Lovetorn (10 page)

“Thanks,” I said now to Renuka, smoothing my hair down in the back. “It feels different, but I like it too.”

Our families had been seeing a lot of each other. The Idnanis had taken us to Santa Monica to ride the Ferris wheel and, one weekend, to Universal Studios.

One Sunday we had driven to Santa Barbara. On the way home, Uncle Haresh suggested stopping at the boardwalk to get a whiff of the salty air and to feel the cool sand under our toes.

“It is like Chowpatty beach in Mumbai,” my father had said wistfully. “We went there when you two girls were small. You were rescuing the fish that had washed ashore, throwing them back into the water.” He’d smiled at the memory. “I will wait till your mother is well and then I will bring her here.”

Now Renuka and I had gotten together to see a Hindi film at a little cinema in the Valley. She only agreed to go because there were English subtitles. Afterward we walked across the street to a South Indian restaurant known for its
dosas.

“Hey, look,” she said, pointing to a small pink flyer on the corkboard at the front of the restaurant. It said:
PREMA’S TRADITIONAL INDIAN BEAUTY SERVICES
. Renuka glanced over at me and then looked quickly at her watch.

“Come with me,” she said, grabbing me by the wrist. “There’s something I want you to have. My treat.”

Prema, stout and middle-aged, reminded me of the lady who would come to our house in Bangalore at the behest of the women of the household to provide waxing, threading, and facials.

“I’ve had a cancellation,” she said. “What do you need?” She was looking directly at me, appearing to take in every pore on my face, every tiny wisp of hair covering its surface. She narrowed her eyes.

“Never been threaded?” she asked, staring right at my eyebrows, which had long ago started to join in the center. I shook my head. “Not even your upper lip?” she continued, this time turning her attention to the area directly above my mouth, which was covered in a layer of fine hair.

“My
dada
didn’t want me to,” I said. “He thought I was too young.”

“You’re straight from India?” she asked, ushering me into a room in the back that had posters of big-haired women in shiny evening gowns on the walls.

“Yes, I’ve just come here a few months back.”

“Hah, but you are a girl in America now,” she said, pushing me gently into a chair and pulling out a spool of white thread from her pocket. “Here, everything happens earlier.”

Prema ended up working over my entire face, her thread slicing hair from my cheeks, chin, and sideburns as she blew away the soft, dark fuzz. It was terribly painful, and I wondered how my cousins and aunts could put up with it on a regular basis. Later, as she dabbed a tonic on my face, she took the liberty of hiking up my jeans from the ankles and peering at my legs. She
tut-tutt
ed loudly.

“
So
hairy!” she announced loudly. “Just like a boy! Give me fifteen minutes; I do quick-quick waxing,” she said, getting up to go fetch her supplies. I sat upright in the chair.

“No, please, this is enough for one day,” I said. “I’ll come back.”

When I walked through the door at home, I smiled. My father had bought a small silver Christmas tree, which he had placed in the corner of our den and from which he had hung tiny, shiny, red and green glass balls. Underneath it was a cluster of prettily wrapped gifts. Fake snow had been sprayed around a glass window. There were two felt stockings hanging above the fireplace we had never gotten around to lighting; and a wreath had been placed in the middle of our dining table, a thick red pillar candle surrounded by plastic berries at its center. Sangita was arranging tinsel across the banister, her eyes shining.

I turned toward my father, a look of pleasant surprise on my face.

“When in America,” he said, grinning, “do as the Americans!”

As Christmas break came to an end, my father took Sangita and me out to the postholiday sales. At Target, Sangita and I selected glittery pens and notebooks with pretty pictures on the front and new tote bags. On the way to the cash register we stopped at the juniors clothing section and looked at fitted T-shirts with beading, corduroy jackets with patch pockets, frilly skirts that were worn over leggings. They were the things that the girls in my school wore. My father came over to us and asked if there was anything we liked, anything we wanted. Up until then our school wardrobe had consisted of loose cotton tunics from India worn over jeans, a sweatshirt on top.

“It’s okay,” my father said. “Try on a few things. You girls deserve it.”

