by Mintie Das
We cram into the Talberts’ tight living room. The top two floors of the funeral home are the family’s private space. I squeeze into a spot on the overstuffed sectional between Jessica Chang and a new girl whose name I can’t remember. It’s been a while since I’ve been up here but not much has changed except that everything is a little less shiny these days.
I notice new pastel-colored throw pillows strewn across the shag rug and the whitewashed coffee table. It seems that all that’s needed to separate the living and the dead is a staircase and some home décor from Pier 1. I wonder if the spirits here actually follow the rules and stay downstairs, unlike mine, who used to show up anytime and anywhere they pleased.
There’s an entire wall filled with Naomi’s trophies. Some of them are from dance and cheerleading but the majority of them are social media awards. In the past few years, Naomi’s empire has expanded from our tiny town to what sometimes feels like the entire online stratosphere. Between her fashion blog, Cornfed Cutie, Instagram, and whatever the hell else, Naomi is a major influencer. Her social media consists mostly of her kickin’ it on the farm—riding a tractor, baling hay, milking cows, and running through endless wheat fields. Usually while wearing a bikini. I’m sure Naomi, who never misses an opportunity to show off, loves every minute of the attention she gets from her fame, but the whole farm-girl thing is a stretch; I’ve never seen her do anything around livestock that doesn’t involve a wind machine and a camera. Nevertheless, Naomi’s legions of followers, which seems to include our entire town, worship her.
“Want some, Violet?” Jessica asks as she holds out a bag of almond M&M’s. “If I had known we were gonna have a meeting after our two-hour practice, I would have totally gorged at lunch.”
Jessica’s parents moved here from mainland China and own the only Asian grocery store in town. Kids at school are always telling Jess how she looks just like Mulan, the same way they compare me to Jasmine from Aladdin. For the record, neither of us looks like either of them.
Jess has a wide, sexy space between her two front teeth and messy candy-apple-red-dyed hair that falls over her eyes and always gives her the appearance of having just come from a wild hookup. Her look is borderline edgy for Meadowdale, where shellacked mall hair and glitter eyeshadow are the norm, but as long as Jess can tame her locks with a scrunchie, she’s still considered acceptable for the Squad.
I am way less indie rocker and much more generic brown girl on the cover of a college course catalog. With my big, dark eyes, jet-black hair, and round face, I have that ambiguous minority look that allows me to check multiple boxes on surveys. Even though I think I look so Indian that my picture belongs on a bag of basmati rice, I’m often mistaken for Mexican or biracial. On occasion, people want to know what casino my tribe owns. Of course, I’ve had my fair share of being mistaken for an “A-rab” by rednecks who usually follow that up with a slew of choice ethnic slurs. That’s the thing about racists—they hardly ever get their racism right.
“You know we’re always on Naomi’s clock,” I whisper as I grab a handful of candy. “Which includes making time for some torture.”
I glance over at Madison sitting at the other end of the sofa. Her eyes are still red around the rims but she’s chatting with some of the girls next to her and it seems like she’s calmed down some.
“Oh, please, that puss is gonna have to grow a pair if she wants to stick around,” Jessica says between mouthfuls of chocolate.
Before my freshman year in high school, I tried out for the cheer team and didn’t make it. I was told I could be an alternate, which was a nice way of saying “You’re not good enough,” or join the Meadowdale High School dance team. I chose the latter and actually liked it.
Then when I was a sophomore, there were districtwide budget cuts and not enough money to fund both cheer and dance. So to the horror of Naomi and all of the other cheerleaders who thought they were superior, the two teams had to consolidate into a single cheer and dance squad—the poms. Officially, since our school mascot is a pioneer (neither tough nor menacing but politically correct), we’re the Pioneer Poms.
These days all twelve of us girls are required to dance and cheer. The newly formed team pretty much sucks at both. The dance girls try to blame it on the cheerleaders and vice versa. Mrs. Fischer, our coach, has stopped coming to our practices, although I suspect that has more to do with Captain Naomi than the team’s inabilities.
