What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  “You should,” Anita says. “Maybe some of us don’t want something like this! Did that ever occur to you? That maybe you should try to make things better instead of worse?”

  “I’m not making anything worse!” Bina says. “I’m trying to help!”

  It takes her a few seconds to realize that the deejay has stopped talking and is facing their table. Of course she spoke in the rare pause between the program items. Damn it.

  Little by little, a hush spreads over the hall. Guests turn toward them. Someone even has an iPhone out. Great.

  The hope pours out of Bina’s body, unwanted, and is replaced by a suffocating humiliation. But she keeps a strong smile on her face. There are murmurs coming from the far end of the room, from people probably just now hearing that there’s drama happening here.

  She stands up, cups her hands around her mouth, and says, “Sorry for the interruption. Let’s keep this party going!”

  A man from the adjacent table whistles. Whether he does it because he’s buying Bina’s everything-is-good act or because he’s too drunk to know any better is unclear. But his whistle leads to another one, then a stream of cheers from a table closer to the dance floor.

  Bina walks toward her friend. But Anita shifts her chair so it’s completely turned away from Bina, which is how she stays for the rest of the reception.

  Thirteen

  Natasha

  You’re up!”

  Natasha gulps. “Me? Already?”

  “Yep. It’s now or never. Go!” Alexis Diaz pumps her fists in a gesture of enthusiasm. “You’ve gotta help Chris move to the next thing!”

  Nine eager students face Natasha, including Chris, whose burly six-foot-two frame is frozen in a running pose. It’s up to Natasha to continue the skit. She prepares to give her best charming laugh but instead lets out a violent cough.

  She was presumptuous to think she could just show up and know what to do in an improv class. Despite how impulsive she can be, something about having to think creatively in the moment makes her clam up.

  But she has to try. She has to show Alexis Diaz she’s capable. This class is all she has to show for her comedy right now. Well, the class and the ten views she has on her YouTube channel from the performance Anuj recorded. The performance that apparently wasn’t good enough to get Natasha to the next round of the comedy competition. She can still hear the stupid, monotonous voice of the dude who called her and told her, more or less, that she isn’t good enough.

  She reminds herself that like she and Zack recently discussed, rejection is always part of the creative process. And she should be proud of herself. She got out of bed the first time her alarm went off, wore something other than sweatpants, ran a comb through her thick, curly hair, and made it here. She’s excited. She’s determined. She’s . . . tired.

  The thing is, she was supposed to be doing more by now. Dozens of people should be laughing at her jokes. Mom and Dad should be regretting telling her she made the wrong choice. Karan should be texting her that he knew she’d make it.

  In the two weeks since the Midtown Comedy Center informed her that she did not make it into the competition, she doesn’t know where her days go. The hours seem to be comprised of nothing productive, just oscillating bursts of panic and hope. Panic: none of the other Atlanta comedy clubs with open mic spots have availability. Hope: she’s written a few more pages in her notebook that may actually be good. Panic: it’s harder to stay awake throughout the day without anything tangible to hold on to. Hope: Alexis seems to like her already.

  “Improv is about working with uncertainty and letting go of control. Don’t think too much,” Alexis says as the other students around her nod. Everyone nods whenever Alexis says anything. Within a couple of months of graduating from Georgia Tech, her YouTube comedy sketch series was endorsed by Tina Fey. She teaches a class for aspiring comedians every Saturday that’s about how to use improv as a way to “master the craft of comedy.” Of course, she’s also attractive in a spunky and pretty Mila Kunis kind of way, so it’s only a matter of time before she gets a gig on a hot TV show.

  “I’m not thinking too much!” Natasha says. She’s actually doing the opposite. It’s always been a cruel irony for her that when she’s nervous, her thoughts freeze while her heart races.

  She glances at her scuffed black Keds and feels the weight of everyone’s stares.

  Jump, a tiny voice inside her says. Just jump.

