Best Debut Short Stories 2021

by Yuka Igarashi

  In the schoolyard, where all the students collected in the morning before being funneled to their classrooms, Mandy retrieved her markers and the drawing of Momoko from her backpack to add a few details to her outfit. A small crowd formed around her to watch.

  One girl inquired, “Is that you?” and Mandy didn’t know how to answer.

  A nasally voice blurted, “She looks like a lesbian,” and Mandy huffed defensively, “She’s not even!”

  Then, Mandy heard Chase’s voice from behind her, “She’s pretty. Can I have her?”

  She answered coolly, “Okay, when I’m done with it.” Her name is Momoko, but you can call me Momo.

  Some time that afternoon, during the purgatory between recess and the bell ending the school day, Mandy asked for the bathroom pass and left the classroom with a pad tucked into the pocket of her hoodie. First she went inside the middle stall and peed. She took the pad out of its pastel yellow wrapping and peeled off the small sheets of plastic covering the wings, then wrapped them around the crotch of her panties. She washed her hands, then studied her face in the mirror. She gathered her coarse black hair into a ponytail, then nudged out two strands at the front, one framing each side of her face, hanging like garter snakes.

  Qianze Zhang is a multidisciplinary artist working across painting, writing, and digital media. She studied computer science and fine arts at the University of Southern California. She is a child of Chinese immigrants and lives in Washington State. Currently, she’s interested in how the information age uniquely mutates memory and complicates coming-of-age narratives.

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  An earlier version of “Taxi” made it to the final round of consideration for publication. I was impressed with the economy of the writing and the honesty of the narrative voice. The characters were convincing and fresh. These were characters on the margin, struggling to survive, characters that do not often appear in the stories we receive: an unlicensed taxi driver putting himself through school, a woman and her young son trying to get to a fast-food restaurant. The characters and the situation intrigued me, but in the final analysis the story was not quite where it needed to be or as good as it could be.

  A year later, I was pleased to see the story reappear among the submissions. I was even more pleased with the revision. The author had revised the story, addressing my concerns with the ending. This revised version was accepted for publication and it was one of our nominations for the Pushcart Prize. The boy’s jacket, which in the first draft had seemed inconsequential, emerged as an element central to this quietly haunting story. The story reveals the dignity and humanity of people struggling to survive, and like all great stories it retains a sense of mystery that extends beyond these few pages.

  I am always thrilled to publish a writer for the first time, particularly those writers who continue to write and publish well. Pardeep Toor is one of those writers from whom I expect we will hear more in the future. I look forward to reading more of his work.

  Christopher Chambers, Editor

  Midwest Review

  TAXI

  Pardeep Toor

  HANS PARKED THE yellow cab in front of a lime green house near the central part of the city, amid the cheaply constructed square municipal buildings. He fumbled with the lever to adjust the seat. He pushed forward, backward, and then forward again until he felt comfortable with the space between his knees and the steering wheel. He put both his hands on the steering wheel and pretended to drive.

  Hans didn’t own the cab. He had borrowed it from his friend Kanti. Hans and Kanti had gone to high school together. Kanti’s dad gave him the yellow cab after he dropped out of high school. Hans drove the cab during weekday mornings and afternoons. Kanti preferred nights and weekends when business was best. Kanti left the car in the school parking lot every morning before teachers, secretaries, or anyone who could recognize him arrived. He left the keys under the driver’s seat mat. Hans attended algebra class at nine in the morning, but then skipped English at ten. He didn’t read well enough to understand or discuss the stories in class so he preferred to drive the taxi for an hour every morning. Hans returned to school in the afternoon for gym class.

  Hans looked at the house. There were two large windows on either side of the door. A red light shined through the holes in the brown curtain on one of the windows. Cracks in the other window resembled a spider’s web. The front door opened. The windows shook when it slammed shut. A woman stepped out of the house clutching a young boy by the hood of his navy blue bubble jacket. She pulled the hood for balance. The boy’s head jerked back in her grasp with each step but his eyes remained focused on the icy asphalt in front of them. She hesitated down the stairs, especially the bottom wooden plank that was propped up with crumbling bricks. The path from their front door to the cab was muddled with slush and small piles of dirty snow.

  The woman fell into the cab as she reached for the door. She pulled the handle. The door didn’t open. Hans’s shoulder cracked when he reached for the lock. The woman slapped the rear window. Hans lifted the lock up. The woman pulled the door open and stepped back a few steps. The boy ducked and spun in a circle to free himself from the woman.

  “Get over here,” the woman said. The boy’s tiny hand grazed the hood of the cab as he ran to the passenger-side door. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the window, so he knocked on the door.

  “Open up, mister,” the boy said.

  Hans unlocked the door. The boy jumped into the car.

  “Get in the back with me,” the woman said.

  The woman struggled to place herself in the back seat. She dove into the car headfirst. Her baseball cap fell as she first sprawled across the seat on her stomach before dragging her feet in. She pushed herself up off the seat. She adjusted her bleached jeans at the knees before sitting upright. She put her hat back on. Her stringy hair protruded from the rim of the hat and matted her bangs over her forehead.

