by Sonia Patel
He’s stalling.
Omar’s usually not one to stall. Now I’m really curious. I take a sip of the sugary, syrupy juice. “What’s up, Omar?” I tilt my head sideways to try and meet his downturned eyes.
He jerks his head up, stomps both his feet, and slaps his hands on his thighs, as if my words are a drill sergeant’s command to sit at attention. Then he blurts out something that doesn’t quite register the first time.
“It’s your parents.”
“What?”
“Your parents. They were having a huge fight at the restaurant.”
I scrunch my face and wait for his account.
“I was on my way to check our P.O. box for a letter from my dad. I got near the restaurant and heard shouting. I went to check it out. Your mom was crying and yelling at your dad. She was screaming in Indian so I couldn’t understand. Your dad was standing there. He looked pissed. Then your mom sunk to her knees and grabbed onto his pant legs. It seemed like she was begging or something. Next thing I see, she’s pounding her head with her fists.”
The look on Omar’s face wavers between apprehension and indignation. Punching his right fist into his left palm, he grits his teeth and asks, “Why wasn’t your dad doing anything? Why would he let her do that? What did he do to make her so sad?”
Now my eyes dip. Then my head. And my face lands in my hands. I proceed to blubber.
“Oh no, Rani. Sorry. You ok?” Omar slides forward on the bench.
I take my glasses off, wiping the tears from my face and snorting in some major hanabata. “Yeah, I’m ok.”
My answer must not have convinced Omar because he says, “Come on, Rani. Talk to me. You my sistah. We got each other’s back.”
Of everyone I know on Moloka’i, Omar is the one I should trust the most. After all, he’s trusted me with all his family stuff. I contemplate hedging. But I can’t keep in the words or the tears. “My parents,” I manage to utter between sobs, “that’s why I’m bald.” I take deep breaths to prevent a complete emotional breakdown. I slip on my glasses and regain my composure. Then I proceed to recount everything. My suspicions this past year. The mounting evidence. And finally last night at Kanemitsu’s.
But why was my mom yelling at my dad? Was she calling him out? Was she telling him off? Was she asking him to come back to her? I think about my slam poem. About Indian families. About Gujarati families. About Patel families. About my family.
Why is this happening to my family?
This isn’t supposed to happen in Gujarati families. Especially Patel families. I mean Patels are supposed to be family-oriented. Extremely patriarchal, yes. But family first. I think there are more Patels in the United States than any other Indians. And we’re not all related! Not by a long shot.
Patels came to the U.S. to better their lives, to get better jobs and more financial security, to get more educational opportunities—just like every other immigrant. Patel parents are willing to work hard to make all this happen. All those 7-11’s. All the motels. Patel parents work their fingers to the bone to ensure a brighter future for their offspring. Patel parents do that. And from what I’ve seen in the Patel families we knew on the mainland, the husbands were the boss. But they talked considerately to their wives. Sure, I’ve heard of a couple of Patel divorces. But never the blatant carrying on of affairs. I cross my arms tight across my belly and stare at the ocean.
Patel Dads aren’t supposed to have affairs.
Patel Dads aren’t supposed to neglect their wives.
I’m digging my long, sharply filed nails into the soft, fleshy part of my inner arms. Deep. I don’t even know I’m doing it.
Patel Dads aren’t supposed to be indecent with their daughters.
I wrench my mind out of its gutter. But not before my nails get what they want.
Why is my Patel family like this?
I suppose there are exceptions in every culture. In every last name. I feel something wet on my fingertips. I scan my arms and hands. It’s then I spot the blood.
BUTTER PECAN
The tiny, self-inflicted lacerations ground me. The pain makes me feel calm. I don’t know exactly why. Maybe because I know how to deal with pain I can see. I can wash it with soap and water in the shower, then put a little antibacterial ointment on it. Which is what I did. But pain I can’t see, the pain in my mind, I don’t know how to deal with it. I usually don’t deal with it. I usually try to forget it.
And now I want to forget what Omar told me about my parents’ fight. Forget the intruding thoughts and agony that followed.
