Instead, I turn to the first tab in my binder—Calculus—and begin finding the derivative of a function using first principles.
* * *
There’s a saying that bad things happen in threes. Or multiples of threes.
Sometimes they happen in the form of Afrin Irani, who stops by my locker on the way to English on Tuesday, breezily cutting through my conversation with Malcolm.
“Malc, I want to apologize for yesterday.” She gives him a slow, tentative smile. She doesn’t spare me a glance. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Malcolm frowns and I almost expect him to ask, What do you mean yesterday? But then he shrugs, smiling back nervously in return. “It’s okay.” His tone is polite. Warm, even. “It happens.”
The warmth isn’t entirely his fault. Afrin has that effect on people. Especially when she’s wearing a knee-length emerald-green sweater dress and sheer stockings, her calves encased in black leather boots that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Even her hair is glossy and smooth, red curls perfectly in place, unlike mine, the strands sticking up in the air or to my mouth like fine wires the moment I took off my winter cap.
“I mean it.” Afrin pauses right in front of him and touches the collar of his jacket. “I really am sorry.”
Malcolm’s eyes widen. His breath catches, as if he’s about to say more, but then he stops. This is when Afrin turns to look at me. Her smile sharpens, the rose pink of her lip gloss glistening under the fluorescent lights.
“See you around.”
I say nothing in response. Neither does Malcolm. But he still turns to watch when she walks away, her heels tapping the linoleum.
“So,” I say, when she’s gone.
“So,” Malcolm says, clear-eyed and innocent. As if it’s no big deal that his ex-girlfriend walked up to him and touched him, thanking him for some conversation I wasn’t even aware of.
His jacket, my mind corrects. She touched his jacket. But as much as I want to listen to that voice, another one continues to prod me, rears up green-faced and snarling.
“Are we going to talk about what happened?”
Malcolm sighs. “It’s not what it looked like. Honestly, I wasn’t even expecting her to come talk to me. Especially after the argument we had yesterday afternoon outside my house.”
“She was at your house?!”
“Outside my house,” he corrects. “It wasn’t a social visit. She’s been having some family issues. I can’t go into the details, but she wanted me to talk to her parents on her behalf and I said no. I told her I couldn’t do stuff like that for her anymore. That was it.”
I want to believe him. I really do. Afrin and Malcolm were together long before I came into his life. But I wonder now if there are other things I don’t know. Other secrets between them that I’ll never be privy to.
“I’d better get to class,” I say.
“Hey, Susan. Hey.” Malcolm gently turns me around. “I don’t love her anymore. Okay?”
His voice is quiet, serious.
“Okay,” I say. Then, as he makes a move to head to English, I tell him: “You go ahead. I need to use the restroom first.”
He hugs me goodbye, leaves a kiss on my forehead.
It’s only when he’s gone that I realize the reason behind the lump still in my throat. Malcolm said he doesn’t love Afrin anymore. But he never said that he loves me.
Malcolm
In the past I’ve told girlfriends that I loved them. Long before I knew the meaning of the words. It was easy enough; I love you lost most of its meaning for me, in a way, when my parents’ relationship began splintering, reducing the words to words, again.
“You’re breaking me, Tehmtun,” I overheard my mother say on the phone when she first discovered his affair. “Please come back. Come back and I’ll forget everything. Forgive everything.”
I vowed then I would never be like that over a girl. Over anyone. Until Afrin came along and I found out about her cheating on me. Ahmed told me then that there was no point in madly loving a girl who didn’t love you back in the same mad way.
“The girl’s gotta want to fight for you, too,” he said.
“What about you and Noorie?”
“Noorie and I liked each other, but it wasn’t love,” Ahmed said simply. “It was pretty innocent as far as relationships go. You, on the other hand, were crazy for Afrin.”
And though I know Susan and Afrin are nothing alike, I can’t help but think of every bad scenario that could happen if I tell Susan I love her. What if she gets scared off or, worse, decides she doesn’t love me back?
