How to Find What You're Not Looking For

by Veera Hiranandani

  “What about Gertie’s?” you ask.

  “What about Gertie’s?” Ma says and looks away.

  “Aren’t you going to need me to stay and help?”

  But she doesn’t answer. She’s moved to the oven and is checking on the meat loaf.

  “Ma,” you try one more time.

  “What are you kvetching about? You spend too much time in the kitchen. Go do your homework,” she says. You want to tell her that she was the one who asked you to put in the meat loaf. You walk out quietly and slip into your parents’ room, where you quickly take another look in every drawer for the letter.

  They must have thrown it out. You see Leah’s first letter sitting in a drawer, with no envelope. If only you could find a return address, you could write her yourself.

  You hurry out of their bedroom, but Ma is now relaxing on the living room couch, watching the news, having one of her drinks that smells like lime and rubbing alcohol in the tall glass. She usually only has a drink when she’s really had enough, but she’s been having them more often lately, along with her headaches.

  You wonder if you should sit with her, ask her more questions, try to get some answers, but you also want to be alone to think. You go into your room and look through the pile of records. Are your parents selling the bakery? Does it have to do with your sister leaving? The bakery, the four of you living here, it all seemed so permanent just a few months ago, like the rising sun. Now you feel like anything could happen at any moment.

  You put on one of your favorite 45s, Return to Sender, on the little red turntable, lie down on the floor, and turn it up. You like to feel the vibrations of the music through the rug. It was Leah who introduced you to Elvis years ago, and you’ve loved him ever since. You listen to the words he sings: We had a quarrel, a lover’s spat. I write I’m sorry, but my letter keeps coming back. So then I dropped it in the mailbox and sent it special D. Bright and early next morning it came right back to me.

  The song gives you an idea. You wonder what would happen if you wrote your sister without the address, just put her name on it and sent it to New York City. Would it somehow make its way to her? How many Leah Goldbergs could there be in Manhattan? Hopefully it won’t come back.

  How to Have a Learning Disability

  Miss Field sits in a student desk chair, not her own desk chair, with her legs crossed. Today she’s wearing a paisley dress, so many colors swirling on her, it makes you dizzy. You wait with her for Ma to get there. Ma is late. You imagine her rushing to take off her apron, washing the flour off her hands, swiping on fresh lipstick, and hopping on the #7 bus.

  “Do you think your parents forgot about the meeting?” Miss Field asks and gives you a gentle smile.

  “My mother mentioned it this morning,” you say. You don’t want to be the one to tell her that Daddy isn’t coming, not when there’s bread to be baked and cakes to be decorated. Daddy has become one of the most popular cake decorators in the area. He started teaching you how to do a basket weave design with buttercream and make sugar roses because he needs the extra help. You can’t do roses yet, but the basket weave is getting easier.

  “Okay, we’ll wait another five minutes,” she says and crosses her legs the other way. “I liked your outline for your current events project. You had a lot of strong facts in there.”

  “Oh, um, thank you.” You feel shy. Teachers don’t usually say such nice things.

  “Did you know about the Loving case before?” she asks.

  “Yes,” you say and nod. You know you’re not supposed to tell her why. Ma told you never to tell anyone about Leah. Your parents have made up a story that she’s gone away to school, and that’s what everyone believes, their friends, relatives, even Jane.

  “So what do you think?” she says.

  “About what?” You squirm in your chair, hoping to hear the click of Ma’s shoes in the hallway.

  “About the case. I noticed you listed all the facts, but remember, for the assignment, you’re also supposed to give your opinion. You said the ruling made laws preventing interracial marriage unconstitutional. You also noted that sixteen states still had these laws at the time of the ruling. What do you think about that?” she says and sits back a little in her chair.

  “I . . .” you say and stop. Teachers usually have you memorize the answers they want you to know. You’re not sure what the right answer is supposed to be.

  “Really, I want to know,” she says and leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. You look around and see a shaft of light coming through the classroom window. It shows all the bits of dust that you normally can’t see. You turn to Miss Field again. Her eyes are lit up, waiting for you. She seems excited and calm at the same time. You wish you felt the same way.

  “I think it’s good,” you finally say. She nods and stays quiet.

  “Why?” she asks after a few seconds.

  “I think it’s good because any two people who are in love should be able to get married if they want to. Even if they’re from different races, religions, or whatever. Even if their families don’t agree. Even if it changes everything.” Your heart is pounding so hard, you wonder if Miss Field can see it through your shirt. You hadn’t even said to yourself what you thought, but then you think of Leah and Raj holding hands in the park, kissing behind the oak tree. It had looked so simple in the beginning of the summer.

  “It seems that you believe in equal rights for everyone,” Miss Field says, her eyes still lit up. “That’s good. I do, too, but many people don’t. Still, the more people think like we do, the more things will change.”

  It seems so simple the way Miss Field puts it, but it doesn’t seem simple in your house. It doesn’t seem simple in the news. You nod and wish you could tell Miss Field the truth.

  You wish you could tell her that you don’t understand why Daddy and Ma are treating Leah like she isn’t part of your family anymore.

