Fourteen
After breakfast, Anna Auntie and Ajit Uncle melted away, making vague excuses about errands and the post office (which Ajit Uncle calls the “postmortem office,” because apparently all the postal workers look like grumpy zombies. Also, the post office on a Sunday? The Roys were really bad at making believable excuses, evidently.). When they were gone, Sahil looked at me a little awkwardly. “So, um, you wanna see my room?”
There was a beat between us as the words “see my room” floated there. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were both thinking of all the different meanings behind that euphemistic phrase.
Sahil rubbed the back of his neck and dropped his gaze. “Ah, I mean, just, see my room.”
I laughed way too loudly to cover my shyness. At least we were being awkward together. “Okay, then, show me your manor, kind sir,” I said, putting on a fake-confident air.
He smiled, and I followed him down the hallway.
Once we were upstairs, I saw a bedroom with its door wide open. Above the bed, which was covered with a green and black bedspread, was a painted wooden letter N.
N.
I stopped, transfixed, my pulse quickening.
Sahil paused. “Everything okay?”
I knew I should look away, but I found myself taking in all the little details of Neil’s life I had never gotten to see before. His Michael Phelps poster. His entire wall of trophies. His lightly offensive Tomb Raider poster. “Um, yeah.” I turned before it got weird, smiling at Sahil.
“You sure?” he said, smiling back hesitantly. His eyes ran over Neil’s room, like he was trying to see what I was looking at. “You seemed spaced out there for a minute.”
I took a deep breath and laughed, even though it felt kind of awful, not telling him the truth. “Nah, I’m good. So, where’s your room?”
After a pause, he smiled and turned to show me the way.
Sahil’s room was not at all what I was expecting. I’d thought, based on his affinity for all things horror, he’d have black walls and a red bedspread. Maybe some skulls? But instead his walls were this pale blue, and his bedspread was white-and-yellow striped. He had a killer film-reel table lamp that I would’ve died for too.
“I like your room,” I said, going over to look at a colorized Frankenstein poster on the wall. “It’s very … you.”
“You think so?” he said, looking pleased. “Because Skid and Aaron always tell me it’s too girly. I just like blue and yellow together.”
I scoffed. “Too girly? What does that even mean? And why is that something to look down on, anyway?”
“No, you’re right,” Sahil said, frowning. “Why is that something to look down on?”
I clucked my tongue. “Sexism, dude.”
“So, is that why you’re doing this?” Sahil asked, coming to stand beside me. “Making movies, I mean? To fight the patriarchy?”
I smiled. He wasn’t even being sarcastic or making fun of me. He genuinely wanted to know. Maybe having a mom who also wants to dismantle the patriarchy and a dad who wears frilly aprons will do that. “Kinda. I mean, women make up only seven percent of the directors who worked on the top two hundred and fifty movies. And that’s a recent statistic. If you factor in race, that number goes way down. I remember reading about Ava DuVernay. She said one of the things she wanted to do was cater to people whom art houses and the film industry generally ignore. People who can’t afford to go to fancy schools and expensive film festivals still deserve to see their stories on-screen. So that’s what I’m hoping to do, too. Make stories about people who don’t get to see themselves on-screen.”
Sahil was staring at me, his eyes wide. “You know that video you made of your mom, where she’s standing at a sink, washing tomatoes or something? It’s on your YouTube channel.”
I nodded; I remembered that one. It was from two years ago. I’d set the camera on the windowsill, so it was like an outsider was watching Mummy. She hadn’t noticed the camera, so she was humming this lori to herself while she worked. When she finally noticed the camera, she laughed. “Oh, Twinkle,” she said. “Is my lullaby that interesting?”
I loved that she’d posed a question to the viewer. I loved that I’d caught her in a rare moment, being carefree and unburdened.
“I love that movie,” Sahil continued. “And the one with Dadi and Oso. And the one with Maddie trying on that big floofy white dress. And how you joined her, wearing a sari.”
