Scattered Ashes

by Dona Sarkar

  * * *

  I was sure my evening would be uneventful to even out the day I’d just had. Traffic crossing the bridge to the U was surprisingly relaxed and uneventful. Chatting with my favorite barista at Sureshot as I got my usual White Angel coffee was uneventful.

  The barista furrowed his eyebrows, one decorated with a tribal ring, and shared some coffee-shop gossip about some new guy named Zayed as he blended my white chocolate mocha with coconut. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it, and honestly didn’t care much.

  “He’s Mediterranean or Italian or something. Dark hair, striking eyes. He’s new around here, and friendly, even talks to the bums. The girls keep asking about him,” he said pointedly.

  I ignored his remark. “Stop trying to set me up with random guys. My ex wants to go out with me again, and I’m thinking about it, thank you very much.”

  “The guy that dumped you for being an actual human being?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Wow, sounds like a great guy. Let me guess: rich, trust fund, drives a BMW, thinks Wallingford is dangerous at night.”

  I narrowed my eyes, annoyed at him for the stereotype and at myself for being annoyed. He’d hit too close to the truth. Jason was everything he’d said, but much more. Was there anything wrong with wanting to be with a guy who was like me?

  Realizing debating with the barista had made me late for my very first class, I sprinted across the street into the glistening white building next to the bank. After taking three flights of stairs two at a time in my stilettos, I paused in the doorway of the classroom to catch my breath.

  Normalcy took longer than expected once I saw who was standing in front of the room. It was him, the boy from the window. The one with the eyes. I literally had to hold onto the door frame, watching my knuckles lose color as my heart raced.

  Wavy black hair, skin the color of a raw almond, those extraordinary wide-set eyes. He carried himself proudly, the posture of a prince casually swathed in black slacks and a gray V-neck sweater.

  “This is Zayed Anwar,” my administrator friend was introducing him to the students already in attendance. “He will be teaching this class.”

  “Hello, everyone.” Zayed tilted his head as he made eye contact with his audience. “Please take a few minutes to get acquainted with the items on your desk.”

  “Please be nice,” the administrator added as her parting words to the class. She squeezed my arm in recognition on her way out the door.

  I hovered in the doorway, scanning the classroom. The new-paint smell was almost overwhelming in the spacious room with light hardwood floors. There were only twelve desks, most already occupied. A row of windows lined the western wall, overlooking University Avenue below.

  I approached, searching Zayed’s face for some trace of recognition. His expression remained polite, neutral. It was as if he had never seen me before. Unacceptable. I made a silent resolution to dazzle him as he had me.

  “I’m Mars Alexander,” I finally said, holding out my hand and giving him the smile that usually got me what I wanted.

  Zayed’s lips parted as he took my hand. “It’s a pleasure,” he said.

  Nothing more.

  I claimed the only seat left in the second row. Not too obvious, not too disinterested. I opened the study guide on the corner of the desk and flipped through the first few pages, watching Zayed through my eyelashes. He greeted each student with a smile and a handshake. I noticed several girls doing a double take and whispering with their neighbor about our handsome instructor. I felt a stab of possessiveness. I’d seen him before any of them.

  He didn’t glance my way once.

  He started class with an introduction while perching on the edge of the teacher’s desk in the front of the room. A tangerine and a mango were next to a heap of SAT prep books that were neatly lined and stacked. “For the next eight weeks, we are going to get to know each other quite well. I’m going to take excellent care of you, and you will do amazingly well on your exam.” He made eye contact with each person in the room as he talked.

  I started to warm up on the inside when his eyes met mine again. How could he not recognize me? I could still feel the crazy electric current that had shot through me on the sidewalk.

  Zayed continued to outline the objectives of the course. “I’ll also need your email addresses before you leave. Don’t worry, I won’t send any chain letters, unless it’s 101 Ways to Torment Your SAT Instructor,” he said, earning a laugh, mostly from the girls. “I will be emailing your grades and comments to you once a week, though.”

  He had a very interesting accent, not quite European, not quite Middle Eastern. It was fairly obvious that English was his second language by the careful way he selected his words.

  “Due to our current heavy reliance on computers, students become panic-stricken when asked to write an essay by hand. The essay section is twenty-five minutes long. All essays must be in response to a given prompt; these are often philosophical and are designed to be accessible to students regardless of their educational and social backgrounds.”

  “Like?” one of the girls who’d been eyeing Zayed asked.

  “Discuss whether a big technological change, such as the internet, also carries negative consequences to those who benefit from it.” Zayed smiled in her direction. I could see his dimples from across the room. “You’d discuss how information is so easy to access now—but what does that mean for your personal privacy?”

  The girl was too busy smiling at Zayed to respond. He smiled back and continued talking. I tried to think of an intelligent-sounding question too, but only came up with “How are these graded?”

  I was about to raise my hand, hoping he would turn to me, when he said, “Two trained readers assign each essay a score between one and six, and the scores are summed to produce a final score from two to twelve.”

