“Driving lesson canceled!” Papa says with a snort, as if it’s the funniest joke he’s ever played. Thank gods. No drunk driving for me.
“Aaja, Saira,” Dadi says, and ushers me toward the table, laden with treats. “Sit, sit. Time for choske.” She shuffles around steaming plates of tikkis, golgappa, chaat, samosas, and lots of tandoori maal, like chicken and kebabs; the yummy street food she grew up with in her down and dirty Delhi neighborhood.
“Reminds me of home.” She piles a potato cake on my plate, dousing it with spicy, tangy chickpeas slathered in brown gravy, then tops them with cool yogurt, fresh onion, and mint and tamarind chutneys. It all looks delicious, but one bite may just take me out.
Dadi’s peering at me, all curious and judgmental, though, so I stuff a bite into my mouth before I take my seat, squeezing in next to—but not too close, because my parents are watching—Vish.
“How’s it going with Elliott Cho?” Mom asks me.
“Well, the scene with Dragon Auntie definitely didn’t help,” I say, glaring at her.
“Oh, come on, Saira,” Mom says, spooning up some chole. “You can’t make mountains out of small battles. You have to win the war.”
Huh? “Mom! You’re just giving them more ammunition—”
Dadi shushes me. “Nashta time,” Dadi says. “Eating. No working. Chai?”
It’s not really a question. No one in the Sehgal household functions—even on Saturdays—without chai.
Dadi pours chai for everyone. It’s super strong and milky, spiked with ginger and spices. “Too strong, too sweet,” Dadi says, pinching her nose as I dump three spoons of white sugar into my cup. “Rail station chai.”
The chai actually seems to help take the edge off. So I slurp it loudly, and Vish starts. Dadi silences us with a glare. Does she know about last night? I can’t tell, since she’s always sucking her teeth at Vish anyway.
“Te Rhona di shaadi da kya?” Dadi says, looking straight at Mom. My cousin Rhona’s wedding isn’t until January, but Dadi’s been trying to get an answer about going to the wedding in India for weeks. “Tickets book karay? Twenty-nine!” Dadi adds with disgust. “Finally, she has relented.”
“Maybe you and Pash can go early,” Mom says to Dadi.
“No Pash,” Dadi says. “Pashaura.”
Mom ignores her. “Then Taara and I can join you. It’ll have to be a short trip, because she has school.” She looks at me. “And I don’t know if it will be possible for Saira to go. This internship will be relentless. And difficult. It’s an important time.”
“She hasn’t been in years,” Dadi says, the disappointment slipping out and layering us all like a too-warm blanket.
Vish clears his throat and pours himself some more chai.
“And she probably won’t, Biji,” Mom says in her “I’m the grown-up” voice. She’s all about making decisions for everyone. Especially me. I seethe. “She’s made a commitment—she understands it.”
I haven’t been to India since I was nine, just before I started skipping grades and doing the genius track at Hopkins. So part of me wants to quit completely, be a kid and go to India and doll up in fancy new lenghas for a favorite cousin’s wedding. Even just to piss Mom off. But most of me knows Mom is right. I have to finish what I started, and I want to. I asked for this, begged for it, really.
“Mom’s right, Dadi. I can’t leave. Not now. So I’ll miss this one. You and Mom have to promise to get me as many lenghas as you get for Taara.”
“And some new kurtas for me, too,” Vish adds.
“Tell your Gujarati nani to get them for you,” Dadi says.
Ouch. “Dadi,” I scold sternly, but she pours more tea, unfazed. She holds fast to her preconceptions and prejudices, no matter what we all say.
Vish bubble-faces at her, blowing his cheeks full of air like a balloon. “Did I thank you for the kati roll you sent?” he says too loud. “Eggs and achari potatoes are a brilliant combination. You should have a restaurant.”
“Home food is the best food,” she concedes, then turns her attention to me, cupping a frail, paper-skinned hand under my chin. “And lenghas, suits, maybe even a sari for you, guriya. You’ve outgrown all of your old things, and you’re too big for Taara’s old ones already.” She means it as a compliment, I’m sure, but it makes me pause before grabbing a second cookie. Only for a minute.