The only prize the Squad has earned is third place in a cheer competition where only three schools competed. We are ranked second-to-last in our district. Yet that doesn’t stop some of the girls from acting with all the pomp and attitude that I would think would be reserved for teams that are in the national top ten.
Tomorrow is our first pep rally and football game of the new school year. It’s a chance for the Squad to redeem itself after its dismal last season. Not gonna happen.
“Girls, listen up!” Collette Davis shouts. She stands still in the middle of the room with her curly blond ponytail swooshing back and forth behind her. Collette holds up a red, white, and blue hair bow similar to the kind that the Squad wears for performances. “We’re going to be selling these again this year for the Meadowdale Pioneers Spirit Fest.”
All of us lift our cell phones to take a photo of the bow. “OMG, the organizers still use Facebook,” Collette continues. “So you can get all the details about the event there. Use your parents’ account if you don’t have one. But it’s going on next week so I need everyone to sign up for a slot at our booth.”
Collette starts to sit down, then pauses. “OMG, I almost blanked out there. Duh! We need you guys to get your moms to sew like a thousand bows per mom. They can buy all the supplies at That’s Sew Crafty or Walmart. Make sure your mom mentions Pioneer Poms to get the ten percent discount.”
The girls start to text the photos of the bows to their mothers with puzzling messages like U need to 2 make 1K 4 Pioneer Poms ASAP.
Collette beams until she makes eye contact with me. “OMG, Violet! I totally forgot that you don’t have a mom. I mean, you don’t need a mom to make the bows. Your nanny can probably make them. Or, you know, someone else’s mom. Maybe my mom could do it . . .”
Collette’s face turns a deeper shade of red every time she says mom. The right thing for me to do is put the poor girl out of her misery and change the subject. But sometimes it is just so fun to watch people trip over themselves when handling this “sensitive” issue.
My dead mother accounts for many awkward moments in my life when hypercautious acquaintances assume that just the mere mention of the word mother or any of its delightful variations will cause me irreparable damage. But Mommy, Mama, Mom, or whatever I would have called her if I’d had a chance has been dead for fourteen of my sixteen years. I am over it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Naomi trying to keep a straight face. We’ve always shared the same wicked sense of humor.
“Frizz,” Naomi begins, invoking the nickname that she christened Collette with last season, “I’m sure that if Violet’s mother were alive, she would have been honored to sew our spirit bows.” Naomi winks at me. I hate myself for it, but I like being in Naomi’s favor even if she is like that jerky boyfriend that you know you should quit but just can’t. Not that I have much experience with boyfriends anywhere except in my elaborate fantasy life.
Collette’s eyes practically pop out of her head. “OMG! I’m sure that Violet’s mom would have been like the best pom mom ever. Especially because Indian people are, like, really good sewers because, you know, they have all those garment factories. And they let little poor kids work at them so they can eat. Because like there are a ton of starving people over there. Which is why I totally support India . . . Indians . . . Violet.”
Ding. Ding. Ding. I hear a set of imaginary alarms ringing at the political-correctness headquarters. Collette has doubled her dipshit points by pulling out both the dead-parent card and the Indian card in the span of two minut
es.
Naomi’s face lights up like she’s just struck gold, which secretly makes me proud. No matter how temporary being “in” with Naomi is, when she shines her light on you, it makes you feel like the most important person in the room. Naomi probably wants to take this as far as it can go, but I think we’ve already had enough fun at Collette’s expense.
I put my hands together and bow my head solemnly in Collette’s direction. “Namaste.”
“OMG. Namaste, Violet,” Collette gushes as she returns the gesture.
Naomi laughs and nods at me in approval. I feel a bit guilty for giving Collette crap. The girl probably meant no harm. Most people don’t. That’s why I usually let that race and ethnicity stuff slide right off me. But just because I pretend to be all cool about it doesn’t mean that it isn’t completely infuriating.