I pull Catcher in the Rye from my backpack. I’m two books ahead for our A.P. Lit curriculum and I intend on making it three. Sprawling on the carpet in my room, I flip open to my bookmark. Holden’s at Mr. Antolini’s house. A few pages in, my eyes droop. I’m too pooped to get extra ahead. Salinger gets tossed onto my desk. And I toss myself onto my bed ready for sleep.
But as soon as I switch off the lamp and hit the pillow, sleep escapes me. My mind tracks the emotional rollercoaster ride of the day.
COASTING: waking up with a bald head
ASCENSION: writing Widow
BARREL ROLL AND VERTICAL LOOP: hanging out with Mark
FIRST DROP: La’akea guilt
ASCENSION: hanging out with Omar
SECOND DROP: what Omar told me about my parents
The slamming of the front door ends the ride. I check the clock: 11:45 p.m. I got home about two hours ago because Mom never lets me work past 9:00 p.m. on Sundays. Or any other school night. I double check the clock. Yup. 11:45 p.m. Mom’s home later than usual. The restaurant must’ve been busy. I wonder if Shawn stayed for the full shift. He’s the cook, but he’s notorious for leaving work early. Or missing work completely. Too much pakalolo will do that. The thought of Mom cooking and serving alone drops guilt on me, again, like a ton of bricks. I push back the comforter and jump out of bed. I open my bedroom door and hear Mom rummaging in the freezer. I slink to the kitchen, hoping that she’ll be in the mood to talk. I still don’t know if she finally believes me about Dad and the homewrecker. How much more proof does she need than me seeing them together at Kanemitsu’s? And they had an intense fight today. I should ask her if she believes me. Point blank.
But I should start by saying sorry for how cold I acted last night. Then we could talk about her day. Then I could ask her about the fight. If there was a resolution. If she believes me about Wendy. And I really want to ask her how she feels about everything.
But more than anything I wish wish wish she would ask me how I feel. And hug me. And tell me everything will be all right.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Mmm,” she mumbles, not taking her head out of the freezer.
I stand there and try to muster the courage to apologize. She grabs the new half-gallon of butter pecan ice cream and slams the freezer shut. Incidentally, the only flavors of ice cream she really likes are butter pecan and pistachio because they taste “almost Indian,” like the kulfi flavors from her childhood.
Then she jerks open the silverware drawer for a spoon. I get a load of her expression. Her brow is in its permanent V-shaped crease. It makes her look constantly angry. I think of the V as her tiny scarlet letter. Well-defined from years of silently “putting up with Dad’s bullsheet,” as she often mutters under her breath. The skin on her face is otherwise relatively wrinkle free and soft. Her thick, shoulder-length mostly gray hair is parted in the middle. She always wears it pulled back in a low ponytail with two brown-metal Goody hair clips, one on each side holding the shorter hairs in place. She’s worn this hairstyle for ten years. At least. But the almost complete change from black to gray hair was unexpected since she’s only forty. Probably stress. That’s how she explained it to Preeti masi over the phone a few months ago, adding, “Pradip nu salu aahkuu mathu kaaru che hagi.”
Yeah Mom, I hear ya. Dad’s full head of black hair is like him saying, “In yo’ face, Meera. This pimp ain’t gonna work at all.
How ya like me now?”
Umm, not at all, Dad.
Ice cream and spoon in hand, she plods to the den. I follow her. I stand in the doorway and watch as she inserts a VHS of a Bollywood film with Amitabh Bachchan. Agneepath. She settles onto the sofa and digs into the carton. Within seconds, she’s by herself in another world of intense Indian drama and dessert. And I don’t exist. But I’m still standing there. Still trying to gather the courage to say sorry, then begin the rest of my planned conversation.
I decide it’s too hard to start with an apology. So I ask, “Mom, how was your day?”
“Fine,” she mumbles, her mouth full of creamy goodness and her eyes cemented to the screen.
“Must’ve been busy. I hope Shawn stayed the whole time.”
No response.
So I keep going. “You’re home so late. I wish I’d been there to help you.”
Not a peep. She keeps watching and eating, hypnotized by her ritual of screen and ice cream. I cross my arms and keep watching her. Waiting.
