Marc asked questions about the other kids in their grade, and Luca told him who was who. Eddie B. was a good soccer player and really funny. Alyssa D. was hot but really prude—that’s why he’d dumped her. “She thinks she’s great because her father owns a couple car washes, but he’s a freaking guido—just like my pops.”
“And what about her?” asked Marc, pointing at Sharon Nagorski.
Siddharth stared at Sharon, who was sitting at the loser table, the one with Bobby’s grandparents and siblings—the one where he would have had to sit just a couple of months earlier. Sharon was laughing at something Bobby’s older sister was saying. Her dimples made her look cute. Not pretty.
“That dog?” said Luca. “She’s the biggest tool in our school.”
“But those lips,” said Marc. “Those lips gotta be good for something.”
Siddharth forced himself to laugh, slapping his knee as he chuckled. He pretended that he was still following Marc and Luca’s conversation, but in actuality he continued to watch Sharon out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing boyish jeans and a gray full-sleeve T-shirt. Her dirty blond hair looked particularly plain and stringy, as if she hadn’t washed it in a couple days. All of a sudden, she got up and walked toward the bathroom. He wondered if she knew they’d been talking about her. He wondered if he should get up too—if he should wait for her by the cigarette machines and have a talk with her. He wouldn’t say sorry. Just hello. They could start being friendly to each other, if not friends. Then he recalled something Sharon had once said about one of his drawings.
The previous year, she had said that a woman Siddharth had drawn—the singer from one of her stories—looked like his mother. Siddharth had grabbed his picture back and realized Sharon was right. The woman’s nose was hooked like a bird’s beak, just like his mother’s. The woman was wearing a string of black beads around her neck, like his mom used to do. And she had a large mole on her neck, just like his mother’s mole. Sharon said, “Relax, Siddharth. It was a compliment. You know, my mom always said your mother was beautiful.” Siddharth erupted. He told her that she needed to learn how to shut up. He told her that Luca was right—she could be a real loser when she wanted to. Sharon said, “I may be a loser, but at least I’m not an asshole.” The next day, he couldn’t go to school because he had a fever, and his father had to cancel his classes in order to care for him.
Luca said something and Marc laughed. Siddharth laughed too, even though he didn’t know what they were talking about. He dipped a fry in some ketchup and stuffed it into his mouth. He knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t talk to Sharon. They were never even supposed to be friends in the first place. And as Arjun said, things happened for a reason. If he hadn’t fallen out with Sharon, he never would have gone to karate. If he hadn’t gone to karate, he never would have become friends with Marc. This line of thinking soothed him for a second. But if life really worked that way, what did this mean about his mother? Had she died for a reason? In that moment, he could see the mole on her neck so clearly. It used to fascinate him. He used to flick it sometimes, as if it were a toy. He felt a surge of loathing for his own achy neck. It was all healthy and fine while hers had been mangled and broken.
He heard fingers snap by his left ear. He looked over to find Marc squinting at him. “Yo, where the fuck are you, homey?”
“Me?” Siddharth licked his lips. “I barely slept last night.”
Luca said, “I bet he was up late petting his pussy.”
“Screw you, Luca,” said Siddharth. “I was up petting your mom’s pussy.”
Marc cracked up, and whacked him on the back. Siddharth pretended that it didn’t hurt.
* * *
After lunch, the trio ambled through the room with the air hockey and pool tables toward the one with the Skee-Ball machines. Beside these machines was a glass counter containing prizes—cap guns, candy bars, and key chains with pictures of marijuana leaves and sunbathing models, all of which were up for grabs if you could win enough tickets playing Skee-Ball. Luca explained that he knew a way to get thousands of tickets for free. There was a button on the back of the machines, and if you held it down, they kept on spitting out balls, even if you didn’t put in any tokens.
“So that’s free balls,” said Siddharth. “Not tickets.”
“No shit, Sherlock. But if you go back there and press the button, I’ll stuff the balls right into the bull’s-eye. All Marc’s gotta do is keep a lookout.”
