Can’t wait to see you, babe.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at Kareem’s text. I want to crawl back under the covers; I’m about to break it off with a sweet, romantic guy I’ve kissed because I’m stitching my heart back together over a taken guy who has no desire to kiss me. Maybe this will become the pattern of my life: every story ends before it has a chance to begin. Not exactly riveting material for a documentary.
My mom yells up from the kitchen, crashing my self-pity party. “Maya, Kareem and his parents will be here in half an hour. Get up.”
“Down in a minute.” At least the day won’t be a total loss because I can smell the parathas that my mother is making for Indian brunch. The layered, flaky flatbread is my absolute favorite. I love plucking them from the tawa, the cast-iron pan my mom reserves for this specialty, with a little pat of butter. Total food heaven. Making them also takes effort, so I know she’s trying to impress Kareem’s family, even though I overheard her assuring Salma Auntie that she was only preparing a “simple home meal.”
I smell onions caramelizing, too.
“Mom, are you making kheema parathas?” I call down, hungry. My mouth waters for parathas stuffed with spicy ground beef. This is one of the great ironies of my life. I love Indian food, but not the days-old lingering smell of onions and garlic on my clothes. But when you love something, you have to be prepared to make sacrifices.
“If you get up, you can see for yourself,” my mom calls.
With a groan, I pull myself off the bed. I shower and change, swipe on a little blush and mascara. I take care to dress appropriately. Modest, but with a little flair. Skinny jeans and an emerald-green silk Indian tunic that hangs, untucked, covering my ass, with simple yellow embroidery around the neckline. Small gold hoops in my ears and a thin chain with a delicate gold hamsa—the hand of Fatima—resting in the notch above my collarbone. This outfit so wins the Indian-mom seal of approval.
“You look so pretty, beta,” Mom proclaims as I walk into the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove making kheema parathas as I’d hoped. The table is covered with steaming bowls of food. “Look, Asif—she’s wearing makeup, too.”
“Oho. Smashing.” My dad nods in approval.
“You’re supposed to say I don’t need makeup.”
“Aaray, can’t I simply compliment my daughter without it becoming a federal case?” My mom turns to my dad and nods toward the cabinets—her silent way of asking him to set the dining table with the good china.
“I thought this was supposed to be no big deal,” I say.
“Who’s saying it’s a big deal?” my mother asks with a shrug.
“Umm, you’re wearing one of your favorite shalwar kameez and the necklace you wore to Ayesha’s wedding.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never repeat necklaces so close together—that one had the rubies in it. This one just has a few emeralds.”
“Of course. Because emeralds totally scream casual brunch.”
“Maya, beta, remember when you invite someone, as the host you must make them feel welcome and appreciated. In India, a guest is like a god in the house. You need to treat them with proper tameez.” It’s all part of the show, of course. She wants to prove that I’m a nice Indian girl from a good family. As if we should have to prove that. But more, she wants the day to be perfect. For a second, I’m sorry it won’t be. For her.
“The house looks good. The food is ready. I’m going to make a few more parathas. And let me start the tea. I want to steep it a good, long time.”
She’s right. The house does look good. From the outside looking in, everything is as it should be. Too bad that façade is destined to crumble.
The doorbell rings at exactly ten-thirty.
“They’re not on Indian Standard Time, I guess,” my dad jokes as he walks to the door.
I muster a smile. “Yeah, somehow they’ve adapted to the strange American custom of arriving when asked.” I follow him to the door. My mom trails behind. My mouth is dry. I realize I actually want to see Kareem. I thought I was going to just dread this moment—breaking things off. But he’s impossible not to like. I do like him. Just not enough, or in the right way.
“As-salaam-alaikum. Come in. Come in. Welcome. Welcome.”
Kareem hands my mom flowers. I mouth the words “ass kisser” at him from behind my mom’s back. He smirks but keeps his eyes on my mother. My mom thanks him effusively, going on and on about how he shouldn’t have and congratulating his parents on raising such a wonderful son. In spite of all the food I can’t wait to eat, I suddenly have no appetite. All this gushing adds to the myth of Kareem in my mother’s matrimonial fancy—the suitable boy, the boy with tameez, the one boy to rule them all. But I’m also being as unfair to him as I’m being to her. He thinks we’re something that we’re not.