  Before she can think anymore, she listens. To her surprise, Chris starts jumping next to her and makes a hand motion as if he’s holding a rope.

  “That’s it!” Alexis says. “You’ve taken Chris from running to jump rope! Keep going!”

  Alexis seems energized by being able to tell people what to do. That type of bossy attitude reminds Natasha of her sister.

  “Natasha, switch it up!” Alexis yells.

  Natasha starts hopping on one foot, then the other. This is like a less embarrassing version of middle school PE class.

  “You’re playing outside! Hopscotch! Yes!” Alexis cheers.

  Within a few seconds, another classmate joins. They enact a hopscotch game that then transforms into all of them making sidewalk art with chalk.

  “Natasha, that was great,” Alexis says. “You let yourself just be free.”

  Natasha smiles and then sits down on one of the black folding chairs that’s at the perimeter of the otherwise bare room. Even though she’s not really sure what she’s accomplished, for the first time in weeks, Natasha feels something. Or rather, the absence of something, of darkness or urgency or maybe a force she couldn’t quite pinpoint right now.

  I can do this, she thinks. I can really do this.

  She’s late to meet the girls for brunch when class ends. She throws her phone and black Moleskine into her tote bag, the latest thing she’s “borrowed” from Suhani’s closet.

  Alexis stops her just as she’s about to leave. “Hey, can we talk for a second?”

  “Sure,” Natasha says as she waves bye to everyone else.

  A flutter goes through her stomach. Someone mentioned that at the end of the seven-week block, Alexis picks a couple of students to be her interns. But today was just the first class. Is it possible that she already sees potential in Natasha?

  The possibility sends Natasha on a wave of elation, the first one in way too long. All the crap she did mattered. Every comedy documentary she watched, every open mic night she tried to get into, all the hours she read and compiled notes on her role models. Someone sees in her what she’s believed all along. And maybe someday not too far away, Natasha can do this for another woman who wants to be a comedian. She pictures herself as the perfect mentor. Someone who is as talented as Mindy Kaling, honest as Aparna Nancherla, sarcastic as Chelsea Handler.

  Natasha can barely contain her excitement as Alexis guides her to the back of the auditorium. The chairs are now folded and pushed against the wall. Alexis grips the top of one. Her round eyes are framed with thick black eyeliner and a chocolate-brown eye shadow. “So, as you know, I do this a lot. I see so many people who want to make it in comedy. And I can pick up on things pretty early on.”

  “I bet,” Natasha tries not to sound as giddy as she feels.

  “This may sound weird, but is it possible you don’t enjoy improv? Or even performing in front of people at all?” Alexis pauses as if allowing the questions to fill the space between them.

  This isn’t the way Natasha thought the conversation would start. Maybe it’s some sort of test.

  Natasha keeps her head held high. “Well, I mean, I don’t know if anyone really enj—”

  “No, there are plenty of people who actually do,” Alexis says. She barely reaches Natasha’s shoulder, but her proud posture and strong voice make her seem like she’s more than six feet tall. “They thrive when they’re in front of an audience. And I could b
e wrong, but I get the sense that this didn’t make you happy.”

  Alexis squints as if she’s looking right through Natasha, past any bullshit that can be thrown her way.

  “I do get nervous in front of people,” Natasha admits. “And maybe it does drain me sometimes. But I love comedy. I always have. This is what I’m meant to do.”

  She’s taken back to a moment last year, when she and Karan were pressed against each other, their legs intertwined, on his twin bed in his dorm. He was in blue-checked boxers and his hair was damp from a recent shower. She felt cozy and delicate in his gray hoodie. They had come back from the Georgia State talent show, where she’d planned to perform a routine about being desi and premed. Natasha was so proud of what she had written and couldn’t wait to share it. But then, when the moment arrived, the entire room just became a haze of sounds: her quick breath on the microphone, the thud of her pulse in her ears, the bored sighs of the seven people in the audience. She told herself to start, just start anywhere. But she couldn’t speak or even hear herself think. All she could do was remain anchored under the dull spotlight, frozen with fear. The stage manager cut her off and announced the next person. Nobody booed as she made her way into the thin crowd. She wasn’t even worth insulting. You can try later, Karan told her that night. It isn’t a big deal.