“But who’s gonna grab the tickets?” asked Siddharth, already sweating.
“Me,” said Marc.
“Guys, this sounds stupid,” said Siddharth.
“You’re right,” said Marc. “But it just might work. Sid, you’re small. Crawl back there and check it out.”
Sighing, Siddharth crouched down and headed behind the machine on all fours. The carpet was smelly and moist, but he found a red plastic button and pressed it down. A bell sounded, and he heard a set of Skee-Balls descend and clack against each other.
“Sweet, Sidney,” said Marc. “Nice work.”
Siddharth was slightly trembling, but he cracked a smile. He liked when Marc used this moniker.
“Grab ’em,” said Luca. “Grab the fucking tickets.”
“I got it, I got it,” said Marc.
“Siddharth, press it again,” said Luca. “Keep on pressing it until I tell you to stop.”
Siddharth remained crouched in the corner and did as he was told, but then he heard a voice—a new voice.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The voice was deep. Pissed off.
Siddharth gritted his teeth. He pressed his hot face into the cold steel of the machine.
Marc told the man that the machine had eaten their tokens and they were trying to fix it, but the man said they were going to have to come with him. Siddharth’s whole body felt heavy, as if mud were running through his veins.
“You little shit!” the man suddenly yelled. “That freaking hurt!”
“Run, Sid!” said Marc. “Get the fuck outta there.”
Siddharth crawled out and saw a tall, bearded man limping around in a circle. Marc and Luca were charging toward the pool tables, and Siddharth sprinted to catch up with them. They reached a stairwell and descended one flight, then burst through a set of emergency doors leading to the parking lot.
Siddharth had to shield his eyes from the sun. Marc grabbed his sleeve, and they started running even faster. They fled across Amity Road, taking refuge behind a Luciani Carting dumpster in the parking lot behind a Greek diner. They were all panting, and Siddharth’s brain was pounding against his skull.
“That was freaking awesome,” said Luca. “You missed it, Sidney. He wrecked that guy. He fucking wasted him.”
“I had no choice,” said Marc. “He was all grabbing me and shit.”
Marc looked at Siddharth, who in turn looked down at his fake Keds. He thought about Mr. Stone, their karate teacher. He would have been disappointed. Arjun would have been disappointed too, but he didn’t know about Marc’s good sides.
“Let’s go to Wendy’s,” said Marc. “Call your dad from there, Sid. It’ll be safer.”
“Screw that,” said Luca. “My moms’ll be here in, like, ten. She can take you home. Wait, there she is right now.” He pointed to the busy road. “That’s her shitter, right there at the traffic light.”
* * *
Mrs. Peroti’s station wagon had wooden paneling on its exterior and smelled like an ashtray inside. Luca sat shotgun, and Siddharth sat next to Luca’s little brother, who was sucking on his fingers.
“What the heck’s going on here?” asked Mrs. Peroti.
“Just step on it,” said Luca. “Get the hell out of here, Ma.”
Mrs. Peroti pulled out of the parking lot. “And who are they?”
“My friends,” said Luca. “We gotta take ’em home.”
“Hi, friends.” She had a strawberry-blond perm. “Something’s wrong here, and I’m gonna find o
ut what. You I know,” she said to Siddharth. “But who are you?”
“I’m Marc. Nice to meet you.”
“Marc who?”
“Marc Kaufman.”
“Never heard of you.”
“My mother’s Rachel Farber.”
“You mean the psychologist?”
“Yup.”
“Oh.”
Siddharth detected some sort of secret meaning in her tone—like she looked down upon Ms. Farber or something.
As Marc gave Mrs. Peroti directions, Siddharth’s whole body continued to throb. But he didn’t feel entirely rotten. A part of him was exhilarated. A part of him was numb. He noticed that Luca’s little brother was staring at him; the kid’s eyes were bright blue and strangely large.
“Hello,” said Siddharth.
The kid just giggled. He started making a buzzing sound with his lips, and little drops of spittle landed on Siddharth.
“Danny,” yelled Luca, “quit it or I’ll knock you out!”