Or maybe I’m overthinking. Three days have passed since Susan and I ran into Afrin in the hallway and apart from that time on Tuesday, Susan hasn’t asked any more questions about her. She has been distracted by other things—more specifically, her driving test tomorrow. I’m thinking of what I can get for her—a gift that could work for either celebration or commiseration, depending on how the test goes—when my sister races past me down the hallway.
“Mahtab!” I shout. “Hey, Mah, what’s wrong?”
She skids to a stop, her sneakers squeaking against the tiles. “Everything’s wrong, that’s what!” She scowls, reminding me of the way she used to look when she was little. “I have to do everything and no one helps me do it!”
Trust my sister to overdose on dramatics when things aren’t going her way. “So this isn’t a mega-crisis?”
“It is a mega-crisis!” she wails. “Vincent Tran is leaving school!”
“What?” As much as Tran annoys me, this is a surprise. “When did this happen?”
“Last night! He told me his family is moving to Edmonton next week!” Mahtab looks like she’s ready to cry. “He was supposed to finalize the posters for the concert. I should’ve pushed him to do it earlier, but he kept saying he was busy! To top it off, the events coordinator at the Living Arts Centre emailed me and Ronnie this morning, asking to see a poster for the concert—right after we made the down payment for the venue. I tried to get hold of Jen Angus, but she’s booked solid with web-designing projects. The only other person who seemed interested was Susan, but I’ve no idea if she’s any good!”
“She’s great,” I say confidently. “I’ve seen her stuff and it looks almost professional.”
“Really?” Some of the stress on Mahtab’s face fades. “Crap, I need to go find her—”
The warning bell rings, cutting her off. “I’ll ask her when I see her today in English, okay?” I tell my sister. “I gotta go now or I’ll be late for class!”
I turn the corner, barely catching the tail end of Mahtab’s “Don’t forget!”
I’m about four feet away from English class—twelve steps from victory—when I’m hit by a roadblock in ratty jeans, a white sweater, and bright red hair.
“It’s Justin!” Afrin’s nose is red from crying. “He’s in the hospital!”
* * *
A drug overdose. An accident. The wrong end of a fist or a knife.
When it comes to Justin, none of these possibilities are impossible—and I hate that they run through my mind, one after another, as I drive a sobbing Afrin (and her car) to the emergency room ten minutes away from school. Afrin herself is no help, a mess of tears and unintelligible phrases when I ask her what happened.
“It’s my fault!” she keeps saying. “I shouldn’t … I … God, I was such a witch to him. What if he’s dying, Malc? What if he’s already dead?”
“Stop,” I tell her, finally, through gritted teeth. “Get ahold of yourself, Afrin.”
That I’m thinking the same things is probably terrible, and I need her to hang on so that I can, too, without losing myself to grief again. I have no idea if the hospital will let us in to see him either, since we’re not family. Once we park, Afrin and I race toward the ER doors. I’m thinking of ways to get Justin’s information from the triage nurse, when someone else crosses our path.
Justin and his mother share th
e same angular features, identical deep-set eyes. I’ve only seen the woman once in my life, at a party she accidentally crashed and threw us out of, shortly after she and Justin’s dad divorced. I never forgot the look on her face—the kind that made me feel simultaneously scared and guilty—or the quiet, cold voice that hid years of pain and anger. She wears a pale blue salwar-kameez today, the same one she wore all those years ago, or maybe it’s just the ball of nerves in my throat that’s making me think it’s the same.
“Mrs. Singh!” I say out loud. “Mrs. Singh, I’m Malcolm. And this is Afrin. I don’t know if you remember us, but we’re Justin’s friends.”
The lights pick out silver strands in Mrs. Singh’s long, jet-black braid. There’s a hard look in her dark eyes.
“I remember you,” she tells me. “You’re the boy who was throwing up until Ahmed took you home.”