“Oh, yeah.” I grinned at the memory. “That was from eighth grade. We found her mom’s old wedding dress and so she made me go home and get a red sari so I could pretend to be a bride too.”
“But then you caught her in the mirror, saying how her mom won’t be able to see her on her wedding day. And it drew the viewer in.”
“Maddie doesn’t like to talk about it, but her mom died when she was two,” I explained.
“I remember that from elementary school.” He was still holding my hand, and he tugged on it, drawing me closer to him. “But you caught that on camera. You have the unique gift of catching the truths people keep hidden.”
I looked up into his eyes. I was close enough to him that I could smell his lemon soap. “So, what’s your truth?” I found myself asking, barely able to hear myself over the sound of my thundering heart. “What are you keeping hidden?”
Sahil looked down at our hands, clasped together, my dark fingers against his light-brown ones. “Sometimes …,” he said, his voice quiet and halting. “Sometimes I worry I don’t know who I really am. Sometimes I’m afraid nothing I do will ever be enough to set me apart.” I got the feeling he’d never said those words out loud before, that he’d probably never say them again.
I squeezed his hand gently, until his eyes found mine. “I understand,” I said, “more than you know.”
“I don’t believe that,” Sahil replied. “It’s so obvious that the world needs your voice.”
I shook my head. “I’m just as confident about you as you are about me. So if you don’t know you who are, Sahil, ask me and I’ll tell you.
“You’ll go on a botany hike on a ninety-degree day or to a headache-inducing music festival even if it’s not your thing because a friend asks you to. You’ll go out of your way to pick someone up in your car because you know they need it. You’re brilliant at giving your opinion on a scene we’re filming, but you’re equally good at stepping aside and letting me take over. You’re one of those rare people who can see when they’re being unreasonable and temper themselves. You see me as an artist in a way no one else has, and I think it’s because you have an artist’s soul too.”
We were looking into each other’s eyes as I talked, and when I fell silent, we were still gazing at each other. Sahil leaned in a bit, asking permission. After only the slightest pause, I leaned in too, giving it.
And then we were kissing, tentative at first, but soon hungrier, our arms snaking around each other, our breaths coming quicker and quicker. It was like a movie kiss. I don’t even care if that sounds childish. You know how people are always swooning over that kiss in the movie The Notebook, the one in the rain? That one would rate a -2 on the romance meter compared to the one Sahil and I shared.
When Sahil and I came up for air, I leaned back, just like I’d done before. “Remember when I said I wanted to keep things professional? I’m pretty sure this is an HR violation,” I said, but the fact that I was panting and flushed undermined my authority.
“Right,” he said, his voice shaky. “Professional. Until you figure things out.”
I nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“And … what are you figuring out again?”
I wanted to tell him. I really, really did. But how could I? After everything he’d just told me, I couldn’t think of a single way to say I might want to date his twin brother without hurting him, and without hurting myself. Because I wasn’t foolish enough to delude myself for this long—I was absolutely, totally, and completely falling for Sahil Roy.
; “I just need some more time. And then I’ll tell you everything.”
I would, I decided. Even if I ended up with Sahil, I’d still tell him about my secret admirer and my struggle. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad because we’d have our happy ending. But not now. Not yet. I could not let go of the idea of Neil and me, the one I’d had for so many years now.
“Okay,” he said. Then he smiled, this soft, sweet thing that made my heart squeeze. “Hey, T?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” Briefly, he rested his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. Then he pulled back. “I’m gonna go grab a soda. Can I get you anything?”
“Some cold water would be great,” I said, and he nodded and left.
So that’s where I am now. Sitting on Sahil’s chair, disappointed at my own idiotic stubbornness and so confused, too. Because it would feel so right to let things progress with Sahil. It would feel so right to fall in love with him.