“Don’t talk to him like that,” said Mrs. Peroti.
“Just ignore my brother,” said Luca. “He’s a ’tard.”
Mrs. Peroti gave Luca a hard slap on the back of the head, and he stuck his hand out the window and flashed his middle finger at the passing cars.
When they pulled into Marc’s driveway, Siddharth saw his father’s minivan parked underneath the hoop. He and Marc said thanks and headed to the front door.
“Yo, what’s up with your friend?” Marc asked.
“Luca? He’s okay sometimes.”
“Okay? He’s a total lunatic.”
“Yeah, he’s freaking nuts.”
The door wouldn’t open, so Marc rang the bell.
Mrs. Peroti rolled down her window. “You can come home with us if nobody’s home.”
“Oh, they’re definitely home,” Marc called back to her. “Thanks though.” He pounded on the door.
The Perotis reversed out of the driveway. A few moments later, Siddharth heard the sound of footsteps. When the door swung open, he couldn’t help but frown. His father was standing there, but he didn’t look right. His hair was out of place, and his face was sweaty.
“I told you to call,” said Mohan Lal.
Marc walked inside and tugged at Mohan Lal’s checkered shirt, which was untucked in the back. “I love the look, Dr. A. Very gangsta.”
Mohan Lal smiled and patted Marc’s arm.
Siddharth clenched his jaw and squeezed his temples. “Jesus, Dad, tuck in your damn shirt.”
Ms. Farber emerged from her bedroom with her hair wrapped in a towel. “Oh, boys,” she said. “How was the party?”
“A real blast,” replied Marc.
Siddharth wanted to say something. He wanted to say, The party was fine, but what the fuck were you two doing? Yet he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. He sat down on the sofa, took several deep breaths, and forced himself to think positive thoughts. It only looked like something weird was going on, but everything was actually fine. Mohan Lal had probably forgotten to tuck in his shirt after taking a shit. He’d probably gotten all sweaty because they’d taken a long walk.
Ms. Farber walked up to Mohan Lal and kissed him on the shoulder. “Marc, what did we say about sarcasm?” She removed a carton of milk from the fridge. “Boys, we could do a movie tonight. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Mom,” said Marc, “Dad’s gonna be here in an hour.”
She served the boys milk. “What about you two? What do you think, Mohan?”
Siddharth glared at his father.
Mohan Lal said, “We should go home, Rachel.”
“Home?” she said. “Why home?”
Siddharth needed to do something. “Dad, what about the epilogue? I thought you wanted to get started on your epilogue.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Mohan Lal. “This book won’t write itself. And then there’s piles and piles of grading.”
4
Prince Siddharth
After the Pledge of Allegiance two days later, Mr. Latella said that the class would be reading Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper, passing out a copy of the book to each student. “These books stay here,” he instructed. “Bring ’em home at your own peril.”
Siddharth wrote his name inside the cover, where ten years of students had done the same thing. One of them was Brad Horowitz, who Arjun had been friends with in high school. Leafing through the novel, he realized that it was an illustrated and abridged edition. He was sick of this kiddie crap. He began drawing a caricature of his teacher on a loose sheet of paper.
Mr. Latella asked the kids to define the words in the novel’s title. Megan S. raised her hand, explaining that a pauper was someone who experienced hardship. The teacher gave her a high five, then said, “But what about prince, guys?”
“Duh,” said Luca. “We’re not, like, five.”
“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants,” said Mr. Latella. “Tell us what it means then.”
“A prince?” Luca snorted. “He’s, like, the son of a queen.”
“But what’s a queen? Words that seem easy can actually be pretty tough.”
Siddharth focused on his drawing, penciling in the man’s hefty torso. He drew the little horse that was stitched into the breast of his short-sleeve shirt. It wasn’t a real Polo horse, but one with wings, which reinforced the fact that Mr. Latella was lame.
The teacher clicked his tongue. “Come on, guys, what’s a prince? This is baby stuff.”
“Yo,” said Luca, “why don’t you ask Siddharth?”