  I’d gotten a six. A 50 percent pass rate. I, Mars Alexander the Second, was a failure in the grand scheme of things unless I took action fast. I had to get at least a ten on the next one. I couldn’t risk anything lower if I wanted admission into the U.

  For the rest of the class, Zayed walked us through the study guide, which consisted of sample essays, some of them done well and some not. He also introduced us to the standard essay structure and common pitfalls, most of which I already knew. More than listening to the lecture, I was mesmerized by his voice, his tone, and the words he chose to thread together into perfect sentences.

  I would stay after to talk to him, I decided, to find out about his qualifications for teaching the class. I was putting my future in his hands, after all.

  “Miss Alexander?” his voice shattered my daydream. It was the first time he’d looked my way or spoken to me in over an hour and a half.

  I knew the ignoring-me act couldn’t last. I practically shot to my feet. “Yes?”

  “Please sign in before departing.” Zayed gestured toward the sign-in sheet on his desk.

  The classroom was empty. Where had I been this whole time? I blushed as I approached his desk.

  “Your vocabulary is astonishing,” I said as I scrawled my name on the sign-in sheet. “Where did you go to school?”

  “Paris.” Zayed waited till I was done to reach across and collect the sheet of paper. He tucked it into a manila envelope.

  “Did you move here fairly recently?”

  “I did.” He didn’t pause as he put the envelope into his messenger bag along with the two pieces of fruit. I saw a flash of a burgundy book I assumed was the same one he’d been reading the day before.

  “Do you read a lot?” I probed further, not ready to accept only these indistinct answers.

  I forgot everything I was planning to ask as he made eye contact with me. “Miss Alexander, I noticed you were quite distracted today. Please be attentive in class. You’ve paid a significant amount of money to be here, and I would prefer you get the most possible benefit from it.”

  “I—”


  “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Not too subtly, he gestured toward the door.

  And there was nothing more for me to say.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Roof

  “We’re doing this again.” Jason announced. He reached for me after parking his silver BMW on the street at the exact midpoint between our houses. There was, of course, the chance that a neighbor would see us and immediately report the news to one of our parents. I wasn’t ready to predict Jason’s parents’ reaction, but Lana’s was fairly predictable.

  The Sunday evening date had been good. It was as if the past month had never happened. We’d literally picked up exactly where we’d left off.

  I forgot about everything as his lips whispered my name in my ear and then grazed my cheek, avoiding the area where the scar still lingered. He pulled back for a customary gaze into my eyes before touching his lips to mine and holding them for a few seconds, fingers winding up into my hair.

  The kiss was expected given the buildup during our date. Tender, gentle, the perfect kiss. Nothing new, nothing different. Something I’d known for years.

  Earlier, he’d come inside to chat with Lana, although I was more than willing to leave immediately. We’d dined on fresh-baked ravioli at a fine Italian restaurant in Bellevue and seen a surefire Oscar-contender movie. It had been the perfect date, one we’d had many times before.

  “You haven’t had enough of me yet?” I murmured, only half-joking.

  Jason pulled away again but didn’t release me. “I am so far from that. Ride with me to school tomorrow?”

  But for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Protected. I didn’t have to think about Lana or Dad or the SAT or anything else. As long as I stayed exactly where I was, nothing else could happen; we could be back together, Mars and Jason, the quintessential Lakeville High School couple.

  That thought dissipated as I realized I didn’t have that option.

  “I’ll drive myself tomorrow.” I pulled away first. “I have SAT class after.”

  The mood was broken as I thought of Zayed Anwar again.

  “Okay, but you have to make it up to me.”

  I raised an eyebrow in his direction. There was one person in the car that had making up to do, and it certainly wasn’t me.

  Jason realized I wasn’t amused and quickly leaned over and kissed the scar on my cheek, as if telling me he wanted to heal what had happened between us a month ago. “Will you go to the homecoming dance with me? I’ll be perfectly behaved.” He raised his hands as if in surrender.

  “We’ll see.” I ducked out of the car before he followed with another kiss and made my way up the driveway under Jason’s watchful eye. I waved to him from the doorway, not lingering.

  The yellow roses Jason had brought for me were arranged beautifully in a multi-stemmed vase on the kitchen counter, but otherwise the living room was as I’d left it. The rest of the house was dark and quiet. Lana was nowhere to be seen.

  We had spoken very little since that night I’d discovered the dating site, mostly about the SAT class and what a jerk I thought the instructor was. She’d been going on dates. I’d been able to tell that by the parade of new Ted Baker dresses she’d left the house in every night for the past week.

  I carried the roses up to my room and set them on my nightstand. Yellow for friendship. It was a strange choice for Jason to bring seeing that he was very focused on rekindling our relationship.

  I attempted to drift off to sleep, thinking of Jason and hoping I would dream of him that night. He’d asked me to homecoming. We’d gone together to the homecoming dance the past three years. It made sense for us to go together senior year. I could get a dress on short notice.