Love,
Twinkle
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
I spent the morning with Twinkle but … something’s off
From: Skid
To: Sahil, Aaron
what do you mean? are you wearing deodorant like I said?
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
Dude enough with the deodorant. It feels like she’s holding back but I don’t think it’s just the professional thing like she said before. Something else is up
From: Aaron
To: Sahil, Skid
Have you asked her?
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
Yeah all she says is she needs time
From: Skid
To: Sahil, Aaron
then you gotta give her time man
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
Idk what if she’s not into me or she pities me or something man
From: Aaron
To: Sahil, Skid
Sahil. How long have you had a crush on this girl?
From: Skid
To: Sahil, Aaron
don’t forget that time we found her yearbook photo in his room UNDER HIS PILLOW
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
That happened ONCE and I was 11! I hadn’t figured out yet what was creepy when it came to girls
From: Aaron
To: Sahil, Skid
Ignore him. Look you said the other night that Twinkle sees you for you. Like she gets you. So don’t throw that away man. She likes you. If she needs time just give her time
From: Skid
To: Sahil, Aaron
I’m with Aaron on this one bro
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
Okay you’re right I can do that. She likes me and I can give her time
From: Aaron
To: Sahil, Skid
Good. Now that that’s settled do you want to do something fun? Do you want to go to Taco Bell?
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
Taco Bell? Wait. Are you quoting Mean Girls again?
From: Aaron
To: Sahil, Skid
Well I mean it is the greatest movie of all time so
From: Sahil
To: Skid, Aaron
Yeah ok fine. Pick you up in ten, losers
Sunday, June 14
East library bathroom
Dear Sofia Coppola,
I didn’t know if Maddie would show up to the study group. I mean, she didn’t need it, let’s be honest, and she’s so mad at me. I’m mad at her too, for practically saying the one thing I’ve always been too afraid to confront head-on: that even if things changed for me with the movie, I wouldn’t be good enough to hang out with her and her new friends. That at heart, I’m a groundling, and I’ll always be one.
But I still love her. And I still want her to find her person. The one who’ll make her life feel more … complete. The one who can see her like she wants to be seen. I mean, everyone deserves that.
She and Brij are so made for each other. I think they’d be happy together. Happier than her and Lewis, who brought her to study group today. And then they’ve spent the entire thirty minutes—that’s how long we’ve been here—whispering to each other. She sat next to Brij, which was a good sign, I thought, until I saw her and Lewis having these hushed, private conversations. Poor Brij looked all wilted, too. But then she’d talk to him and laugh with him and put her hand on his arm to make a point. Talk about confusing, Maddie. Doesn’t she care about anyone’s feelings anymore??
Also, unintentional relationship potential—Aaron and Matthew! Apparently they already know each other from an LGBTQ youth group they’re both a part of. Matthew’s bi, but he doesn’t talk about it at school (who can blame him? PPC thinks diversity means talking about Martin Luther King Jr. once a year in February). So they already knew each other and sat together, but then I kept seeing them touching each other and laughing at all these inside jokes. So maybe Maddie and Brij won’t leave here in a relationship, but I’m counting Matthew and Aaron under my “win” column.
Side note: Matthew pulled me aside and, rubbing the back of his neck while his face turned bright red, he said, “Hey, T-Twinkle. I just, I want to apologize for what I said the other day.”
“When? When you said my braid bun looked ‘like a coiled-up cobra drawn by a kindergartner’?”
He turned even redder, like he was surprised I’d quoted him word for word. He clearly didn’t know about my grudge book. “Ah, I need to apologize for two things, then. That and how I said you wouldn’t understand what Brij was talking about with the firewall the other day when we were doing our fundraiser. It was pretty uncool of me.”
I smiled at him. “But it’s pretty cool of you to try to fix things. So apology accepted.”
(I love when people surprise me in a good way.)
Oh, and I helped Skid with a girl problem. Apparently there’s this girl at the public high school, Portia? He basically said, “Twinkle, Portia’s my future wife. I just know it.”