  “I’m fine up here, Mom. Mister doesn’t mind,” the boy said.

  “I don’t mind,” Hans said.

  The woman reached over the front passenger seat to buckle her son’s seat belt. Her eyes were red, and an odorous cloud engulfed Hans with familiarity and disgust. The odor, her unsteady hand, anxious fingers, and scars on her cheeks evoked nostalgia in Hans.

  “Where can I take you on this wonderful Tuesday morning?” Hans said, in accordance with the script Kanti provided him. He made eye contact with the woman through the rearview mirror.

  “Where do you want to go?” the woman said, poking the boy in the arm.

  “Burger World,” he said.

  “Not Burger World,” she said. “Let’s go to Joe’s Tacos.”

  “But I want Burger World.”

  “But Mom wants tacos so we’re going to Joe’s,” the woman said.

  Hans glanced at the boy and then the woman.

  “So?” Hans said.

  “You do what I say and I say Joe’s,” the woman said.

  Hans looked at the boy one more time.

  “Why are you looking at him? I’m the one paying you.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Hans said.

  Hans started the meter and shifted the car into drive. The boy pulled out a plastic handheld game from his jacket pocket, a maze with a small silver marble inside. He gently maneuvered his hands to guide the marble to the hole in the center.

  Hans stopped at a red light.

  “Can I smoke in the car?” the woman said.

  “No problem,” Hans said.

  Hans had smoked his last cigarette the previous summer on a riverbank, about twenty miles west of the city. Kanti took him there for a vacation day. They smoked together with their feet in the cold river water. Even in the summer the river was cold. Hans remembered the taste in his mouth from the last cigarette. He had accidentally put the lit side in his mouth. The butt left a permanent burn mark on the inside of his lips. It was the last time he had smoked or visited the river.

  Hans turned
to the boy, who didn’t look up from his pocket game.

  “Do you have a light?” the woman said.

  Hans pretended to check his pockets. He opened the glove compartment in front of the boy’s feet and tried to quickly close it before the empty candy wrappers fell out. A book fell at the boy’s feet. The boy picked it up. On the cover was an illustration of a man and a woman, their bodies entangled. The title of the book was Pleasurable Positions. Hans grabbed the book and put it under his thigh. Hans looked back at the woman. She kicked Hans’s seat while shuffling her legs side to side. Hans searched the compartment underneath the radio but couldn’t find a lighter.

  “I don’t have one,” Hans said. “I don’t smoke anymore.”

  “Why did you stop smoking?” the boy said.

  “Health reasons,” Hans said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my health,” the woman said.

  The boy put the handheld game in his pocket and wiped his nose with his jacket sleeve. His shirt was too small for him. His wrists were exposed to the cold. His pants were stained with mud at the knees and around the ankles. Hans turned the heat up.

  “Pull over here at Mario’s store. I need a lighter,” the woman said.

  “Where?”

  “Mario’s. Right here. You’re passing it. Turn,” the woman said.

  The car slid on the ice as Hans stopped in the middle turning lane. He looked in both directions but didn’t see Mario’s. Cars honked at him from both directions.

  “Mario’s is on the next block, Mom,” the boy said. “Keep going, mister.”

  The woman leaned forward in her seat. She placed a cigarette in her mouth and twirled another one in her fingers. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that again,” she said.

  “I didn’t say anything,” the boy said.

  “Like that. Just like that. Don’t do it.”

  Hans inhaled the anticipated stench from the burning cigarette. He swallowed his built-up saliva and began to whistle in the car to mimic the act of blowing smoke through his lips. He merged with traffic and drove slowly to the next block.

  “Did you use the patch, mister?” the boy said.

  “What?” Hans said.

  “The cigarette patch. To quit smoking.”

  “No, I quit on my own,” Hans said. “My sister helped me. She rubbed my legs with oils all night when I was in withdrawal.”

  “Why doesn’t your sister help us, Mom?” the boy said.

  “We don’t need anyone’s help,” she said.

  “They might have a lighter over there,” Hans said. He pointed to a store at the corner of the next intersection. The building’s white side panels were stained with streaks of rust from the leaking gutters. A small handwritten sign in the window said DOLLAR PALACE.

  “That’s Mario’s,” the woman said.

  “It says Dollar Palace,” Hans said.

  “It’s Mario’s,” the boy said.

  The woman opened the car door before Hans finished parking and stepped into a puddle. She knocked on Hans’s window. He rolled it down.

  “Do you want something? A bag of chips?” she said.

  “No, thank you,” Hans said. Kanti had instructed him to never accept anything from customers.

  “Can I get a bag of chips?” the boy said.

  “Do you have any money?”

  “No,” the boy said.

  “Then the answer is no.”

  “The meter is running,” Hans called after the woman as she walked away from the car.

  Hans looked at the boy. The boy stared back.

  “What’s in that book?” the boy said.

  “What book?”

  “The one under your leg.”

  “It’s not mine. It’s my partner Kanti’s.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know,” Hans said.

  “Is it sex?”