Come on, Mom, look at me, please. What do I have to do now to get you to talk to me? You don’t even have to talk about what I want to talk about. You can tell me to practice piano! Anything!
I’m not sure what else to say. The fleeting emotional connection she exhibited last night is gone. What’s weird is that when I shaved my head she knew something was up. And she reached out. It was like she really saw me. I think she could feel my pain. I think she was trying to help me. She talked to me the way I’ve imagined moms should talk to their daughters. Getting a taste of it last night left me wanting more. Because for the first time I knew she could do it.
She reached out and I retreated. Did I mess it up by not responding?
Now that I’m back to playing my usual talkative role and reaching out, she’s retreated. And I’m chasing her again, like she’s a patang on Uttarayan, Gujarat’s Kite Festival. We’re in Vaso and someone cut her string. I’m darting through the narrow streets filled with dung and trash. I’m weaving around decaying concrete buildings. All in hopes of trying to get her back before she’s stolen.
But she’s always just out of reach.
I wait a bit longer.
Zilch.
I drop my arms and walk back to my room. Ugh. Frustrated with myself that I expected anything more. Why should I?
The roller coaster plunges down, down, down.
STILL A LOSER
Monday morning at school. The stares are piercing, the whispers deafening. Bald head down, I trudge, wishing for another Trekker somewhere in the partially enclosed hallways of Moloka’i High & Intermediate School. With all the rubbernecking, I might as well be Lieutenant Ilia, the Deltan alien. Starfleet wouldn’t even have to make this Deltan declare the Oath of Celibacy. Because the last time a human teen showed carnal interest in me was, hmm, let’s see. Oh yes. That’s right. Never.
“Hey, Baldy!” someone shouts from a picnic table on the grassy area near the cafeteria. I turn to see who it is. Jacob, Paka, and Roger—all seniors—are sitting at the table. They’re laughing. Not a simple “ha ha.” Nah, that wouldn’t cut it. They’re pointing at me and straight up belly-cramp laughing. Paka almost falls off the bench.
Baldy.
I’ve heard worse. Back in Connecticut, the white, black, Latino, and non-Indian Asian kids bonded over their relentless tormenting of me.
Hey brownie, I saw you eating a brownie. EWWWW. Gross, you cannibal.
Feather or curry? Must be curry because you stink.
Go back to India, you cow lover.
Hey Rani, I saw you eating monkey brains for lunch. And I hear your dad rips out people’s hearts.
Thanks Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for that last one. Although right now it’s pretty accurate. Dad has ripped out two people’s hearts. Even though Mom won’t admit that one is hers.
“Eh, bolo head. Try come!” one of them calls out again.
“Shut up!”
I look back again and there’s Omar standing in front of them. His feet are wide apart and he’s leaning slightly, his head tilted back a little. Then he crosses his arms. His B-boy stance reminds me of Joseph “Run” Simmons in one of those classic black and white photos of Run DMC in Hollis Queens, NYC. Circa 1984.
“What, Omar? We was jus makin’ anykine.” Jacob approaches Omar, toe-to-toe.
“I said shut up.”
They stare at each for a couple of seconds. Then Jacob grins mockingly and sits down.
Omar comes over to me. “Wuzzup, sistah?”
“Not much. Thanks for that.”
“Ain’t no thang. How you doing?”
“Hangin’ in there, I guess.”
“You gonna be ok, Rani. You’ll see. Anyway, I gots to get to the library. Research that’s due next period awaits. Talk to you later.” He gives me a chin-up and heads off.
I watch him until he turns the corner to the library, thankful for my one true homie. I walk towards the cafeteria.
Unfortunately, bolo head rings in my ears. It feels like a pinch of salt in a gaping, raw wound. The pinch soon becomes an entire twenty-six ounce canister of Morton Salt as Kapena’s Masese fills the air. Someone once told me that this song is a bunch of Fijian words that sound good together when sung and the actual meaning isn’t clear. Something about being bummed and lighting up cigarettes and drinking kava to feel better. I could use some kava right about now because there in front of me is Emily leaning back against Pono.