“Are you guys going to homecoming this year?” Mom asks Vish, and Dadi tsks.
“Phir se ye dating-shating,” she says, walking away in a huff.
“If she’ll come,” Vish says. “You know Saira.” Then he and Papa start talking about the school’s chances at state, and the rest of us zone out.
I think about homecoming and wonder if Vish will make me go. We’ve only been to two dances so far, in the whole time we’ve been “officially together,” or whatever. I wonder what my Dadima would think of Link. I don’t know why he pops into my head. But he does. I can still feel the tingling when he touched my hand, like when you hit your funny bone—which, of course, is not a bone at all, rather the ulnar nerve vibrating—on something. He was so odd, strange and familiar all at once, like the first bite of a new Dadi dish I know will become my favorite.
I wish I’d had a chance to get my hands on his patient file. Even though that would maybe go against the oath I’ve taken. Besides, I’ve got the weekend off and no excuse for quick drop-in at the hospital. I shake the thought away. I’ve got lots to do. Charts and a driving lesson, and the boring mall with Lizzie. Dammit. I forgot to call her back, watching that video on repeat all night.
I tell myself it’s only a medical interest in his case, but my stomach’s doing this weird flutter—it’s a fight-or-flight response, which is odd. It means reduced blood flow, no doubt, thanks to a release of adrenaline, which means I’m stressed or excited. Or both. Yes, both.
I take another cookie. Maybe that will help.
I dip it in my tea, and watch it crumble and collapse into the cup.
“What do you think, Saira?” Mom says.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
I look at Vish, and he shrugs.
“Huh?”
“Regarding Taara?”
“It’s a good rishta,” Dadi says, hoping for a yea from me. Even though I never back her up when she tries to talk Mom into these arranged marriage scenarios. “A good family to build a relationship with. A doctor boy from Canada. Family from Delhi. They’ll be in India when we are.”
“It couldn’t hurt to introduce them, nah?” Mom says.
I’m already shaking my head. “Nope, nope, nope,” I say, slurping the last of my chai, crumbs and all. “And nope. You need to stop making decisions for people. You’re asking for trouble, and Taara’s fine. She’s smart, beautiful, relatively tall—and really young. She’ll find her own husband.”
Dadi tsks again. “When? You girls are so busy focused on work this, study that—”
“No, Biji, Saira’s right,” Mom says, and I nearly drop my teacup. “They should be focused on work and studies right now. They are very young, and we are rushing for no reason. Love can strike in the oddest of ways, when you least expect it. We need to give it time and space, room to grow. Like with you and Vish.”
My cheeks are on fire now, and Vish’s staring down at his plate. Awkward.
“You always buy into this Amreeki drama,” Dadi says, abruptly standing and gathering teacups and kettles on her big golden tray. “You’ll see, Rana, one day, the error of your ways.” She bursts out of the kitchen in a mood, leaving the rest of us sitting in silence.
Mom giggles first. It’s catching. Soon we’re both laughing so hard, we’re near tears.
“She’s like a Desi soap opera,” Papa says, hugging my mom. “And you are the willful daughter-in-law. Next it be smashing plates and fainting spells.”
Mom laughs. “Yeah, Taara’s the only one who can match Dadi’s drama.” She grabs another cookie from the tin Dadi forgot, and then say
s, “And I will stay out of it. Last thing I need is the wrath of Taara.” Then, “Is she dating anyone, by the way?”
I shrug. Taara’s been dating the same guy on and off now for three years. But I’m the only one in the family who knows about him. And this much even I can tell: He’s so not a suitable boy. But she’s only nineteen. So she’s got time. (Just don’t tell Dadi that.)
Vish looks at his phone, afraid to get involved. Smart boy.
“How are you guys doing, Vish?” she asks. His mom and mine believe we’re totally PG, which works for them. And for us.
“We may go see the new Ranveer film this afternoon,” he says, which is news to me.
“Not too late, though, acha?” Papa says. “I heard it was very good. Lots of action.”
And romance. Why can’t I stop thinking about Link? A thought pops into my head.