Kareem and his parents slip off their shoes in the foyer. His mom is also wearing a shalwar kameez with beautiful floral embroidery accented with gold jewelry. She’s not as decked out as my mom, but then, she’s the guy’s mom, and it’s always the girl’s mom who is more invested, has more to lose. Because desi guys, especially ones as eligible as Kareem, always seem to have more options.
My mom guides Kareem’s parents into the living room, her voice brighter and more singsong than usual. “The food is nearly ready. It’s nothing much, home cooking, you know.”
“Maybe we should put those flowers in water?” my dad suggests, louder and with more emphasis on the “we” than necessary.
“Yes, yes. Salma, can you please help me select the vase?” My mom flashes my dad an eye-smile.
“Of course.” Salma Auntie plays along. “And I must see what you’ve cooked; it smells heavenly.”
“Sajid, let me show you a few recent improvements I’ve made to the cabinets.” My dad gestures to the kitchen. All four adults vanish.
And scene. Kareem and I are alone.
I turn to Kareem, hoping my cheeks aren’t pink. “Not obvious at all.”
“They’re so smooth, aren’t they?” Kareem laughs and steps closer to me. I scratch a nonexistent itch on my forehead; I am hyperaware of my own breathing. But my hand doesn’t pose enough of an obstacle. He moves it gently aside and bends down to kiss me.
I hop back, shaking free. “Have you lost it?” I loud-whisper.
My parents are hidden behind the kitchen wall, voices chattering, dishes clattering. But I’m pretty certain my mom has x-ray vision.
He gives me a puzzled smile. “We’re alone. They want us to be alone.”
“Not alone. They’re fifteen feet away. Believe me, my parents would not be cool with kissing under their roof, or anywhere else for that matter, even if you are Muslim and Indian and an engineering major and bursting with tameez.”
Kareem shrugs. “Well then, I’ll just have to figure out a way to get you alone—really alone.”
I look into Kareem’s dark, flirtatious eyes and almost remember why I liked him in the first place. I wish this day were already over. I wish my feelings were different. But they aren’t.
Our mothers appear with two heaping plates of food and two mango lassis. My mom smiles a little too brightly as she hands a plate and glass off to me. Salma Auntie hands hers to Kareem. “Maya, it’s such a beautiful day. Why don’t you show Kareem outside?”
“Excellent idea,” Salma Auntie says before I can answer. “I think I saw a picnic table out there.” She winks at my mom as if neither Kareem nor I are present.
The day is beautiful, so there’s no point in protesting. I lead Kareem out through the screen door into the yard, past my old wooden swing set (my parents insist on keeping it for posterity), to the weathered red picnic table underneath the weeping willow in the corner. On the plus side, the wide trunk and drooping branches completely shield us from the prying eyes of our parents.
“Alone at last,” Kareem says as we sit across from each other. He reaches over the table to stroke my arm.
“My dad painted the shed so it would look like a little barn. It’s the symbol of his American dream. Every lawn-cutting, hedge-trimming, barbecuing, suburban-dad device is in that shed. He’s totally obsessed with Home Depot.” I speak a mile a minute. My words are garbled; they bang and smash into each other.
Kareem smiles at me. I catch my breath for a second.
“He loves gadgets. He probably has gadgets that are supposed to make ice cream while they reseed the lawn. You should eat your food before it gets cold. My mom makes the best kheema parathas. Seriously.”
I tear off a section of the buttery warm bread, dip it in the chutney, and stuff my mouth while gesturing for Kareem to do the same. I want to make sure my mouth is full in case Kareem tries to ask me any questions.
Kareem sits back in his chair and smiles. “So … tomorrow is the big NYU reveal. I think it’s awesome. You’re carpe-ing your diem.”
I look up from my plate. I try to smile, but I’m afraid it comes off like a grimace. “Yup. I’ll be sucking the marrow out of life. Probably sucking hard.” I’m not surprised he brings it up; we’ve already talked about how I was dreading today. Of course, he doesn’t realize I have more than one truth to tell this weekend.