  You wish you could tell her that you’re not even sure which part Ma and Daddy are more upset about—the fact that Raj isn’t Jewish or the fact that he’s Indian.

  Mostly, you wish you could tell her that you’re afraid you might never see your sister again.

  Before you can say anything, though, you hear Ma’s shoes tapping down the hallway.

  You and Miss Field turn and watch her walk in the door.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ma says, looking flushed. “The bus was slow.” Even though you have a car, Ma never learned how to drive. That doesn’t stop her from telling Daddy how to drive all the time.

  “That’s quite all right. I know all about the buses around here. You never know if they’ll be on time.”

  Ma’s shoulders drop, and she smiles. “Yes,” she says and sits down in the empty desk chair next to you.

  “I’ve been talking to Ariel about her wonderful current events project,” Miss Field says.

  “Oh,” Ma says. “She hasn’t mentioned it. What is it about?”

  You hadn’t thought this through. You should have begged Ma to let you go home after school so she would have come alone.

  “Ariel, why don’t you tell your mother?” Miss Field says as if this would be fun for you.

  “It’s about the Loving case,” you mumble and scratch some hardened bit of food off your shirt.

  “The what?” Ma says, looking at Miss Field and not you.

  “The Loving versus Virginia case. Perhaps you’ve read about it in the papers, Mrs. Goldberg? Last June, the Supreme Court ruled that state bans on interracial marriage are unconstitutional.”

  Ma glances at you with a question on her face, then back at Miss Field.

  “Oh, I’m quite familiar with it,” she says, smoothing her skirt.

  You squirm in your seat, losing yourself in the orange-and-brown plaid pattern on your pants. They are suddenly incredibly itchy. Ma picks up her purse, puts it square in
her lap, and holds it tight.

  “I believe you mentioned something about Ariel’s handwriting?” Ma says a little louder now. She’s starting to use the same voice she uses when the flour order is late. “Isn’t that why you called me in?”

  You sit forward in your chair and glance at the big clock on the wall. Tick-tock, tick-tock goes the second hand. It feels like you’ve been here for an hour, but only ten minutes have gone by.

  “Yes, yes,” says Miss Field. She smiles and blinks her eyes nervously. She suddenly looks so young, no older than Leah. She gets up, goes to her desk, picks up a folder, and returns to her seat.

  You never thought a teacher wanting to talk about your handwriting would make you feel so relieved. You take in a breath, let it out slowly, and watch the dust floating in the sun.

  Then Miss Field shows Ma examples of your handwriting. She says she’s concerned. She says that it’s not only your handwriting she’s concerned about, but the writing level. She says you’re obviously highly intelligent and believes that this isn’t your full potential and that she’d like to provide you with extra support.

  This is the part you know. This is the part that happens every year, though usually teachers don’t say “highly intelligent.”

  Ma is nodding. She knows this part, too. In some way, it feels comfortable, and you settle back into your chair. Miss Field will start suggesting more practice at home, writing on large, ruled paper. Ma will nod some more, clutch her purse, and say that she hopes you’ll grow out of it, like she does every year. She’ll tell the teacher how you can knead bread dough, make cookies, and decorate cakes as well as anyone, which isn’t exactly true. She’ll ask if maybe you’re not trying hard enough. If you would just focus more.

  It’s as familiar as the patter of rain on a roof. But that’s not what happens at all.

  “So I have an idea. I’d like to bring in an electric typewriter so she can do much more of her work on that. Do you possibly have one at home, electric or not? I’d also like her to keep writing poetry. There have been some new studies that say that students with Ariel’s type of learning disability could benefit from both. Have you ever heard of the term dysgraphia? It’s not a common term. More people are familiar with dyslexia. It’s focused on writing abilities rather than reading.”

  Dysgraphia. It sounds like a disease. You start to feel scared.

  Ma blinks and sits up even straighter. “I don’t mean to be rude, but how long have you been teaching?” she asks in her full flour-order voice.

  “Three years,” Miss Field says. “But I have a degree in special education as well as general education. I’m not a specialist, however. We should get her formally evaluated to be sure.”

  “Special education! With all due respect, my daughter doesn’t belong in any special class,” Ma says and stands up. You start to stand, too. “I need to be getting back home,” she continues, putting on her coat.

  “Oh, Mrs. Goldberg. I certainly didn’t want to upset you,” Miss Field says. Blotches start to bloom on her face. “But I do believe she has a learning disability that affects her writing. Please stay. Let’s discuss it more.”

  You sit back down, but Ma doesn’t. That invisible feeling creeps over you. You could start doing cartwheels, and they probably wouldn’t notice.

  “I’d rather not discuss it more until I talk to my husband,” Ma says.

  “I was hoping he’d be here,” Miss Field says.

  Oh no, that was the wrong thing to say. Poor Miss Field.

  “My husband has a bakery to run, otherwise we don’t eat,” says Ma. “Ariel, let’s go.”

  You get up again and look at Miss Field apologetically. She’s standing now, and she’s a lot taller than Ma, though you hadn’t noticed before. You follow Ma out the door and take one last glance at Miss Field. She gives you a sad little wave.

