“Disgusting!” grunts Dillon. “What is that?”
I dip my spoon into the rice, scoop some up, and hold it out to him.
“It’s vegetable curry with okra and chickpeas,” I say. “Do you want to taste it?”
He looks at me weirdly.
“Dude, are you kidding?” he says and slaps the spoon out of my hand. “Do you think I want to stink like you, Curryhead?” he says. “You’ve been stinking up the place ever since you got here. I have to hold my nose whenever you walk by. We all do. Right?”
Tom Dinkins laughs. “You got that right, Dill,” he says, waving his hand in front of his nose.
I can’t believe my ears. Is this really what Dillon thinks of me? What they all think? That I smell? How is that even possible, when I take two showers a day—sometimes three? If I smell of anything, it should be sandalwood soap and coconut oil.
Dillon winks at me and grins. He doesn’t look like a movie star anymore. His crooked teeth and beady eyes remind me of Shakti Kapoor, the most notorious villain in Bollywood. All this time I’d been assuming Dillon wanted to be my friend—but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“I bet his mother stinks of curry too!” shouts Dillon over the laughter. “Everybody in that neighborhood does.”
My face burns and my legs are shaking like they are having a fit.
I want to:
Punch Dillon Samreen in the nose.
Insult his mother.
Tell him he looks like Shakti Kapoor.
But here is what I do instead:
Push up my glasses and rub my nose.
Pick up my things.
Run away as fast as I can.
Dillon doesn’t bother to follow me. I can hear him laughing his head off and slapping his sides.
“Come back, Curryhead!” he shouts.
But I just run, like I am running for my life.
I don’t know exactly what happened. All I know is that one minute Ravi is sitting at the table next to Dillon, and the next minute he’s running out of the cafeteria so fast those white shoes of his are flying like a blizzard in a snow globe.
“Come back, Curryhead!” Dillon shouts.
I could have told Ravi not to sit at that table. And I could have told him that it was only a matter of time before Dillon would come up with a mean nickname for him too. Ravi thinks I’m dumb, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I was the one who tripped him, but I can’t help it: I feel sorry for him. It’s not easy being a zebra. In fact, it sucks.
So here I am, in the boy’s bathroom. It’s the only place I could think of to go. After I wash my face and rinse my mouth, I look in the mirror and don’t even recognize my own face. No one has ever humiliated me like this before. I thought Dillon Samreen wanted to be my friend.
Luckily no one else is here—all three cubicles are empty. I hang my backpack and jacket on a hook, pull down one of the toilet seats, and sit down, clutching my tiffin box tightly to my chest.
Everything has changed. I am no longer the person I was before. I am Curryhead now. Curryhead who has no friends and can’t speak English. Curryhead who smells bad and doesn’t know how to do math or play baseball. At Vidya Mandir, I was like Dillon Samreen—a popular boy who everyone wanted to sit with in the lunchroom. Now I am sitting on a toilet in the boy’s bathroom, hiding from a bully. I think about Ramaswami and how I teased him about his big belly, laughing when Mr. Das whipped him with the neem twig. Suddenly it dawns on me: I am the Ramaswami of Albert Einstein Elementary School. Curryhead, a loser and the butt of the joke.
It seems I am getting a taste of my own medicine.
Mia is hogging the bed, so I sleep crooked and wake up with a crick in my neck. Sunshine is leaking in under the bottom of the window shade and hitting me smack in the face. That’s weird. It’s usually still dark when I get up. I roll over and look at the clock. It’s 10:45.
“Holy smokes!” I shout, jumping out of bed.
I throw on some clothes, shove my homework in my backpack, and run downstairs without even tying my shoes first.
My parents are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
“What’s going on?” I ask my mom. “Why didn’t you wake me up? And aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Bertie from the kitchen crew offered to cover for me, and you’re not going to school today,” my mother says quietly.
“I’m not?”
“Are you going to say hello to your old man?” my dad asks.
I go over and give him a hug. I haven’t seen him in over a week, and since he doesn’t shave when he’s on the road, his beard is pretty scratchy.
“Is it my imagination, or did you grow another foot while I was gone?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe. Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Have a seat, Joey,” my mom tells me. “I’ll get your breakfast.”