Kareem laughs. “Is this the appropriate time for a nihari joke?”
“Ugh. It’s never an appropriate time for a nihari joke. I had nightmares about sucking out the marrow from those bones.”
“What? Are you not a real Hyderabadi? Nihari is delicious.”
“Of course you loved it. That’s why you’re such a Thoreau pusher. You are what you eat.”
“You’ll be fine. Tell them straight up.”
“I was considering using the stomp-my-feet-and-hold-my breath technique. It proved highly effective when I was little.”
“By any means necessary?”
“Whatever gets me to New York.”
“Do you want me to put in a good word for you?” Kareem offers between bites of paratha. “I mean, I’m going to school in New Jersey, and I haven’t turned into my parents’ worst nightmare or anything.”
When I look at Kareem’s bright eyes, my hard candy coating gives way to my gooey inside. But it isn’t attraction; it’s because I feel sorry for what I’m about to do. I know Kareem is sincere and in this moment. I wish my heart would pound for him like it does for Phil. Life would be so much easier. I know that he’s a lot more than the suitable boy trifecta—Indian, Muslim, and from a good family. But I can’t fake it.
My mind time-travels to a future that will never happen, an alternate universe where I’m in love with Kareem. There are afternoons on the couch watching old Satyajit Ray movies, stuffing our faces with samosas. We share an unspoken understanding, two people from similar backgrounds raised in similar ways in America. I will never have to explain so many basic things to him. Explain why every adult is called auntie or uncle despite familial link (a sign of respect), why we always take off our shoes at the vestibule (we pray in the house, so the home is holy), or why the major Muslim holidays are on different days every year (Islam follows a lunar calendar). There will be a big wedding where Kareem rides in on a white horse and I will be garlanded in gold and roses and jasmine.
It’s beautiful and perfect, but I can’t fool myself. I don’t want it. My heart belongs to Phil, even if his heart belongs to Lisa.
“Still there?” Kareem interrupts my Walter Mitty moment.
I take a deep breath. Firmly seize one end of the imaginary bandage. Carpe diem. “Kareem. We need to talk.”
He straightens in his seat. His smile falters. “This can’t be good.”
I look down at the table and then up, past Kareem. My voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding horrible. I don’t like you the way you like me. It’s not because of anything you—”
“Do not say, ‘It’s not you; it’s me,’” he interrupts, but his tone is gentle. “That is too much of a cliché.”
“But it’s true. You’ve been so nice, and I enjoy talking to you, and I don’t want to hurt you …” The words catch in my throat, and tears well in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I should like you, but it’s that—”
Kareem half-laughs. “Maya, you can’t force yourself to be into someone. And we’ve only been on one date, so I get it. It’s not working for you. Plus, you know, I’d like to be adored for who I am.”
Why does he have to be so kind? Can’t he see that he’s just making it harder on me? I swallow hard. “Of … of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that … I was forcing myself. God. I’m doing a terrible job at this. I want to explain. I …” I want to run away. But there is no place to go where I won’t find myself.
Kareem stands up and walks over to my side of the table. He sits and puts his arm around me and draws me close to him. I sob into his chest. He caresses my hair and kisses the top of my head. I don’t deserve this kind of understanding, but I am grateful for it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay, Maya. As big as my ego is, this actually does seem to be about you and not me.”
I wipe away the salt and tears and mascara that ran down my face. “Oh, my God. I must look awesome right now.”
“You totally rock the raccoon eyes. Now, what’s bothering you?”
I sigh deeply. I want to tell him. Still, it is infinitely strange to talk to a guy you’ve made out with about a guy you want to make out with. But right now, at this picnic table with his arm still protectively around me, Kareem doesn’t feel like the former. He is the big brother who’d fight off the schoolyard bully for me.
So it comes tumbling out, the whole Phil story—the tutoring sessions and the pond and the cottage and almost kissing and Lisa and the anger. I tell him what I took forever to admit to myself, that Phil was my first real crush. That we’ve known each other forever. And it’s only now that I’ve realized that maybe, just maybe, Phil has been noticing me, too. Phil and I are totally different, but at the core, we share something that made the pond our little self-contained universe. And it was almost enough.
