Biz definitely did.”

  “The drama.” He leans in close and gives me a peck on the cheek. Ugh, morning-drunk dragon breath. I shove him away. “Should I sneak out?”

  I shake my head. “No, Papa will be back from his run in a second. He popped out exactly fifteen minutes ago.” I grab a clean sweatshirt from the basket. His shorts are dry, so they’ll do. “Put this on, then sneak through the back and ring the bell. You’re here to give me a driving lesson.”

  He grins. “You asked for it.” He pulls on my sweatshirt—thankfully a generic Princeton one that everyone in town has—and my phone falls out. It hits the floor and starts blasting the video I downloaded last night—of Link. It’s even better with the sound on.

  “What’s that?” he says, his eyes flickering from the video to my face. “Lizzie’s new fave?”

  “Actually, a patient. At the hospital. He’s trying out for Rock Star Boot Camp.”

  “He’s good.”

  And hot, I think.

  Vish hands me my phone. “You should introduce him to Lizzie. Totally her type.”

  Or mine. Maybe?

  I laugh, then open the laundry closet door, peering into the basement. Sunshine streams in, but it’s quiet and empty. I take Vish’s hand, and we tiptoe to the back door. I unlock it and push him through.

  A minute later, the doorbell rings. I hear Papa’s voice booming in the hall as he answers.

  I sneak upstairs and change, and by the time I come back down, everyone’s at the breakfast nook, eating tikkis. Vish’s already got his mouth full—breakfast is one meal he and Dadi can usually agree on, because it doesn’t involve chicken or lamb.