I glanced at Sangita nervously. I didn’t know where to start. She rifled through the racks, pulled out a black cardigan with a sequin design on its pocket, a sweater that belted at the waist, a violet-colored blouse with a ruffle.

“Here,” she said confidently, handing the hangers over to me. “These will look good on you.”

Exhilarated, I went to the fitting room, shrugged into the cozy tops, and loved how I felt: stylish, but not so I’d never recognize myself. I decided that that was just where I wanted to be.

Right after, our father took Sangita and me to Renuka’s house for dinner. Aunty Poonam ordered in pizza and mozzarella cheese sticks. The TV was turned to HBO, but nobody was watching. After we ate, Sangita and I went up to Renuka’s bedroom. The walls were covered with photos of Renuka and her friends at her school, postcards of places she had visited with her parents, and a large poster of Taylor Lautner. The three of us plopped down on her bed, which was shaped like a big, white, wooden sleigh, and started leafing through pages of a celebrity magazine while Renuka regaled us with gossip about people we had never heard of before.

“How cute is he?” She was pointing to a picture of Zac Efron.

“He has nice eyes,” Sangita said, kneeling on the bed.

“He looks
just
like a guy at school I had the biggest crush on.” Renuka giggled. “I was, like, totally crazy about him. But he hooked up with some other girl. What about you?” she asked me, lying on one side and resting her head in her hand. “Any guy at school you’re crushing on yet? It’s gonna happen sooner or later, you know.”

“Come on, Renuka. You know
didi
is getting married, right?”

Renuka bolted up so quickly the magazines fell off her bed.

“Whoa!” she said. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, Renuka, that I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know what you would think,” I said.

“I’m like your one and only BFF here,” she teased. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. I knew you lived with thirty-seven people, friggin’ chaotic. But a guy you’re going to marry? How could you not have told me?”

“His name is Vikram,” I said. “His father and my father have been best friends for thirty years. He’s nineteen now. On my third birthday, my father and his decided that when Vikram and I come of age, we should be married. We’ve been engaged ever since.”

Renuka’s eyes were wide, her mouth partly open, as if she was watching a horror film.

“A few weeks before coming to America, we exchanged rings.” I showed her the ruby ring I wore. “He has exactly the same one. We talk and email as much as we can. I really miss him,” I said quietly. I looked down at the floor, pushing my bare feet into Renuka’s carpet. Sangita left us to get some more pizza. Renuka got up and closed the door.

“So, have you like, done it?” she asked me. The mischievous, vaguely conspiratorial look on her face told me what she meant.

“No!” I said vehemently.

“Seriously? Engaged for thirteen years and he hasn’t made a move? You’ve at least made out, right?” she asked.

I grew uncomfortable. This was not a conversation I had ever had with anyone.

“We’re never alone together,” I said. “We will wait until we are married to do anything.”

“Oh my God!” she said finally, blinking. “So, listen, how do you know you love him? How do you know he’s really the guy for you? I mean, like, what happens if he’s a bad kisser?”

“It’s really not the most important thing,” I said. Funny how I’d never even given that a second thought, and here it was the first thing that came into Renuka’s head.

“He’s a good guy,” I continued. “And I’m sure he’s a great kisser.” I was blushing now. “But even if he isn’t, he’s the boy I’m going to marry. He’s kind and thoughtful and really loves me. That’s more important than anything.”

“Well, all I can say is, Wow,” Renuka said. Her curiosity was satisfied, but I couldn’t help thinking that she looked at me a little differently.

“Hey, no, I think it’s great,” she said, seeing the crestfallen look on my face. “I’ll be stressing over college applications, and you’ll be planning your wedding and finally losing your virginity. Wow.”

Chapter Fourteen

“SO YOU FINALLY USED OUR GIFT,
did you?” Sasha snickered in homeroom. It took me a few seconds to realize that she was talking about the hair-removing cream she and Magali had given me.

I stiffened at first, the way I always did when either of those girls looked at me. But now I remembered Renuka telling me to stop being afraid, to develop some confidence. I stared up at Sasha from my desk, glancing at a peace pendant around her neck. How ironic: a peace emblem on a girl who delighted in tormenting me.