“Luca, let’s quit while we’re ahead,” said Mr. Latella.
“I’m serious,” said Luca. “He should know.”
“And you shouldn’t?”
“Well, I’m not, like, royalty.”
A few sets of eyes turned to Siddharth. He put down his yellow pencil and turned to Luca, who separated his lips and flicked out his tongue. Siddharth had no idea where this was going, though he knew it wouldn’t end well. He had hoped that things would change between him and Luca after Bobby’s party, but the kid had barely glanced in his direction since Sunday.
Mr. Latella slammed his chalk down on the ledge of the blackboard, generating a tiny cloud of dust. “Can you keep your mouth shut, Mr. Peroti?”
“I didn’t even do anything,” said Luca, throwing his hands in the air.
Mr. Latella’s forehead went red. “You’re a real wise guy, Luca. You know that?”
“But I’m not kidding. Just ask him. Ask Siddharth.”
“You’re gonna be sorry, Luca.”
“Hit me,” said Luca. “I’ll sue.”
Mr. Latella walked over to Siddharth and thumped his hand down on his desk.
Siddharth winced. He placed his wrists over his drawing and stared at them in anticipation of what would follow.
“So, Siddharth,” said Mr. Latella, “your new friend back there is making some claims about you. He’s saying something about your family. Are you gonna sit there and let him do that? Isn’t there something you wanna say to him?”
“Tell him,” said Luca.
Siddharth took a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on his desk. He reread the words a previous occupant had etched into it: Kiss Rules. His brother used to like Kiss. He wished Arjun would barge into the room at that very moment and save him.
“Siddharth, you need to look at me when I’m talking to you.”
He met his teacher’s angry eyes, green slits in his pudgy, bearded face. “What do you want?”
“What do I want? I want to be able to move on with class, if that’s not too much to ask.”
Each student was now looking at him, and his face burned.
“So?” said the teacher.
Siddharth turned toward the window. It didn’t matter that a hard rain was falling, or that water had turned the asphalt paths into little rivers—he would rather have been outside getting drenched.
“You want me to wait all day?” said Mr. Latella. He pla
ced a hand on one of his flabby hips. “Because I can, you know.”
Siddharth put his pencil in his mouth and started chewing it, keeping his eyes fixed on the rain. “My great-grandfather . . .” He peeked down to make sure his rendition of his teacher’s bulbous gut was still obscured by his arms. “Well, my dad . . . he says my great-grandfather was royalty.”
“I can’t hear you with that pencil in your mouth. Lead poisoning is a serious thing, you know.”
He removed the pencil. “My great-grandfather was royalty, but that was a real long time ago.”
“Is this some kind of joke? Did you and Luca plan this or something?”
Siddharth shook his head, and his teacher wheezed deeply.
“You’re telling me you’re serious?” said Mr. Latella.
“I told you so,” said Luca.
Mr. Latella shifted his weight to his other leg, and his stomach jiggled. “So what? He was, like, a maharaja or something?”
“He was a prince,” said Siddharth.
“A prince?” Mr. Latella gripped his beard. “Wait, was he, like, nobility?” His eyes suddenly widened. “Was he English?”
The next sentences came out before Siddharth could pause to consider them. “My great-grandfather went to study in England—at Oxford. That’s a famous college.”
“Thanks, I know what Oxford is.”
“He married this, uh, woman there—my great-grandmother—and she was, like, a real distant relative of the king.”
“Which king?”
“King George.”
“How distant?”
“I don’t know. The king and my great-grandmother were fifth cousins or something.”
“Really?” Mr. Latella put his foot on an empty seat, and the keys on his belt loop jingled. He stared into the air and smiled. “You know, I always wondered if you were mixed.”
The teacher’s words made Siddharth feel bolder. “That’s why my skin’s light. And my eyes—in the right light, they have little flecks of green in them.”
“Go figure,” Mr. Latella snickered. “Your great-grandmother was British nobility.”
Siddharth nodded. In that moment, the lie he had told felt right. It didn’t feel like a lie.
South Haven Page 13