  But it was a big deal to her. She surprised herself when in the middle of the night, just hours after she’d tanked onstage, she woke up with an idea for another routine. She crept out of bed and started typing. When it was just her and the blue glow from her Mac, she could reach a state where words poured out of her and her mind was in a trance. It reminded her of the way people described meditating. She always liked the night for that reason. With everyone asleep and nobody around to judge her, she could regain a sense of control over her time. It was like she and the world were in on a juicy secret together.

  “Being onstage isn’t the only way to make it in comedy,” Alexis says. “There are so many other routes you can take. And it’s never a bad idea to take time to really reflect and learn and figure out the best fit for you.”

  “But I want this.” Natasha realizes how childish she sounds as the words leave her mouth, like a second grader whining for more dessert. “I mean, not this as in improv, but I do want to be onstage. Stand-up is what I’ve been working toward! I don’t need to take any time to learn or figure out anything. I want to do this now.”

  She remembers how Karan had once told Natasha to consider pursuing comedy when she’s “older.” You know, after you’re done with everything else you have to do. Working, kids, all that stuff. Some aunties had said the same thing. Natasha always fought back. Why did women have to keep their passions as safe hobbies for most of their lives? Why did they have to make certain expected milestones the priority?

  But now she wonders if they were all right. Maybe she’s let her aspirations become larger than her potential.

  “Look, I get what you’re saying. But it’s part of my job to push you to pick what’s best for you,” Alexis says. “Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to consider what your long-term vision for your career is and if you’re investing your energy in the best places. All I’m saying is, this may not be the best fit for you.”

  Alexis does a there-there type of ginger pat on Natasha’s shoulder. The worst part is that her face doesn’t even have any disdain or meanness. Instead, she’s gazing at Natasha with compassion. Natasha feels like she’s being dumped. The excitement she had for the day shrivels up and disappears. But this can’t be right. The first authority she’s connected with in her dream field thinks she should try another way?

  No, no, no, she wants to say. You don’t understand. This is everything to me and I don’t have a choice but to kick ass.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Don’t listen to her!” Ifeoma says an hour later, after she’s ordered a round of margaritas at Superica, their favorite spot for their monthly brunch. “What the heck does she know?”

  “Um, she knows a lot,” Natasha says. “It’s her job and area of expertise, remember?”

  A waiter puts down two baskets of chips and tiny bowls of salsa. Natasha takes a handful of chips and dips them into the red and green sauces that are at the edge of the table. She gives a silent declaration of gratitude for being at a place that feeds her right away. Now she just has to make sure she doesn’t fill up on the chips and actually has room for her entrée.

  Within minutes, the tables around them are occupied. Every restaurant in Krog Street Market gets way too crowded on Saturdays.

  An Indian couple sits next to them. They’re both dressed in standard weekend casual wear: T-shirts, jeans, white sneakers, Warby Parker sunglasses on their heads. The guy comments on the industrial-chic décor and orders two margaritas. He slides his hands over the girl’s and smiles when he glances at her ring finger. Three diamonds—one large round center stone, two smaller side ones—wink as they catch the light.

  Of course you’re newly engaged, Natasha thinks.

  Why is she suddenly seeing engaged couples everywhere? It’s as though in the last month, there was a public announcement made for all people who are engaged to show themselves.

  She could have been one of them. Her weekends with Karan always flew by in a blur of food and friends and binge-watching a show. Why did she let that go? Were her parents right about her making self-destructive choices? And what if that really was the best she was ever going to get? She had heard of those stories of people who broke up with someone and then realized they fucked things up after it was way too late.