“Actually, I did use the gift,” I said. “It came in very handy. So thank you. I hope I can return the favor sometime?”

Sasha was speechless, her eyebrows raised in surprise. I picked up my bag and made my way to the next class, trembling as I walked.

For the rest of the day I felt strangely energized. There were moments when I thought about what I’d said to Sasha, remembered the look of astonishment on her face, and giggled about it, and held my head a little higher than usual.

At home later I phoned Vikram. I didn’t tell him the exact circumstances of the exchange—I was too embarrassed to let him know that someone had teased me for having a lady-mustache and unibrow. But I told him that I hadn’t run away and hid from one of the mean girls.

“I stood up to her,” I said. “It won’t be as much fun for her to pick on me anymore.”

“I knew it, Shalu!” my lovely fiancé said. “Things will turn around for you now. You’ll see.”

Two weeks later, when we were getting our homework back in algebra class, I heard Charlie cursing under his breath at his grade. Mr. Jeffries handed me back my paper, which had a large, red, circled A on the top, the words
Well done!
scrawled underneath. I looked up again at Charlie, whose face was pale, clicking his pen nervously.

As we were leaving class, the teacher asked Charlie and me to stay behind. I was puzzled. I couldn’t have been in trouble. The classroom was now empty apart from the three of us. Mr. Jeffries adjusted his glasses.

“I want to try a little experiment,” he said, now resting his chin in one hand. “Our school promotes a program where students in the higher grades coach or tutor those in the lower grades. But we’re going to do something different here.”

I bit my bottom lip. What was he going to suggest?

“Shalini, you’re probably my best math student,” he said. “And you, Charlie, well—you’re struggling.”

Charlie looked down at his feet. I followed his gaze. One of his shoelaces had come undone.

“So I’m thinking, Shalini, that maybe you can help Charlie out. Be his tutor.”

I froze on the spot. I had never even spoken to this boy and had no desire to after the way he had made my first day here a misery. I pulled the stack of books I was holding closer to my chest like a shield.

Charlie’s head snapped in my direction and then back to Mr. Jeffries.

“What?” he snapped. “No way! I’m not having
her
anywhere near me.” He said it as if I had leprosy. I hated him. It should have been me saying no. I was meant to be in AP Math. I shouldn’t even be here.

Mr. Jeffries squared his gaze on Charlie, his eyes hardening.

“I don’t really think you have a say in this,” he said. “You’re close to failing. If you want to have any chance of passing, you need the help of this young lady here. But if you have a better idea, I’d sure like to hear it.”

Charlie glared at Mr. Jeffries for a second.

“Fine,” he said under his breath, as if he were doing me a favor.

My heart sped, rage gathering in my belly. I was furious. I had no interest in helping this boy, and I was mad at Mr. Jeffries for just springing it on me. I had way too much work already. I decided I would tell him as much.

I opened my mouth, but the protests got stuck in my throat. The obedient girl kicked in again, the girl I had always been, the one who did what was asked of her.

“I will do my best to help, sir,” I said quietly. I glanced over at Charlie. His face was sullen. His left cheek twitched nervously.

Charlie and I left the room together. We stood awkwardly in the hallway.

“So, like, what day?” he asked, looking right past me.

We settled on Wednesdays after school, in the library, for an hour. He tapped it into his phone, stuck the phone in his back pocket, turned around, and walked off.

A few days later, I found him waiting for me at a table in the farthest corner of the library. He barely looked up. I had been nervous about this all day. But now, looking down at him, I was just annoyed. An ache had started to form in my left temple. I sat in the chair across from him, staring at the pile of books that were scattered on the table. On the top was his most recent test paper, the one on which he had scored a D.

“Where are you having the most trouble?” I asked him. He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest.

“All of it,” he said. “I don’t see what the point is. I’m never gonna need any of this crap. I don’t care.”

“Look. If you want to pass the course, you have to care a little.” My voice sounded impatient to my own ears. “You know, I have lots of other things I should be doing instead of being here. So if you really don’t want to learn, tell me now so I won’t waste my time.” I was scarcely breathing. I couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth.