Unwanted Girl

by M. K. Schiller

  She clutched the black umbrella in her hand. Her time was growing short. She’d be returning home when her student visa expired at the end of the semester. Now was the time for risks! Or rather tomorrow when he ordered another sandwich.

  Chapter 2

  Dressed in a charcoal suit, Nick entered the fancy fusion restaurant, wondering why he hadn’t tried to cancel again. Not that Carrie would accept anymore of his bullshit excuses. He adjusted the noose-like knot of his navy necktie as the maître d' showed him to the table. Carrie sat in the corner booth sporting a bright pink dress and even brighter red hair that rebelled against the sedate opulence of the monochromatic colors surrounding her. Unlike him, she enjoyed dressing up. She crossed her legs, pointing the toe of her red-soled, polished heel toward Nick.

  “Do you always have to pick a pretentious restaurant?” he asked before kissing her cheek. He took the seat across from her.

  “When it’s a tax write-off, I do.” She leaned in as if revealing a secret. “The duck here is to die for.”

  “I won’t be dying today,” Nick replied.

  “You look great, Nick. You’ve been working out…a lot,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his bicep. “You have a license for these guns?”

  “I’m taking advantage of the gym in my building.”

  “What’s your regimen?”

  “I doubled up on my running time. I do reps of one-armed push-ups, sit ups, and chin-ups.” He continued on, detailing his nightly ritual, until he noticed her eyes shifting around the room. “Shit¸ you don’t want to hear about this, right?”

  “It’s interesting, but honestly you lost me somewhere between progressive overload and muscle confusion. Who knew there were so many terms?”

  “I do,” he snapped. “I’m trying to explain them to you.” Nick sucked in a deep breath, wishing he could erase his harsh statement. Carrie was there for him when he needed someone most, and here he was acting like a complete dickhead.

  “I’m sorry.” He ordered a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue from the waiter.

  “Nick.” She leaned into the table, her voice stern but compassionate at the same time. “It’s me, remember? Your best friend?”

  “How are you, friend?”

  “I’m well.” The waiter set down her Chardonnay and Nick’s Scotch. Carrie interrupted in the middle of his specials spiel, requesting another moment. “Are you allowed to drink?” she asked, as soon as the waiter departed.

  Nick winked, trying to put her at ease, because the line of questioning certainly wasn’t doing much for either of them. “I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m pretty sure I’ve surpassed the legal drinking age in this town.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I wasn’t an alcoholic, Carrie.”

  Nick searched for the waiter, but he was nowhere in sight. “What did you want to talk about? As I recall, this is a business meeting.”

  “We can get to that,” she replied, waving a hand at the hot bread on the table like a game show hostess, displaying a parting prize.

  “Are you trying to con me with carbohydrates?”

  “You have to try this bread. You can dip it in this extra fine, extra virgin olive oil or use this French herb butter.”

  “I prefer my olive oil with a little experience. It should, at the very least, mature to second base.”

  Carrie laughed much louder than the joke required. “I swear you’ll make me bust a button on this dress.”

  “I’d be a very talented man if I could undress a woman without touching her.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “Flirting has always been your…” She paused, searching for the right word.

  “Strong suit?” Nick offered.

  “Coping mechanism,” she retorted.

  “Ouch. Well then, I suppose we should get down to business.”

  “Why the rush? I haven’t seen you in a long time, Dorsey. Let’s catch up.”

  “I want to make sure you get your well-earned tax deduction.”

  She bit her bottom lip, her telltale sign of anxiety. “The publisher wants you to do a book tour.”

  “No,” Nick said with enough bark that the waiter stopped just shy of approaching them and veered off in a different direction.

  “Nick—”

  “I’ve never done one, and I’m sure as hell not about to now.”

  “Not that your sales aren’t high, but this could catapult them.” She gestured toward his face. “Even though I don’t approve of the Duck Dynasty beard, the fact is you’re gorgeous.”

  “Duck Dynasty?” he asked, tilting his chin and running his fingers through the thick growth, mocking offense at her joke. “Are you fucking with me?”

  “ZZ Top?”

  “Try again,” he said, fighting a smirk.

  “All right, Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall, but that’s my final offer.”

  “Sold!” Nick said, clapping his hand on the table. “You’re always negotiating, aren’t you?”

  “I am an agent.” She slathered butter on her bread.

  He rubbed his chin. “You don’t like the beard I’ve had for over a year now?”

  “I miss your face. You have such a nice one. I bet you could sell bibles in Babylonia.”

  “I have a feeling you’re buttering up more than bread.”

  “I still have eyes, despite not being interested.”

  “Your disinterest is a fact that I have mourned for a great many years. Along with all the other men in the five boroughs.”

  Carrie shook a well-manicured finger at him. “You want me to tell them no?”

  “Emphatically. Also, while you’re at it, inform them there won’t be any more books. My character and I have irreconcilable differences. He’s giving me the silent treatment.”

  “You’re still blocked?”

  “Like an iceberg. The kind that halted the Titanic.”

  “It happens.”

  “It’s been a long time, Carrie.” It felt good to admit things to her, to say his troubles aloud and relieve himself of the secrets, much in the same way he admitted to being an addict now. The last two books he’d given her were trunk books, squirreled away from an earlier time when writing was as natural as breathing. Now his trunk lay open, bare of any contents.

  “You’ve had a lot going on in that time. You’re not under contract, and I’ll let them know there are no plans for a new book.”

  “Thank you, Carrie.” Her quick agreement meant a great deal. After all, it wasn’t only his paycheck they were discussing. “How’s Maya?”

  “She’s good. She misses her Uncle Nick, although Tara’s pretty pissed at you right now.”

  “Why is Tara mad? She should be happy. She got the girl after all.”

  Carrie shot him a reproachful glance, but her mouth quirked, fighting her grin. “She’s still upset about your Christmas present. Who sends a puppy to another person’s kid?”

  Nick shrugged innocently. “I have a reputation to protect. I’m cool Uncle Nick. Besides, Maya asked for a puppy.”

  “Maybe next time ask her mom…either mom.”

  “Are you suggesting I should hold off on the pet snake?”

  He expected her to laugh, but her expression was serious. “If you want to do something for her, get your butt to Brooklyn sometime. She misses her Uncle Nick.”

  “I’m not the most sociable guy right now.” He dropped his voice, leaning into the table. “Besides, do you really want a meth addict around your daughter?”

  “Are you ready?” the waiter asked, interrupting them once more.

  “A few more minutes, please,” she said.

  He gave them a reproachful glance before heading back toward the kitchen.

  “Jesus, Carrie, what does a man have to do to get a meal around you?”

  She straightened in her seat, a gesture that fell between intimidation and consideration. “I have a few more things to say. You are in recovery, and she loves you. I won’t lie. We
were all shocked when it came out, but you were part of our lives when you were using even though we didn’t know. I don’t throw people I love away even when they make stupid mistakes.”

  “It’s more than a mistake.” He slugged back his drink, searching for the courage to confront his internal conflicts. “I was in denial for a long time…longer than you know. But I swear I never used around your family, Carrie.”

  “I believe you, but that’s my point. Why are you ignoring us now when you need your friends the most?”

  “Because I’m not in denial anymore.” He couldn’t explain the shame he felt for the person he was…is.

  “You’re living like a recluse.” She waved her hands dramatically. “I don’t even know how that’s possible in this city, but you’re managing it.”

  “I don’t own enough luggage to pack for the all-expenses paid guilt trip you’re taking me on. Now, can we table this and enjoy a steak or whatever fancy fusion name they call it in this place?”

  “Watch it, or I’ll downgrade that beard to Grizzly Adam status.”

  Chapter 3

  Shyla checked over the notes from her morning classes. Every day was the same. She went to school, learned first world techniques, and mentally applied them to the third world classroom she’d be teaching. She had worked hard, so hard that in this last semester of her senior year, she had a very light load and little schoolwork left to distract her.

  She started preparing for work. She twisted her long hair into a tight knot and changed into one of her black T-shirts, the uniform she wore at the deli. Each movement set at a precise pace that came with practice.

  “I’m leaving for work,” she told her dorm mate, Elaine, who’d had her nose in a book all afternoon.

  “Oh, okay,” Elaine muttered, running her hands through the purple strand of hair that broke up her natural honey coloring.

  “Must be a good book.”

  “It’s the new Keegan Moon.” Elaine nodded rapidly as if that simple statement spoke volumes.

  Shyla smiled, not because she agreed, but she knew better than to argue with Elaine when it came to her favorite author.

  “Do you want to come out with us tonight? Everyone’s coming over here, and then we’ll probably go to a club or something.”

  Shyla had gone to a club with Elaine before. She didn’t enjoy the experience. Men grabbed her as if they had some claim to her. The other girls fit in with their skimpy outfits and wild laughter. She felt out of place and wondered if the aftermath of her culture shock would ever wear off.

  Elaine wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Joel will be there, and he’s been asking about you.”

  “Maybe some other night.”

  She had gone out with Joel three times. He had seemed like a nice boy until he told her he loved Indian literature. Unfortunately, he wasn’t referring to the Bhagavad Gita, but rather the Kama Sutra.

  She considered Elaine a friend, but they weren’t exactly close. They conversed, but they didn’t have much in common. Elaine wanted to talk about television shows, designer outfits, and boys. Shyla didn’t have insights, much less contributions, on those subjects. It wasn’t Elaine’s fault. She’d made many attempts to socialize with Shyla, but Shyla’s introverted personality presented barriers. Perhaps she wasn’t even capable of forming a true friendship.

  * * * *

  Her shift at the deli bordered on hectic, keeping her mind focused and free of Nick Dorsey, the man who made her toes curl without her consent. Geet Dhillon bustled around the kitchen, her long braid flopping around her as she floated through the space like a passenger on Aladdin’s magic carpet. She’d been like this since her engagement to a successful lawyer.

  “He’s a nice Indian boy with a bright future,” her mother had said. “He will make a fine son-in-law, and they will give me beautiful grandchildren.” Her father had beamed. “He’s Sikh,” her brother, Adesh, had added, perhaps his only criteria in his sister’s arranged nuptials. “He’s hot,” Geet had countered much to her brother’s annoyance.

  Geet sang as she worked with an infectious, bubbly energy. Shyla’s expression faltered as a small pang of sadness took hold of her. The remnants of niggling jealousy followed. She hated the unwelcomed reactions, especially since the Dhillon family embraced her like one of their own.

  The deli had once served the area as a thriving Indian restaurant, but the neighborhood changed and a more corporate ethnic eatery opened nearby with cheaper prices. The Dhillons were smart, though. Instead of resigning to their fate, they simply changed the menu.

  Now the restaurant sold deli sandwiches and, as it turned out, there was a high demand for such things in a city where people rated convenience on par with quality. The Dhillons still sold Indian fare, too, but it was the simple sandwiches that kept them in business. Mr. Dhillon often spoke of the great American dream and how he’d come to this country with very little. There was pride in his voice when he looked at Adesh, the non-verbal passing of the torch conveyed in the exchange.

  Geet turned on the small stereo, slicing through Shyla’s thoughts. Bhangra music, a fusion of Punjabi folk and British rock, permeated the space, the fast-paced drums matching the girl’s enthusiasm. Adesh raised his eyebrows at Shyla. Music, in her opinion, was the greatest barrier breaker that existed. Her body moved to it, responding to his unasked question. He grabbed Shyla’s arm and spun her around while the Dhillon family clapped for them. She moved her hips and managed to shake her shoulders in the demure, feminine way that portrayed the subtle intricacies of Indian dance and the sexiness of Bollywood. For some reason, her shyness didn’t surface with the Dhillon family. It was easy to dance with Adesh. They had clear harmony, even though they lacked chemistry.