  Typewriters. Poetry. A strange word. No teacher has ever suggested things like this before. There’s a classroom on the basement floor where some of the kids who can’t be in regular classrooms go. Is that where you are supposed to be?

  Still, it’s good knowing that maybe your trouble with writing isn’t because you don’t try hard enough or because you’re lazy—that there’s a name for it. That night before bed, another poem bursts into your head and out your fingers before you can stop it. Each poem becomes its own thing after you write it, something separate, like a living creature. You don’t care how messy it is; you just need to get it out.

  The Dust

  When people look at the air,

  they think there’s nothing to see.

  But when the right angle of light

  shines in just the right way,

  they’re always surprised

  by how much dust

  has been there

  all along.

  How to Keep Your Head Down

  “I got my part,” Jane says the next day on the bus without looking at you.

  “Yeah?” you say, wanting to seem surprised.

  “The mayor’s wife. Not a chorus part, but only one line.”

  “Well, at least it’s not a chorus part,” you say, trying to sound hopeful, but you’re not surprised. Life keeps disappointing you in the same boring ways.

  “I wanted to be Kim or Rosie so much. Honestly, I’d rather be home listening to the Beatles. Did I tell you I finally got my own copy of Sgt. Pepper’s? Now I don’t have to borrow Leah’s anymore.”

  At the mention of Leah and Sgt. Pepper’s, a memory of Leah sitting in the living room doing her nails, flipping through the latest issue of Time magazine, pops into your head. It was after your parents met Raj.

  Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band had been playing faintly from your bedroom. You can even remember what song it was on: track 6, “She’s Leaving Home.” You had no idea then that you wouldn’t be able to listen to that song after that. Sometimes you even wonder if Leah was inspired by it.

  Ma was there, too, watching the five o’clock news. You remember the cover of Time that week. People with long hair and wearing sunglasses played guitars over a red, blue, and yellow swirly background. It was a story about the thousands who traveled to San Francisco over the summer, spreading the message of love and flower power. Hippies, they were called. On the television, on the radio, in the papers, it was all war, protests, anger, and riots. In San Francisco, though, it was about peace and love.

  You read over Leah’s shoulder. The pictures showed lots of people with long hair, in long skirts or bell-bottom jeans, playing music and speaking out against the war.

  But the article mentioned drugs, too, that they did a lot of drugs. You weren’t even sure what that meant—to do drugs—just that drugs were bad. The whole thing seemed strange and dangerous, but kind of exciting, though you knew you weren’t supposed to think that. Ma always told you to stay away from the teenagers with long hair smoking in the park or hanging around Rocky’s. They looked kind of like the people on the cover of Time. “This used to be a nice town, but all the kids are going crazy,” she would say sometimes.

  Leah had finished one hand, a frosty pink color, and she flipped the pages of the article with the other and blew on the wet polish.

  “Maybe I should run off to San Francisco and become a hippie,” she said after a few blows.

  “That’s not the way problems are solved, by taking all sorts of drugs and dancing naked in the streets,” Ma said.

  “But don’t you believe in love? Aren’t you against the war?” Leah asked.

  “No one likes war,” Ma said. “And just when I think President Johnson has things under control, he makes the war worse. I don’t know about that man. These are troubled times, I tell you. The country is going to break in half.” She got up and switched off the TV.

  “Break in half?” you had asked. “How could that even be possible?”

/>   “Don’t worry about it. Just work hard and keep your head down. You’ll be all right,” Ma said as she headed into the kitchen.

  “Leah,” you said. “You wouldn’t do that, would you? Go off and become a hippie?”

  Leah straightened up. “Why not? I believe in love, equality, and civil rights, just like they do. I’m against the war.”

  “Nice girls don’t run off and become hippies,” Ma called from the kitchen.

  “Who says I’m nice?” Leah said and continued blowing on her fingernails.

  “Leah,” Ma said in a lower tone.

  “You’re just kidding, right?” you asked.

  She looked hard at you and studied your face. “I was, I guess. But hey, if I left, you’d get the whole room to yourself.”

  “Yeah, but—” you started to say. You wanted to tell her that you didn’t want to be here all alone with Ma and Daddy. Who would help you with your homework, your hair, to deal with Ma? She needed to stay around and help you grow up a little more before she went anywhere.

  “Do you like the color?” she had said, not letting you finish. She smiled and wiggled her fingers in your face. You looked at her nails, pink and shiny as candy.

  “Sure,” you had said.

  “When they dry, I’ll do yours.” Something made you agree even though you didn’t like polish on your nails. You remember how she painted them slowly, making sure they were perfect. A few weeks later, Leah was gone, but you still had the chipped polish on. You wish you could have kept it on forever.

  The memory is interrupted by Jane, who pokes your shoulder. “Hey, Ari, are you even listening to me?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” you say as the bus goes over a big bump. Jane drops the magazine she was holding on her lap. You both lean over to pick it up. An actress you don’t recognize is smiling on the cover. You look at her powdery skin. Her pink lips. Her blond hair. Did she ever ride on a hot bumpy bus smelling of baloney sandwiches?