  “Whatever, I don’t care if that chick supposedly knows what she’s talking about.” Ifeoma waves her hand as if Alexis’s qualifications are an unpleasant smell. “All I’m saying is that if I listened to every person who told me I couldn’t do something, there’s no way I’d be in law school right now.”

  “Yeah, but what if she’s right?” Natasha scans the menu. She was going to try to be healthy today, but now she’s craving comfort food. She asks for the hotcakes, complete with whipped butter and buttermilk syrup.

  “She’s not right!” Ifeoma takes a sip of her margarita and leaves an orange lipstick print on the rim of her glass. Her lip and nail colors are always bold. “You should show up to class next weekend and make it your mission to prove her wrong.”

  Ifeoma is always on the lookout for a mission. By their sophomore year at Georgia State, she had protested for equal pay for women, better legal representation for the underserved, and more recycling bins around campus.

  “Are you going to tell your mom what Alexis said?” Payal asks. “I mean, she used to act. She probably knows what it feels like to get constructive criticism.”

  Ifeoma shakes her head and smiles. “I love your mom. That woman could stop a war with her food and charm. And I agree. She has to get what this is like.”

  “Does she, though?” Natasha says. “I feel like she’s so far removed from that time in her life. She definitely doesn’t behave like she understands anything I’m going through. And if she hears someone thinks I’m not cut out for it, it’ll only validate everything she’s already been telling me.”

  Mom’s disappointment is palpable. It has a way of spilling over and submerging Natasha with its weight. She can picture Mom now, the skin tight around her mouth, her eyes narrowed as she laments how she could have raised such a failure of a daughter.

  Natasha’s phone buzzes.

  DAD: Hope you are okay.

  NATASHA: I’m fine. Sorry I missed the family phone call this week.

  DAD: Don’t worry. Suhani said you have been busy and we should give you space.

  NATASHA: Didn’t know she said that.

  Ifeoma and Payal are staring at Natasha when she looks up from her phone.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Just my dad. I guess my sister had my back when my parent
s tried to do a group phone call the other day and I wasn’t in the mood.”

  “You still haven’t talked to them?” Payal asks.

  Natasha shakes her head. “Suhani and I haven’t really been getting along. She’s been sending me job openings and judging my drinking and just always lecturing me about something.”

  She stops herself from saying more. It doesn’t feel right to complain about Suhani. That’s one of the most confusing things about her sister. Just when she’s getting on Natasha’s last nerve, Natasha’s reminded of everything Suhani’s done for her.

  “Look, yeah, Suhani can be intense and I get you saying she should calm down sometimes,” Ifeoma says. “But is it possible that she’s right about some of the stuff she’s telling you?”

  “Like what? She has no idea what it’s like to deal with the shit I do. And all she does is criticize me when I need some support.” Natasha feels a prick of irritation as she pictures her pretty, smart, ambitious sister. Her untouchable sister.

  “I don’t know if that’s all she does,” Payal says.

  “Seriously? You’re taking her side?” Natasha asks, even though she shouldn’t be surprised. Payal is the most Suhani-like of their group, but all Natasha’s friends have revered her sister since they first met her. And while a part of her understands why, a bigger part wishes they’d see Suhani from her perspective for once.

  “Of course not,” Payal says at the same time Ifeoma blurts, “Yes.”

  “We have no idea what’s going on with you,” Ifeoma says. “You know we’ve always got your back. Always. But from my standpoint, you’ve broken up with your boyfriend, quit your job, and are crashing with your sister and brother-in-law so you can go after your comedy. I get why Suhani’s worried. I have been, too.”

  “Worried? Why?” Natasha gives her best I’m-great smile. She’s become skilled at appearing more fine than she really feels.

  “You’ve been sort of MIA on our text thread and we haven’t seen you in weeks.” Payal smiles. “With all the stuff that’s going on with you, we didn’t know if something was happening . . . again.”