To which I replied, “Skid, seriously? I didn’t even know you wanted to get married.”
And he said, “I do, but only to Portia.” And then he whipped out his phone and showed me a picture and wow. She’s this incredibly gorgeous black girl, with curly hair to her waist and the most fabulous taste in clothes. Way out of Skid’s league, if I’m being totally honest.
He isn’t bad-looking. He’s just a little … skinny and sallow. And short. Not exactly your typical dreamboat. She looks like she’d be at home dating, I don’t know, a Hollywood actor’s son or something.
So he asked how he could get her to notice him (their families go to the same church), because he wanted a girl’s opinion, and I told him what I value in my perfect guy: that his love for me would make him selfless; that he’d want to be better just for me, and that he’d challenge me to be a better person in return. Like, for Skid, that could mean getting her a juice if it gets hot in church or handing her a Bible if she forgets hers. And then to just use that interaction as a springboard for other interactions. He loved that idea.
And then I realized that’s exactly what Sahil did for me the first time we talked. He bought me that coffee because he saw that I couldn’t afford one myself. He saved me from having to leav
e the coffee shop empty-handed and humiliated in front of all those silk feathered hats. He could be my perfect guy. But his brother could help me feel like I’d finally left groundlingdom behind, the thing I’ve been dreaming of for as long as I can remember.
It sucks. I keep looking at Sahil and he keeps looking at me and our hands have brushed a thousand times as we both reach for the same pencil or highlighter. But that’s it. We haven’t talked about anything else, like what it means that we kissed twice or how I told him I like him and he told me he likes me or anything.
I keep telling myself this is a good thing. Because N and I are meeting in a week and then maybe my brain and my heart will stop fighting. When I see Neil’s face—it has to be Neil; the universe isn’t that cruel—things will fall into place once and for all.
I hope.
Okay, I better get back in there. Those free-market structures aren’t going to … build themselves.
Love,
Twinkle
Fifteen
June 15
The Reel Deal Blog
Posted by: Rolls ROYce
There are two types of people: those who kiss and tell and those who kiss and run. I would like to be the former, but sadly, due to my kissing partner, I have been forced to become the latter.
I am delirious with joy that Sparkle and I kissed. Twice. Every time I see her, I want to pick her up. I want to swing her around. I want to scream to the world that we are together at last. But I can’t. Because she doesn’t want me to. And I am but a servant to her wishes and whimsies.
Slide says I’m being a wuss. A-man says straight people are weird. I suspect they’re both at least partially right. But what neither of them sees is how my brain completely short circuits when I think about her. Or maybe they do. I don’t know. I mean, Slide did call me out today because I kept spacing out in calculus and we have our final on Wednesday. All I can say is that Roger Ebert said it best: First love is sweet and valuable, a blessed, if hazardous, condition.
Speaking of Ebert, we are nearing completion on filming; in fact, we should be done by Friday, and then Slide and I will edit the thing to show at the festival. And you know something? I kick butt at being a producer. I thought I was all about being a film critic, but I’m great at putting out fires and getting my director anything she needs to do her job. I even weigh in on scene blocking and storyline issues. The other day someone—let’s call her The Lion—even came to me for a costume issue. (The green wasn’t the right kind or something and it was clashing with her hair, but still. It was important to the actress and she sought my counsel! We decided that she could wear a lighter shade of green. I mean, the film’s going to be black-and-white, so no skin off my back, but she was insistent and said knowing she didn’t look her best was interfering with her creative output. And then she proceeded to fuss over everyone else’s costumes—buttoning sleeves and hitching up hemlines—and helped us look sharper as a group). It’s like I’m slowly gaining a modicum of respect. Like people see me as an expert of sorts. It feels for the first time like I’m moving away from the shadow of my brother and coming to stand in my own light.
From Twinkle, With Love Page 15