Usually on school days, I eat a couple of bowls of cereal and a smoothie in the morning, but my mother has made huevos rancheros. She and my dad have already eaten, so she loads up a plate with fried eggs and corn tortillas covered in salsa, and sets it on the table in front of me.
“Sprinkle a little of this on top,” she says, setting a small glass dish of chopped-up green stuff next to me, “It’s cilantro—filled with vitamin K. Let me know if you want hot sauce too.”
Huevos rancheros is one of my favorites, but for the second time this week, I’ve lost my appetite.
“Are we about to have a family meeting?” I ask.
My parents look at each other.
“Your mom and I do need to talk to you, Joe,” my father says.
Sounds like a family meeting to me.
“What do we need to talk about?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know.
My father turns to my mother.
“What’s the boy’s name again?” he asks.
“Dillon,” she says. “Dillon Samreen.”
Here we go.
“What kind of name is Samreen?” my father asks.
“He’s Indian,” I say.
“What’s his problem with you, Joe?”
I shrug.
“Have you ever tried sitting down with Dillon and telling him how you feel?” my mother asks.
“Come on, Gracie,” my father says, shaking his head. “Don’t you know you can’t talk to people like that? It doesn’t work.”
“What are you suggesting, Kirk, that he punch the boy in the nose?” says my mother.
“It would serve him right. These people come over here expecting to have it all. They ought to show some respect.”
“What people?” I ask.
“Immigrants,” my father says. “They’re visitors in this country; who do they think they are, pushing us around?”
“Dillon’s not a visitor. He was born here,” I say. “His dad’s a doctor.”
“You’re missing the point, Joe,” my father says. “The point is you have to man up and fight back.”
“Lower your voice, Kirk,” my mother says.
“There you go again, Grace. Stop babying him or he’ll never learn to stand on his own two feet.”
“I know how to stand on my own two feet,” I say. “I do it every day. You just don’t know about it. You wouldn’t even know who Dillon Samreen was if Mom hadn’t taken the job at Einstein.”
“We’ve been over this already,” she says. “I didn’t have a choice; I needed the work.”
“You promised me you’d stay out of my business, Mom. You crossed your heart and promised.”
Mia whimpers. She can’t stand it when I get upset. I reach down and pat her head.
“Your well-being is my business too,” my mother says.
Great, now she’s crying.
“How long has this Samreen boy been bothering you?” my father asks.
I shrug.
“Why didn’t you say anything about it?” asks my mother.
“I can handle it,”
I say.
“I’m going to call and speak to your principal right now,” my father says, reaching for the phone. “If you’re not going to stand up to that bully yourself, I’ll do it for you.”
“No!” I shout, banging my fists on the table. “No! No! No! You want me to talk about my feelings? You want me to stand up for myself? Fine. Here goes—I hate that Mom works at my school now. I hate that she keeps breaking her promises and butting into my business. I hate that she has to wear that stupid apron and blow that stupid whistle in front of everybody. I hate that you’re never home anymore, Dad. I hate that you think it’s okay to call up my principal without even asking me how I feel about it first. I hate that you’re always telling me to ‘man up’ and that you don’t like people who aren’t like you.”
“Indians, you mean?” he asks.
“No, Dad—I mean me.”
“What are you talking about?” he says. “You think I don’t like you?”
“Why don’t you ever turn down the TV when Mom asks you to?”
“Now wait a second,” my dad says, “I’m not the bad guy here. I’m only trying to—”
“Let him finish, Kirk,” my mom says, reaching over and putting her hand on his arm.
It feels kind of like I’m throwing up. I can’t control what’s coming out, and it’s not going to stop until l’m empty.
“I hate that kids think I’m dumb and that teachers don’t like me. I hate being afraid to raise my hand even when I know the answer. I hate that I’m taller than everyone else in my class, including my teacher, and that the only real friend I have is a dog. Most of all I hate Dillon Samreen, because he never, ever lets me forget who I am. That’s how I feel. Are you happy now?” I ask. Then I pick up my plate, scrape the eggs into the trash, and go upstairs to my room.
Perimma storms into my room waving a piece of paper.
“Wake up, Ravi, and explain this to me right now,” she says, pulling the sheets off my face.