  He moved her toward a quiet corner. “I can always marry you and then you can stay,” Adesh said as if the absurd idea added weight to his argument.

  “You’re going to marry a Hindu village girl? And a Gujarati? What will your Punjabi parents say?” she joked, although such mixed marriages were now commonplace. Still, it seemed odd when considering he insisted his sister marry a fellow Sikh.

  “They’ll ask the one question we Punjabis ask. Can she dance? And the answer is yes.”

  Shyla laughed, spinning away from him. “I’m sorry, Adesh, but I have to decline. My family has plans for me.”

  “You know, we can just run away together. Every happy ending begins with a good song and dance number,” he said with an impish grin.

  The abrupt halt of the music drew their attention. A uniformed officer walked through the door, a frown on his face.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Mr. Dhillon asked.

  “We’ve had a complaint about the music.”

  The deli was empty of customers, and the radio wasn’t loud, but the neighboring businesses always had issues, even though the bar across the street blared music several octaves louder.

  “Our most humble apologies, policeman sir. We will keep it down,” Adesh said, his voice in a high-pitched imitation of the stereotypical Indian accent. His handsome face transformed into a sour expression that bordered on a scowl. Mr. Dhillon winced.

  “Be sure you do.” The officer walked away but stopped and turned back once more, his gaze lingering on Mr. Dhillon’s head covering.

  “This is a turban,” Adesh said slowly, pointing to his father’s head. He held up his hands in a signal of surrender. “No need to freak, officer. We are Sikh. We come from Punjab, which is in India. India is not in Pakistan or the Middle East.”

  “That’s enough,” Mr. Dhillon admonished his son.

  “I am aware of that,” the officer replied. “Keep the music down and make it easier for all of us, please.”

  Adesh went to open his mouth, but his father clasped a hand on his son’s shoulder in warning. Shyla gripped the edge of the stone countertop, silently praying for the officer’s swift departure.

  “Why do you incite, son?” Mrs. Dhillon asked when the officer left.

>   “Because they have no right to judge us. There are two kinds of people in this country. The ones who think we’re lovable people because they’ve watched Slumdog Millionaire and those who believe we are terrorists because of our skin color and turbans.”

  “I didn’t bring you here for a better life to watch you throw it away with your hostility. That’s not who we are. You insult our crowns with your disrespect,” Mr. Dhillon said.

  Although Shyla was Hindu and not Sikh, she knew enough to understand the turban represented the Sikh identity and the commitment to their faith. It wasn’t a piece of cloth, but rather their own self-crowning and desire to live like their guru who fought for equality and peace. In recent years, the turban had falsely transformed into a symbol of terrorism. Funny how meanings could be misconstrued. The Hindus had considered the swastika a visual image for good luck long before Hitler shifted the design for his own purposes.

  Shyla headed toward the kitchen. The previous jovial mood had dissolved into thin air. She organized the next day’s deli platter orders, trying to ignore Adesh’s hostile voice.

  It wasn’t long before he found her. “My dad’s always on my ass,” he said, moving to stand beside her. “Can you believe that bullshit?”

  “The officer was doing his job. He has to respond to every complaint.”

  His frown turned to a glare. Clearly, he had sought her out in search of an ally, and she’d failed him yet again.

  “I understand why—” she began, but his bitter laugh cut her sentence short.

  “You understand nothing, gullible girl. I guess it’s true what they say. You can take the girl from the village, but you can never wash the village off the girl.”

  The order slips fell from her shaking hand. She’d had it. Her anger required a great deal of fuel, but Adesh had sparked it like a lit match tossed into a keg of kerosene.