I feel myself go red. Ahmed’s irresponsible drunk friend is not the way I want to be remembered at this time. But before I can think of something to say, she turns to Afrin.
“And you.” There’s no mistaking the steel within that soft voice. “I remember you as well. Aren’t you the reason my son is here in the hospital right now?”
“Mrs. Singh.” Afrin’s voice hitches in the effort to contain a sob. “It was a mistake. I swear. My parents forced me to go out with that guy—”
“And you had to, as always, involve my son in your schemes. Telling him to beat up that other boy.” Mrs. Singh no longer bothers keeping her voice down. People in the waiting area turn to stare at us.
“I didn’t know a fight would break out,” Afrin wails. “I even called an ambulance!”
“But you didn’t go in the ambulance with him, did you? Instead you found this boy to comfort you.” She jerks her head my way. “Look, young lady, I don’t care what goes on in your love life, but I do care about my son. If you try to come within an inch of him again, you will have to deal with me.”
Then Mrs. Singh turns, dismissing us, ignoring a blubbering Afrin. My head begins to pound. Of all the things to get involved in, this is a personal top-five worst.
“Come on,” I tell Afrin softly, glancing at the stern face of the triage nurse, who looks like she’ll call security on us at any minute. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be here anyway. We’ll try seeing Justin later.”
If his mother ever lets us. In my pocket the phone buzzes. I slide it out for a second to see the texts on the lock screen:
Steve: why didn’t you tell me you were skipping? I would’ve gone w/ u
Susan: Where are you? Is everything okay?
Mahtab: did you ask Susan yet?
I turn the screen black. There’ll be time to answer everyone later.
The whole story comes out when we’re back in the parking lot. Afrin’s talk with her parents had done no good and they’d insisted on her meeting the son of a Zoroastrian friend of theirs—a guy who was a couple of years older than Afrin.
“I went out with the guy yesterday,” she says now, her voice nasally from crying. “I mean it was one date. No big deal, right? We didn’t even kiss. But he showed up today at school and offered to take me out to lunch. I was so surprised, I didn’t even think of saying no. As luck would have it, Justin saw us and decided to confront me about it. Then all hell broke loose.”
“Why didn’t you break up with Justin before dating the new guy?”
“Justin and I weren’t together!” Afrin presses her fingers to her temples and digs them through her hair. Her nail polish is chipped and peeling. “We were seeing each other, sure. But there was no commitment. You know Justin. The moment he gets bored, he hooks up with some other girl. Since when has he ever wanted to be someone’s boyfriend?”
“Were you both seeing other people at the same time, though?”
“Well, not recently, no,” Afrin admits.
I try not to roll my eyes. “What do you mean by ‘recently’? A week, two weeks?”
“More like a month. Or maybe a month and a half. God, you don’t think…” Her voice trails off.
“Six weeks might mean nothing to you or me, but in Justin’s books it’s probably an engagement proposal,” I spell out. “Do you even like Justin, Afrin?”
She looks up at the hospital building, staring at it for a long moment. She says nothing.
I sigh. “What now? Do you want me to take you home?”
“Not yet. I have some stuff I need to get from my locker.”
We drive back to school in silence.
“Wait,” she says. “Can we … not go back inside yet?”
I open my mouth, ready to say no, when I pause. There’s a look on Afrin’s face that reminds me of Mahtab when she was twelve. The times she would hide under the bed when our parents got into a fight.
“Okay,” I say.
We walk to the field at the back, patches of mud visible through the melted snow.
“Remember that?” She points to the oak tree at the edge of the field. “How Han caught a guy peeing against it?”
I smile slightly. “Then Steve and I took turns pretending to unzip over there whenever Han was around, to bug him.”
Seeing a smile break through the sorrow on Afrin’s face, I decide to talk about more old memories. The time we came to school after a party, still smelling of booze. The time Ahmed and Steve rigged the school announcement system to play a hard rock song instead of the national anthem. Other silly things our common friends did over the years, the memory of each incident brightening Afrin’s face a little more. We talk for so long that before I know it, the final bell is ringing.