“Hey, Mom, I have an idea,” I say, startling everyone. “You know how you’re always saying everyone needs an escape?”
She nods, tentative, not sure exactly where this is going. I can see she’s worried it has something to do with me and Vish. And so is he.
“Well, that’s just it—these kids, the cancer kids at the hospital, they don’t have that. Not when Harper was at the hospital, and not now, eight years later.”
“It must be so weird being at that hospital all the time without Harper,” Vish says, squeezing my hand.
I know he misses her, too, but the scar has healed for him.
Mine still feels like a fresh wound. And maybe, working with these kids at the same hospital, I’m a glutton. But I have to help them. “Yeah, and that’s why I need to do something,” I say. “The lounge is the least of it.”
“Yes,” Mom says, still confused. “That’s true.”
“They should.” I take a deep breath. “So maybe I can help with that. You know that old, stuffy patient lounge I used to hang out with Harper in?”
Vish’s grinning. “I can’t believe it’s still there. And the VCR? The old movies. We should go watch them!”
I nod. I know he can already see where I’m going with this. “Anne of Green Gables!”
He tugs at my hair. We both swooned over Gilbert Blythe. “Carrots! Carrots!”
“How dare you!” I shout, and we both dissolve into laughter.
“Nobody uses that lounge anymore,” Mom says with disgust. “I can’t blame them.”
“They could—if it was nice again. I could do that, pretty easily. A little paint, update the furniture, buy a flat screen and a new fridge. Make it brighter, more livable.”
Vish’s nodding. “I could help paint and get a discount from my uncle’s store on the flat screen.”
“It’s not a bad idea, really,” Mom says, “and living at home, you could certainly afford to give back some.” Then a wide grin spreads across her face. “Only one problem, and it’s a big one: Davis.”
CHAPTER 11
The mall is bursting with teenagers. Like me, I guess. But I feel like I’m in a foreign country where I don’t know the language. I haven’t been to an actual mall in maybe five years, nearly a third of my life now. It’s so easy to order necessities online.
“Sasha’s first, then that little boutique next to the Gap, then Lolita’s for some new underwear,” Lizzie announces to the twenty thousand people in this squishy, trendy store, because of course they needed our itinerary. “I know you definitely need some.”
She winks at me and drags me toward the fitting rooms. “Can I get these pants in a six and an eight? And does that cover-up come in blue?” Lizzie’s my tour guide, and luckily, she speaks mall.
Moments later, we’re locked in a changing room at one of her favorite stores, a stack of “party wear” a mile high sitting on a chair next to me.
“You’ve got to stop stealing from Taara’s closet,” Lizzie says. “None of her stuff fits your boobs.” She points to a blue dress, then shakes her head, then points to the red. “Not that one. Try the other.” She shakes her head again as I hold it up against me. “No, take off your grubby T-shirt and actually put it on.” It doesn’t budge once it hits my boobs, so I pull it back up.
Nothing fits me: big Punjabi boobs, not quite skinny waist, short torso, long limbs. My body’s built like it was Frankensteined together with spare parts. Lizzie, on the other hand, is long and lean, with fluffy blond hair, big blue eyes, and the kind of small, perky breasts that you could totally go braless with. Yes, I’m jealous.
She tosses me a bigger size of the same dress, which fits over the boobs, but is too roomy everywhere else. I sigh. That one hits the floor, too.
“Too bad,” Lizzie says. “It was super cute.”
“So, I, uh, this weird thing happened at work—”
“Try the blue one on now,” she orders, ignoring my hemming. “I think it suits you more than the yellow.”
I pull a floral dress on, and Lizzie’s already shaking her head. I toss it off, and she hangs it back up, handing me a striped dress. I frown at it, but she nods, in charge, so I pull it on anyway. “This store doesn’t get my body,” I say, tossing the latest onto the floor. “I quit.”
“Don’t give up. We’ve only just begun!” she sings. She sings a lot.
“Dresses never fit me right,” I complain. “Except for that one place online. It’s meant for girls with big boobs.”
Lizzie ponders, a finger to her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe a skirt and top would be better. And you could mix and match, so you’d have more options.” That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. She scans through the stack, tossing aside this and that any which way. We go through the same cycle—try, whine, defeat—a half a dozen times before she finally throws her hands up.