I was born in Assam, India, a tiny state in the northeast region of the country. When I was two years old, my mother died in a car crash. At the age of three, I moved to America with my father, older brother, and nanny. We lived in Texas for two years and then, over a decade ago, my family moved to Meadowdale. I’ve spent thirteen years in the United States, and I’ve visited India only a handful of times.
My connection to the “motherland” is about as strong as my connection to my actual mother.
They’ve both been out of the picture for practically my entire life. Yet, the same way that people expect me to mourn a person that I never knew, they expect me to claim a country that isn’t mine.
Every week that I can remember in my American life, I’ve been asked that question. I can feel my blood pumping just thinking about it. People always phrase it so innocently, as though they are taking a genuine interest in me. Usually it’s from a parent, maybe a mother who is surprised to see little Jenny bring a brown girl home from school. These days it’s more like a mother who is surprised to see little Johnny take a brown girl to the school dance.
Where are you from? I always respond with “Here.” Then they rephrase it. Sometimes they even say it slower, in case I didn’t understand. Where are you really from?
I always understand. I am the foreigner, the other, the outsider to everyone else but me.
“Last order of business,” Naomi announces, waiting until all eyes are firmly on her before proceeding. “Tessa and I have decided there’s gonna be a changeup in our halftime routine.”
Tessa is standing next to Naomi, and, technically, she’s co-captain. However, no one actually believes that she has anything to do with whatever horrible idea is about to be thrown at us.
“No way!” Collette cries. “We’ve been practicing this choreography for a month now. Plus I already posted a teaser of the first twenty seconds and it’s already gotten a ton of views.”
“FU, Frizz. It’s not a choreography change. Jessica is off the frontline,” Naomi declares in her perfectly heartless way.
“What?” Jessica stands up. “I’ve been frontline since my freshman year!”
“That’s because you used to be good,” Naomi says. “But lately, you’ve been dancing like your legs are made out of chopsticks.”
There is a collective gasp in the room for both the demotion and the racial slur. Jessica doesn’t look like she is going to accept either.
“It’s better than just leaving my legs open like you,” Jess retorts as she glares directly at Naomi and then Tessa. “And especially you.”
Tessa turns crimson from head to toe. With her raggedy hair extensions, neon-green-colored contacts, and fake tanner that makes her skin glow orange like she’s radioactive, Tessa is like the cheap knockoff version of Naomi’s luxury brand. Guys usually treat Tessa like a consolation prize, which might be why she’s always had a reputation for doing whatever it takes to make them happy.
Still, even if Jess’s comment rang true, the girl isn’t really a fighter and probably doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this. But that’s the problem with standing too close to Naomi. There is bound to be collateral damage.
“It’s temporary.” Tessa looks down at the floor. “We just wanna try out something new.”
“Of course, since everyone is watching the frontline,” Naomi continues, completely ignoring Jessica, who is still fuming, “we need to mind the D-word.”
“Dic—”
“Diversity! Not as fun as what you were about to say, Becca, but just as important.” Naomi beams.
“Hello? I’m black and I’m on the frontline,” Becca says, holding out her hands and then pointing to her face.
Naomi nods. “Noted. But you know that if we have only one token minority up there, people will accuse us of not really taking diversity seriously. That’s why we need another one—to look like we care. So since we’re moving Soy Sauce over there, we have to replace her with another flavor.”
My tummy does a quick flip. There are a thousand students at Meadowdale High School. Twenty brown girls. Four Indian girls, but none of them are in the junior class with me. And three females of color on the Pioneer Poms. One is Becca, the other is Jess, and the third is . . .
“You’re movin’ on up, Samosa!”
I instantly cringe for a few reasons.
First, Naomi knows that I hate that nickname. When I was in elementary school, my teachers always pressured me to take part in the annual international bazaar, an event where Meadowdale’s unofficial assimilation policy was temporarily lifted and I was expected to flaunt my Indianness like I was fresh off the boat. In fifth grade, I made the mistake of bringing samosas. Amid the plethora of pierogi, brats, pannekoeken, and herring that most of my classmates brought in to celebrate the one drop of Polish, German, Dutch, or Swedish blood they had, the puffy brown pastries were an “exotic” delight. All would have been good if Naomi hadn’t decided that I resembled a samosa and branded me with the nickname. Thankfully, the moniker didn’t stick past eighth grade. Except with Naomi.