“God, we were idiots!” I laugh, a little exhausted by the intensive reminiscing.
My heart sinks when I see Afrin’s eyes reddening again. “Oh Malc. What am I going to do? I don’t even like the guy my parents have picked for me. But Justin is so confusing.”
It feels natural for me to wrap my arms around Afrin to comfort her. For her to nestle her head against my shoulder and sob. But it also feels strange. Like trying to wear a shirt that no longer fits.
“It’s okay,” I say now. “You need time to figure out what’s best for you. Heck, it’s high school. If we can’t make mistakes now, when can we?”
She raises her head and looks at me through reddened eyes. “My biggest mistake was letting you go.”
Then, before I can respond, she rises up on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
Susan
Malcolm disappears sometime after lunch, even though he said he would see me in English. I spend most of art fiddling with the phone in my pocket, wondering if it’s presumptuous or clingy of me to text, asking him where he is. Even though another, more insistent question pesters: Why doesn’t he answer?
“Susan?”
Fingers snap next to my left ear. Ms. Nguyen’s eyelids, always a canvas of different colored eyeshadows, shimmer with gold and pink glitter today. She raises her eyebrows and gives me a look that is part disapproval, part amusement.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Nguyen,” I say at once, embarrassed. “Did you ask me something?”
“I’m trying to get an idea of what you’re planning for your final project.”
“I’m, um, still thinking about it.”
Truthfully, after Appa came here, I have given my final project little to no thought. With my driving test tomorrow morning, tests in other courses, and my parents’ cold civility at home, art has taken a backseat. Something I feel deeply ashamed of now, when I look at my teacher’s expectant face.
“I’m not sure if I should do caricatures or a landscape,” I hedge. At least that much is true.
“I see.”
I’m a little afraid of that tone of voice because I have no idea what she does see.
“Are you okay, Susan?” she asks me quietly. “You’re not yourself these days.”
At Qala Academy, I would have been scolded for my inattention in class or been sent to kneel at the back of the room. Yet, as grateful as I
am for Ms. Nguyen’s kindness, I don’t know if I can tell her about my personal problems. It was hard enough explaining things to Malcolm and Alisha and my teacher is still a relative stranger outside the classroom. I open my mouth, ready to say I’m okay, but then shut it again.
“Know that if you need someone to talk to, my door is open, okay?” She squeezes my shoulder: a moment of warmth that disappears much too soon.
A moment later, the bell rings and I gather my stuff, ready to leave behind the general strangeness of this day. What I like best about art is that there are two exits from the room—one that leads into the hallways, and one that opens right onto the field. Today I use the alternate exit, pulling my furry hood over my head, my boots crunching the salt crystals sprinkling the concrete path. In the chilly air, I wonder once more what happened to Malcolm.
Until I see him, standing in the center of the field, his arms wrapped around a girl, bright red curls spilling out of her white cap and around her shoulders. Afrin.
He’s comforting her. I tell myself. He’s being a friend.
But then she raises her head and presses her lips to his. And he does not pull away.
* * *
I wait. I watch.
I move closer because I don’t want to be the cliché who overreacts to an ex-girlfriend.
When I was twelve, I came across a couple kissing in India behind a pair of palm trees on a beach in Kochi. For all the stories my mother told me about herself and Appa, I had never seen my parents do more than hug each other, let alone kiss the way this man and woman were, mouths fused together, hands on waists and entangled in hair. It had taken a few years before I understood the odd feelings muddling through me back then: curiosity and surprise, mingled with a funny sort of pain that I identified as longing.
I did not know back then what it feels like when the pain is compounded. How it can burn through your insides like a knife slicing skin.
When Malcolm finally does pull away, lashes blinking, Afrin giggles nervously.
The Beauty of the Moment Page 21