  I could foresee the next few years now that things were back on track. Jason and I strolling across the University of Washington campus, holidays split between each other’s families. And at the end of college, he would propose with his great-grandmother’s ring. We would move into a beautiful house on the lake and have the perfect family. I would be safe and loved, and my father and Lana would be so very proud of me.

  Why, then, did these thoughts not lull me into happy dreams? I finally turned on my nightlight and flipped through that damn Theodore Robert Watkins poetry again.

  When I breathe you in and out again,

  There is no defining line where you end and I begin.

  Where have you gone, and how long will this missing piece of me,

  This phantom limb, cause me this pain?

  I felt that odd twisting feeling in my stomach again as I closed the book. How could a guy who read such intense poetry be so cold in real life?

  A few hours later, I awoke to hear the sound of the front door opening and closing. I didn’t want to know if Lana was coming or going. A heavy feeling in my stomach, I burrowed deeper underneath the covers.

  * * *

  Dreading seeing Mr. Zayed Anwar again, I took my time parking the car as far from the College Preparatory Institute building as possible. Even after picking up a chipotle Mexican hot chocolate and walking slowly, I reached the classroom five minutes early. He was already there, looking through the study guide, eyelashes quickly skimming over one page after another. He didn’t look up at me once.

  Ugh, I hated him for the way he’d spoken to me, like I was some sort of spoiled brat in day care who needed a scolding.

  I chose a seat near the door, as far from Zayed as I could manage, and didn’t glance his way, except once or twice. I did try to see what he was staring at as he stood by the slanted bay of windows and gazed into the distance.

  His band of admiring female students didn’t follow my example and instead sat as close to his desk as possible. I pursed my lips and busily read through our study guide for the fourth time.

  He welcomed the twelve students and immediately announced a surprise. “Today we’ll be having a practice test. Don’t be scared, I won’t judge. Just think, the lower you score today, the better you’ll look at the end!”

  I joined the class in groaning, but secretly, I was terrified more than annoyed. This man was going to see my atrocious essay-writing skills. If he didn’t already assume I was some kind of airhead, he would know for sure after class.

  “Miss Alexander,” he said, smiling politely as if nothing had happened as he deposited a sealed booklet on my desk. When he saw me reach for it, he reprimanded me gently, “Please don’t open that until the test starts.”

  I seethed silently. As if I couldn’t comprehend the simple instructions, which clearly stated, PLEASE DON’T OPEN UNTIL INSTRUCTED in large block letters. I did not like this man.

  The twenty-five-minute test flew by too quickly as I struggled to organize my thoughts around affirmative action’s pros and cons. I could feel that I had not improved at all. And now, with the instructor determined to make me self-conscious, I didn’t know how I would. I was tempted to withdraw from the class and try again in a few months, with another instructor, like Lana had suggested, but I knew I would be too late to take another two rounds of the SATs before college applications were due. I reluctantly passed my test to Zayed along with everyone else.

  That was when the tremor beneath my feet literally shook me out of my chair.

  “Earthquake!” someone shouted as I stood up and tossed my pen and cell phone into my purse. Years in Seattle had taught me that the best thing to do with low-level earthquakes was to stay exactly where I was, get under a desk, and not panic.

  Then the lights went off in the classroom. Then in the building across the street.

  Someone dropped something. Someone yelled for everyone to shut up. Someone started to stand up. I stopped moving and glanced around in the darkness. This didn’t feel like an earthquake anymore. I recalled having seen tracks of power lines between the buildings woven in an intricate pattern. All it would take was for one to go down and the whole area would be in darkness.

  A minute later, we heard police sirens and ambulances in the distance. I picked my
purse up off the desk, wishing something bad didn’t happen every time I came to the U. I waited for Zayed to say something reassuring to the class, to give us further instructions, but I didn’t hear or see him in the hushed darkness.

  The fire-truck sirens outside were enough to spur the classroom into movement. I followed the herd of students to the door and saw that there was a jam in the stairway. Someone was going to get hurt.

  “Guys, be careful! We do not want a stampede,” I called out.

  I pressed my back against the door as the other students ignored me and frantically dashed into the scuffle.

  Wonderful.

  Only after my eyes adjusted to the darkness did I look up and see that Zayed’s shadowy figure hadn’t moved from his position in front of the board. He clutched something in his hand and stared out the window, motionless. What was the matter with him? We were looking to him for leadership and guidance, and he was standing there absolutely useless.

  “Zayed?” I called from the doorway. “You should get away from the window.”

  He still didn’t move. I had a feeling he was panicking. He was not going to be able to leave this building on his own.

  I looked longingly after my classmates, but my instinct held me firmly in place. And there, without warning, I felt the influence of my father as strongly as if he was standing next to me. He had always said that our role on this earth was to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. That was why he’d sacrificed a normal life for himself and his family.

  Dad commanded over a hundred men and women in the Reserves and considered it his responsibility to keep not just his people but the innocent people of Afghanistan safe from a recent uprising of locals who wanted the Americans gone. His group had faced hostile sheikhs, land mines, suicide bombers, and other things I didn’t want to think about.