Second, Jessica is a good friend and way more into poms than I am. She’d even gone to cheer camp over the summer.
Third, people actually notice the front row, which means that I’ll be out there on full display. Frontline is the opposite of blending in. A part of me has secretly wanted this—that’s why I actually put some effort into poms this season—but another part of me is petrified.
Fourth, is the only reason I’m getting this promotion because of some diversity quota? Shudder. Diversity, quotas, token minorities, affirmative action—all that bullshit has haunted me my whole life.
“Keep Jess, she’s better,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Naomi starts to respond but Jessica cuts her off. “Forget it, V. You do deserve it and I don’t really care. And BTW, there’s plenty of room for all three of us ‘token minorities’ to be on the frontline.” Jessica eyes Naomi up and down. “We just gotta get rid of this white bitch.”
“Really heartwarming, how you sistas stick together,” Naomi says mockingly before turning to face the rest of the group. “Meeting over. Get out!”
The girls don’t waste time gathering the duffle bags, backpacks, and purses that have been carelessly piled into a heap in the corner of the living room. A few of them congratulate me on my promotion before rushing out the door. Dancing frontline, even on a team as bad as ours, is kind of exciting.
“Violet,” Tessa calls out as I am about to leave. “You really do deserve this. It’s not because of that diversity stuff either. Naomi was just joking around with all of that.”
Naomi shakes her head vehemently.
“Stop, Naomi.” Tessa hugs me. She smells like vanilla with a faint hint of cigarette smoke. “V earned frontline because she’s good.”
“And because she’s brown,” Naomi adds wryly.
I flip Naomi off, which makes her smile. Then I exit the funeral home through the side door. A light summer breeze tickles the back of my neck as I walk into the parking lot. I check my cell. It’s almost half past seven in the evening and the sun is still hanging on, lying low on the horizon.
<
br /> I pop the back of my SUV, a four-year-old black Honda CR-V, the preferred car of the middle-aged divorced soccer mom. It used to be my dad’s, who, as a self-absorbed, absent-minded, widowed fifty-four-year-old professor, is the farthest thing from a soccer mom there is. But he is generous and gifted me with the car on my sixteenth birthday.
I throw my poms gear and school bag into the back. As I slam the rear door shut, a chill runs down my spine. I turn around slowly. Up in the second-story window of the house, I see the creepy intern looking at me. For a brief moment, I meet his stare. Then I drop my keys and hastily stoop down to pick them up. The blood rushes to my head. Slightly woozy, I will myself to peek up again. This time, he is gone.
I practically leap into the driver’s seat. I can’t stop trembling as I press the automatic locks. I steady my hands just enough to ram the key into the ignition, then drive away as fast as I can.
Three
BY THE TIME I pull up to the Fawn Ridge sign at the beginning of my subdivision, I’ve nearly managed to make myself believe that I didn’t actually see the creepy intern. No—that isn’t quite right. I acknowledge seeing him, but I am trying to convince myself that he hadn’t been watching me. In the past three years, I’ve become very adept at denial. It is the most useful weapon in my arsenal. Without it, I will surely end up in a loony bin—or dead.
I drive along the tree-lined street leading up to my house. Meadowdale, with its charming town square, old-fashioned train depot, and locals who embody the mighty red, white, and blue that make this nation great, is straight out of Stranger Things. Fawn Ridge, with its community chili suppers, Sunday slow-pitch softball games, and relentlessly nosy neighbors is exactly the type of hood where ET would live.
My life, however, is a total horror flick. Or at least it was back when I was an Aiedeo. The Aiedeo are an ancient line—my line—of Assamese warrior queens. If being an Aiedeo meant I had a primarily ceremonial role that required me to wear a crown and throw a spear, I could maybe handle it. But it’s so much more wack than that.