“Okay, time for lunch,” she says. “You’re treating, Moneybags.”
* * *
We head to the food court, go our separate ways to place orders, then stalk the tables until we can snag an open one.
“So how was the matinee?” she asks.
Oops. “I would’ve asked you, but we went on a whim.” It was the new Ranveer Singh, and he’s, like, Lizzie’s fave, but I mean, it was Vish’s idea, a just-the-two-of-us thing. “And it didn’t have subtitles.”
“New Brunswick would’ve had subtitles,” she says, then races off as a table opens.
I follow her, take a napkin, and scrub the surface down before we sit, laying our food out.
“I can smell those onions,” Lizzie says, scrunching up her petite, freckled nose.
“Yup, they’re delicious,” I say, taking a bite of my sub from Larry’s bulgogi with extra kimchi and the offending onions (which I asked them to add, naturally), and salt-and-vinegar potato chips crumbled on top. She’s got her usual, plain old roast beef with mayo. “Enjoy your bland white-people food.”
She chomps hard, then opens her mouth to reveal a disgusting glob of white cream. I giggle, and toss a potato chip at her mouth. She catches it and claps like a seal. I laugh, nearly choking on my lemonade, which I’ve doused with black pepper, Desi-style.
She swallows and takes a sip of iced tea. “Did you hear that Cat’s dating Brian?”
“The one who used to eat chalk?”
“No, the other one, Brian F. Not Brian H. The one who is the lacrosse captain now.”
“Oh,” I say, “that’s nice.”
“She’s applying to Stanford.” She pauses, waiting for me to say something. “And Yale.”
“Well, good for her.”
“Maybe you can help with her apps,” Lizzie suggests.
“I think she’s got it handled.”
“She was asking about you and Vish.” She eats a potato chip, and we sit in awkward silence for a second before she starts on about Rebecca and Lisa going off to college on opposite coasts. They’ve been together for two years. About as long as Vish and I. Well, technically. “I mean, California. That’s, like, thousands of miles. Are you upset?”
“I don’t think long distance is a big deal,” I say with a shrug
. “And Vish and I are good. For now. I mean, only two percent of teen romances lead to marriage or any kind of serious commitment. We’ll live. And so will they.”
There’s dead silence for a second. I have to actually look up from my sandwich to make sure Lizzie’s still there. Her mouth is a thin, straight line, and her eyes stare straight ahead, avoiding my gaze. “You could show a little interest. I mean, they’re your friends, too.”
“They were. I haven’t talked to most of them in months. Some more than a year.”
“That’s your fault, not theirs.”
When I open my mouth to defend myself, she cuts me off. “You make time for the people you want to make time for. Like Vish. And sometimes me. If you want to have an actual life—and not endless hours in some lab coat at the hospital—then you have to make an effort. Even with me.”
“Ouch. Okay. Are you excited about camp?” I ask her, too brightly. Maybe she’ll let it slide. This time.
She swallows a big bite of her sandwich. “I’m nervous.”
Lizzie’s hardly ever nervous. “Yeah? Why?”
“Madame Yulia—she’s old-school Russian method acting. Like a starlet from the fifties who’s still channeling the throwback vibe. So she doesn’t care about soap operas or reality TV or any of the things that would constitute a big break for wannabes like us. She wants us to cut our teeth in theater or indie film. Serious stuff.” She takes a sip of her iced tea. “This program is hard. Really hard. I mean, it’s Yale. I’m not sure I can do it.”
I swipe a chip from the pile. “You wouldn’t have gotten in if you couldn’t. I know you. You’re smart and determined and plain old good.”
“Yeah, but I’m a generic blond girl, one of, like, sixty in the room.” She lifts up a strand of her golden locks. “Maybe I should do something to my hair?”
“Hey, I know you!” a voice interrupts. I recognize it. I turn to look behind me, and there he is.
Link. Skateboard, ski cap—even though it’s July—shorts and Hendrix T-shirt, ratty Chucks. Bright eyes, and that flawed yet perfect grin as he walks over.
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 9