Emily. Pono’s Filipina girlfriend. With silky, cascading waist-length hair. I follow her every move. She sits up on the picnic table bench and fiddles with the volume knob on Pono’s boombox. Then she drops her head back and shakes out her luscious locks. She turns the knob more to the right. Then she smiles, presumably satisfied with the loudness. And I sneer. Full on Billy Idol. Not wanting to draw attention to myself by fist pumping and rebel yelling, I shift my gaze to Pono. He looks like a T&C model in his black tank top and tapa print board shorts. Only when he wraps his arms around Emily and kisses her shoulder do my eyes become unglued from his broad, chiseled shoulders.
Nothing new about this scene. But with my hairless head and everything going on, I’m feeling like more of a reject than ever.
Didn’t think that was possible.
It is.
I go back to Connecticut again. The harsh feather or curry mocking was only part of the story. Back in Constitution State, I was perpetually ostracized. The social scene was like in Grease. The popular white kids were The Pink Ladies and the T-Birds. I was Eugene Felsnic. P.E. wasn’t about physical education training. It was about being picked last for teams. And not picked at all for parties. The girls, in their fancy Benetton, Esprit, and Gap outfits, CCD, and country club weekends, pointed at me, giggled, and walked away. The coups de grâce: the boys avoided me like the plague. A bespectacled loser, I watched the cool kids live their cool lives from the sidelines.
And here I am at MHIS six years later, still watching the cool kids. Today the view’s perfect from behind a bushy purple bougainvillea. All I need now is some popcorn and a large Coke. Emily turns her head and kisses Pono back. On the lips.
Shoot me now.
Pono asked Emily out at the beginning of junior year. To my dismay, they can’t keep their hands and lips off each other in public. I wonder what they do when they’re alone. An image of their naked, intertwined bodies flashes in my mind. I shudder and refocus on the scene in front of me.
Pono stands up, stretches, and grabs his ukulele. He nods at Emily. She skips the CD forward to Reggae Train. He starts strumming along with the song, totally in sync. Pono’s a ukulele virtuoso. The whole scene is pretty much like a free Jawaiian concert. And who on Moloka’i doesn’t love a good Jawaiian jam? A crowd of kids surrounds them, blocking my view. I drag myself away from the life film I’ll never be a part of. Not even as an extra.
The aroma from the cafeteria draws me in. Nothing like a hot sloppy joe and tater tots to make everything bett
er. Lunch is the surefire highlight of my school day. The lunch ladies are like the aunties I wish I had: funny, thoughtful, sweet. One of them, Auntie Mary, always gives me a little extra of the sides. Winking, she’ll whisper some version of, “I gotta fatten you up, Rani.” Is it really that or can she tell I’m having a bad day? Every day?
I search for an empty table. That’s when I hear my name.
“Rani! Over here, Rani!”
I know that sound—the clinking of multiple gold Hawaiian bracelets. I scan the cafeteria.
It’s Crystal. From a distance, her arm looks like it’s gold-plated. She’s waving at me. “Rani, there’s room here.”
Oh no.
I head over in what feels like slow motion. The Empire Strikes Back theme song blasts in my head.
Crystal Polani’s also a senior and the most popular girl in school. A beautiful Hawaiian girl, with long, straight black hair. When she dances hula, everyone, including me, is spellbound. She’s always May Day Queen. She’s even a cheerleader. She’s sitting with Rayna and Richelle, also cheerleaders. They all have boyfriends. And hickies.
Seeing the Pink Ladies of MHIS, my brain offers me a concise, bulleted list of my loser qualifications. How thoughtful.
Rani! Listen up.
—You’re not popular.
—You’re an IH.
—You wear big ass glasses.
—You can’t dance hula.
—You’re not a cheerleader.
—You don’t have any girlfriends.
—Boys will never like you like that.
—You’ve never even been kissed by someone not related to you.
—You haven’t even stepped up to bat with a boy.
—And now you’re BALD!
Dang.
I feel like I’m about to get a root canal. I sit down next to Crystal. Their shocked eyes lock in on my head. The normal insecurity I feel around them triples. I take a bite of my sloppy joe. Juice runs down my chin. I forgot to get a napkin. Of course.
Sloppy Rani.
“Oh here,” Crystal says, handing me an extra napkin.