I take a deep breath. “It’s all such a mess. I don’t know how I let myself fall for Phil.”
“You can’t help who you love,” Kareem says, totally matter-of-fact.
I stiffen at the mention of the L-word. “Love?”
“Hate to break it to you, but that’s kinda what it sounds like.”
“I was afraid that’s what it was.”
“It’s not outside of you. It’s a part of who you are, not an object you can film and capture in different kinds of light. It’s love. If it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t hurt.”
“But I don’t want this. I don’t want to be … to be in love with him. I mean, we can never be together, and I’ll end up—”
“Brokenhearted? You’ll get over it.” He laughs softly. “Believe it or not, Maya, there are a few people who once felt exactly like you do right now.”
“Like their bodies are ripping apart?”
“Like the world is crumbling and their souls are being crushed.”
“Looking forward to the soul crushing.” I manage a grin.
“It isn’t a consolation, but I’d put the number at around a billion. And that’s just today. I’m not counting all of human history. Plenty of other people have survived heartbreak. Believe me, I know. And that’s why I know you’ll be fine. You’re graduating from high school; there are going to be plenty of other guys out there waiting—”
“To rip my heart out?”
He pulls back and tilts my chin up, so we’re face-to-face. “No. Waiting for a girl like you. And from what you’ve told me, I’d say you’re wrong about Phil. He seems into you.”
I’m at a loss. “You think so?”
Kareem lets my chin go and takes my left hand in his. “Let me give you the guy’s version of the situation. Phil likes you. He could’ve spent spring break having sex with his girlfriend, but instead he spent a week with you, where the main action was five minutes of G-rated hand-holding. Obviously, he’s got to break up with her, but he’s scared. You might have heard this before, but guys aren’t always the best communicators.”
“You’re pretty good at it.”
“Yes,” Kareem says, then leans back with both hands behind his head. “I am rather great, aren’t I?”
We burst out laughing. Then Kareem gets serious for a second. “It gets better, Maya. Even if the world seems to be crashing all around you right now.”
I sniff and nod. “Cue Bollywood dance number.”
He nods back, matching my smile. “At any moment dancers will unfurl from the tops of the willow’s boughs, lip-synching a reminder that the sun will shine again.”
I start to shake my head no. But the thing about what Kareem says is, right now, the sun is, in fact, shining. I’m not trapped. I’m still living in the world of the possible, and I actually have the power to make the possible real.
“So what are we going to tell our parents? I’m pretty sure my mom already has the wedding invitations picked out.” I ask because my mom’s disappointment isn’t merely possible; it’s assured.
“Really?” Kareem says dryly. “I hadn’t detected that enthusiasm behind her effusive welcome. Simple is best and most believable. We want to be friends. Boom. Done.”
“Wow. I’m … speechless.”
He winks at me. “Great communicators like me have that effect on most women.”
I have to laugh again. “Thank you for being so—so you. You’re amazing at it.” I dab at my eyes with a napkin. “Do I look all blubbery?”
“You look beautiful. Now shall we?”
Kareem stands up and stacks the cups and plates to carry inside. I find myself floating off again to another possible future, where Kareem is getting married but I am not the bride. I think of how that mystery woman will have Kareem’s caring arms around her and how he will gently kiss her lips and stroke her hair. For a moment I’m jealous of a future that another girl will have with the guy I rejected.
I sigh.
Apparently getting what you want still comes at a price.
The car idles. He runs his fingers rhythmically over the indentation on the back of his head. Buckle and scar.
His body sways gently, almost imperceptibly. Back and forth. Buckle and scar.
His mind slips to last fall and a writing course at the local community college.
He was filled with something vaguely resembling hope when he walked in and spotted a pretty, brown-haired girl in the third row with an empty seat next to her. He took a few hesitant steps toward her. When he reached down to pull back the empty seat, a hand grasped his shoulder from behind and pushed him aside.
Don’t even think about it, loser.
For the rest of the class, he sat in the back row, staring at the smiling couple. Seething.