Sunday night. I’m uploading shots from the weekend onto my Instagram: the crabapple trees where I kissed Kareem (nearly stripped bare after the rain), a cat tucked behind a bush, Hina’s collection of silk patchwork pillows. I check Violet’s account and see she’s taken France by storm: religieuse pastries, macarons, rainy cobblestone streets, angled Eiffel Tower shots, and a selfie with a mystery guy kissing her cheek. For once, I feel unfettered happiness for her without a touch of envy. There will be stories. But this time, I might have one or two of my own to add.
A chat bubble pops up on my screen. Phil.
Phil: Hey. How was your weekend?
Me: Rainy, but I loved hanging with my aunt.
Phil: Tomorrow is going to be warm and sunny. Perfect for swimming.
Me: Is it wrong that I’m hoping for a freak snowstorm?
Phil: Bwahahaha. You’ll love it. We’re still a go, right?
Guilt washes away any excitement.
I gave my mom a G-rated report on my date with Kareem. I wonder what Hina told her. She has not stopped talking about Kareem and his proper Indian manners since I got home. To my relief—and at my insistence—he promised not to ask my parents’ permission for any future dates. Best to take my mother out of the equation. But that’s also the trouble: The Future. I committed to seeing Kareem again. And I do want to see him. But I also wonder if I’ll be picturing Phil while Kareem kisses me again. It’s pretty crappy, especially for Kareem. Maybe not so much for me.
Phil: Are you ghosting me?
Me: Sorry. I spaced for a second.
Phil: No worries. So yes or no?
Me: Where will these swimming miracles occur?
Phil: It’s a secret.
Me: A secret?? Nooooo. Tell me.
Phil: Trust me.
I pull my hands away from my keyboard. Take the leap of faith, Maya. Suck the marrow out of life.
Me: Fine.
Phil: I’ll pick you up at 11. Swimsuit optional.
Me: Haha.
I should be thrilled, but I imagine I’ll either sink like a stone or flail like a clown. In front of Phil. It’s impossible to be cute or aloof while thrashing around in abject fear of drowning. But I don’t need to be cute or aloof, do I? Phil still has a girlfriend. There is no doubt about this. I wanted there to be doubt; I admit it. But Violet and I literally ran into the depressing, irrefutable PG-rated evidence of Phil and Lisa’s still-kissing coupledom.
I can’t imagine how Lisa will feel about these secret swimming lessons. Phil would be an idiot to tell her, even if all our interactions are G-rated. Another wave of guilt crashes into me, but it doesn’t knock me over.
I walk over to my dresser and dig out the red bikini Violet compelled me to buy. She sees these swimming lessons as my opportunity to nudge Lisa out of the way and assume my rightful place on Phil’s arm. She also knows about Kareem, of course. She is thrilled at how romantically frazzled this situation makes me. She lives for this stuff.
Damm it. I need to wax. Fortunately, almost any household with an Indian woman is well stocked with depilation products.
Big surprise: My mom’s never once spoken to me about sex. She’s never even uttered the word, but she’s covered all the bases regarding ablution, hair removal, and the power of kajal—the black sooty eyeliner favored by generations of South Asian women. During our first kajal demonstration, I poked myself in the eye. Mom heaved the dramatic sigh of a mother from an Indian movie whose daughter desires to marry a simple peasant instead of the rich, suitable suitor. You cannot mess with her kajal.
It’s only 9 P.M., but I’m exhausted.
As I climb into bed, my mom knocks on the door. Naturally, she barges in before I can respond. “See, I knocked,” she says.
“But you didn’t wait for me to—”
“Why are you always making things difficult, Maya?” she interrupts. “I’m your mother. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”
The irony makes me squirm.
“What do you want, Mother?” I groan.
My mom isn’t always the best at picking up on my subtleties, but she knows that “mother” equals annoyed. “Mom” is for regular days, and the Urdu “ummi” for increasingly rare moments of filial affection.
She sits on the edge of my bed. “No need to be so upset, beta.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t stand when you and Dad treat me like a child.”
“But you are our child.” Her voice catches. “You always will be, even when you have children of your own.”
My mom’s eyes moisten; I quickly turn away. I’m never quite sure what to do in these uncomfortable moments, so usually I pretend they aren’t happening.
“I knooow, Mom, but can you please give me my privacy?”
She sniffs. “I just wanted to ask if Kareem called you today.”
“Mom.”
“Can’t a mother ask a simple question?”
“Not if it’s a nosy one. I already told you everything, anyway. Dinner was nice. He was nice.”
“And?”
“That’s it. End of story. We didn’t secretly get engaged or anything.”
My mom tilts her head to the ceiling and raises her hands to prayer position. This is her being sarcastic. But also totally serious. “I just don’t want you to end up alone.”
“I’m in high school, Mom. In the twenty-first century. I don’t have to get married by the time I’m twenty-two or risk becoming an old maid.”
“Aarraaayy, beta. Who is saying anything about marriage? We want you to finish your studies. But I was married when I was only a few years older than you.”
Classic Mom again: I’m not saying you should follow my precise example, but of course I really am. I have to laugh. “And you had a love marriage that Dad’s parents didn’t exactly approve of, right?”
She gives me a sharp look. “Listen to you. We raised you with too much American independence. Talking back to your elders. And all this privacy business. Who needs privacy from their parents?”
The best way to get out of this conversation is to keep my mouth shut. I totally know this, yet apparently I prefer to bang my head against the wall over and over because I think arguing can change my mother’s mind. Note to self: It can’t. It never has.
“Please. All I’m asking is that you give me a little space. If Kareem and I decide to get married, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
My mom stands and shakes her head. “We should have sent you to a boarding school in India. Then you would have learned to be a good daughter, not like these ungrateful girls here who can’t cook and don’t know how to show proper respect to their parents. Some even marry white American boys.”
She means boys like Phil. Boys you secretly tutor and meet for surreptitious swimming lessons. Shiny eyed, beautiful boys that can pull you in the wrong direction.
I fake a huge yawn. “Can you continue your marriage pep talk another day? I swear I won’t run off and marry a heathen tonight.”
She heads toward the door. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
My pulse quickens as I make up an alibi. “Sleep in. Then maybe go to a movie or the mall if any of my friends are around. When is your last appointment?”
“Your dad scheduled a root canal at 5 P.M., so we won’t be home until later.”
“Okay. Khudafis. Have a good day at work in case I don’t see you in the morning.”
“Khudafis, beta.” My mom tosses me a final wan smile— I love you, but I remain disappointed—and shuts the door. I settle beneath the covers. If I ever direct a retro-Bollywood melodrama, my mother will be the star.
The guard straightens the back of his navy blue baseball cap with his left hand, curving the bill with his right. Stitched in bold white letters on the front is SECURITY, but the cap’s newness screams ROOKIE.
He is younger than most of the other men on the crew. Eager to prove his seriousness, he rarely betrays any emotion. He chomps rhythmically on his gum. But this morning the new teacher at the day care smiles at him, and he smiles back.
Security. Safety. She feels safe here, thanks to him.
The sun shines like it’s summer.
It is a good day.