  Hans shrugged.

  “My brother told me about that stuff,” the boy said.

  “I haven’t read it,” Hans said.

  “You’re lying.”

  “How do you know?” Hans said.

  “My mom is a liar. I know liars.”

  Hans reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. “Here, go get yourself a bag of chips.”

  The boy took the dollar and opened the door. He threw his jacket on the seat and sprinted into Mario’s. Hans felt sorry for the boy. He was a child. He was hungry. Hans hit the buttons on the meter to try to stop the red analog numbers from ticking up but the meter couldn’t be paused. Hans turned on the radio, scanned the stations, and then turned it off. Feeling claustrophobic, he rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and took a deep breath. The wind stung his gums and cheeks. The cab smelled like cigarette smoke. He searched for an air freshener under the seat but couldn’t find one. He scanned the cover of the book and then put it back in the glove compartment. Hans rested his head on his window and tapped his feet to the music that was no longer playing. The salt and slush under his shoes swished from one side of the mat to the other. The door to Mario’s opened and closed several times but the woman and boy were nowhere to be seen. He saw more people exit Mario’s than he’d seen enter.

  Hans lifted the boy’s jacket off the seat. It reeked of smoke. He put it down. He picked it up again. He closed his eyes and looked away from the jacket as he squeezed it in his hand. The fabric made a squishing noise in his fist. He looked at the door to Mario’s again. He lowered himself in his seat and pulled the jacket to his face. Hans inhaled the burnt smoky smell. He swirled his tongue on the inner fleece lining of the jacket. The putrid smell and taste of the fabric invigorated him, like a cup of coffee in the morning.

  Hans’s chest shook. He sat up and saw the door to Mario’s open. The woman and the boy were yelling at each other. Each carried a small bag of chips. Hans stuffed the jacket in the glove compartment on top of the sex book.

  The woman and the boy got back into the car. “Off to Burger World now,” the woman said.

  Hans waited for their doors to close. “I thought we were going to Joe’s Tacos,” Hans said.

  “I want Burger World,” the woman said. She held a cigarette in her lips and rolled down her window.

  “You said Joe’s before,” the boy said.

  “What did I tell you about talking back to me?”

  “You said Joe’s.”

  “I said Burger World,” the woman said.

  “Burger World then?” Hans said.

  “I guess,” the boy said.

  The woman shifted forward to the edge of the seat until she was face-to-face with the boy. She grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt. “I warned you about this,” she said. “I warned you about talking so much.” She let go of his shirt and slapped his chest softly three times.

  “Turn this car around right now,” she said to Hans. “We’re going home.”

  “Mom, I didn’t say anything,” the boy said.

  Hans looked down to see a cigarette in the cup holder between the two front seats. It must have fallen out of her mouth.

  “We’re going home,” she said.

  “Mom, please.”

  “Home.”

  Hans put the car in drive and headed toward the green house. The boy put his head in his hands.

  “Don’t cry,” the woman said.

  “I’m not crying.”

  “I didn’t teach you to cry.”

  “You always do this.”

  “Do what?” the woman said. “What am I doing?”

  “Nothing,” the boy said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. Hans sped up at yellow lights and rolled through stop signs. He parked in front of the house and stopped the meter. “I didn’t tell you to stop that meter,” the woman said.

  “We’re home,” Hans said.

  “You wait here. Keep that meter going.”

  The woman and the boy exited the car and silently walked into the ho
use. Hans gently picked up the cigarette from the cup holder. He was careful not to squeeze it between his thumb and index finger. The integrity of the shape was important. He examined it carefully from all angles. He sniffed it from one side to the other. He placed it in the glove compartment, beside the boy’s jacket. He licked his thumb and index finger. The taste of tobacco made him salivate. The woman and boy stepped out of the house. They both got in the back seat this time.

  Hans looked at himself in the rearview mirror. His cheeks were red. Flakes of dry skin smothered his chin. He looked at the boy.

  “We decided on Waffle Place,” the woman said.

  “I’m getting the Mega Meal,” the boy said.

  Hans began driving toward Waffle Place. It was on the other side of town, in the opposite direction of Joe’s Tacos and Burger World. He was going to be late for gym class.

  Hans looked in the rearview mirror. The woman and the boy were cuddled up together. The boy smiled each time the woman tickled his arm. Hans turned on the radio. The boy stood in his seat and started dancing to the song.

  “Put your seat belt on,” the woman said. She pulled the boy closer and sat him down in the seat. She buckled the middle seat belt around his waist and put her arms around his shoulders. Her fingers tapped his elbow to the rhythm of the song.

  Hans stopped at a red light, two blocks short of Waffle Place.

  “Are you okay with the temperature?” Hans said.

  “I’m cold,” the boy said.

  Hans directed the vents toward them and turned up the heat.

  “It will take a minute,” Hans said.

  “Where’s your jacket?” the woman said.

  The boy clutched his arms. “I don’t know,” he said.

  The woman leaned forward and felt around the front seat.

  “What’s wrong?” Hans said.

  “Have you seen his jacket?” the woman said.