“What is it?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Her hands are shaking as she pushes the wrinkled paper under my nose.
“I found this in your schoolbag.”
“What is it?” I ask, sitting up and reaching for my glasses.
“Look at me, Ravi,” says Perimma, grabbing my chin and pulling my face towards her. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“What have I done?” I ask, trying to see what’s written on the piece of paper.
Amma comes in, takes the paper, and sits beside me on the bed.
“It’s some kind of drawing,” she says, smoothing the paper on her knee.
I push up my glasses, rub my nose, and look at the paper. It’s a cartoon of a bunch of people wearing the same T-shirt.
“Did you draw this?” asks Amma.
“No,” I tell her. “I’ve never seen it before in my life.”
Perimma snatches the paper from me and studies it.
“Who is this boy?” she asks suspiciously. “Is that supposed to be you? Has someone been calling you names?”
She’s pointing to a boy wearing shoes that look like giant potatoes. I know who it is supposed to be.
“This isn’t me. It’s the boy who sits behind me in class. He goes for special help. I call him Big Foot, but his real name is Joe Sylvester,” I say. “Whoever drew this cartoon probably meant to give it to him, and accidentally put it in my bag instead.”
I hope this will satisfy my grandmother and put an end to the drama, but instead she starts up again.
“Why do you and Mr. Big Feet sit together?” she demands.
“Are you friends?” Amma asks.
“We don’t sit together. I sit behind him. The seating is alphabetical,” I explain. “Suryanarayanan comes before Sylvester. And no, Amma, we are not friends.”
My mother knows me too well.
“What’s going on, raja?” she asks softly. “You have to tell me.”
I want to tell her everything. How Dillon Samreen called me Curryhead and how I ran away and hid in the bathroom. How I have not made a single friend at school and have been ridiculed and laughed at every single day since day one. I want to tell her that I have been tricked into tasting beef too, but I can’t.
“What’s wrong?” Amma asks, squeezing my shoulder.
“Ow!” I cry.
Amma gently pulls opens the top of my pajama shirt and gasps.
“What’s happened?” she asks, gently touching my bruise with her fingertips.
“Nothing, Amma,” I lie. “I just bumped myself.”
Perimma turns on her heel and leaves the room only to return a minute later wearing her sweater and shawl. She also has a scarf, a red dupatta, covering her head.
“Where are you going so early in the morning?” Amma asks.
Perimma ignores her.
“Get up, Ravi,” she commands.
“Why?” I ask.
“I am coming to school with you. I want to see for myself what’s going on at this so-called Albert Einstein Elementary School.”
“Nothing is going on, Perimma,” I say. “And you cannot come with me to school.”
“When did you start answering back to your elders?” she says, her eyes flashing. “It’s all this American influence. Are you ashamed of your perimma now? Embarrassed of her saree and bindi?”
“I’m sure that’s not how he feels,” Amma says.
“What do you know about it, Roshni?” Perimma snaps. “Tell her, Ravi. It’s true, isn’t it? You wish your silly old perimma had stayed behind in Bangalore where she belongs, don’t you? There’s no place for me here in your new American life full of insulting cartoons and mysterious bruises.”
“No, Perimma,” I say. “I’m glad that you’re here.”
But she ignores me and goes on.
“I’ll tell your perippa to bring the suitcases from the garage. We’ll buy a ticket today and fly back to Bangalore.”
Amma sighs. “Don’t be silly, Meena Ma. Ravi just told you he doesn’t want you to leave.”
Perimma narrows her eyes at Amma. “You’ve poisoned his mind, Roshni. That’s what it is. We both know you don’t want me here any more than he does.”
“Stop!” I shout. “The reason you can’t come to school with me is because I am not going to school, Perimma.”
“Are you feeling sick again, raja?” my mother asks, quickly putting her hand on my forehead to check for a fever.
“Let me feel your pulse,” says Perimma, putting her fingers on my wrist. Now all of a sudden her voice is quivering with concern.
“I’m not sick,” I say, pushing their hands away. “I’m finished with Albert Einstein Elementary School forever. I quit.”
“Joey?” My mom is knocking on my door.
“Go away,” I say, pulling the pillow over my head.
But of course she ignores me. Why does she bother to knock if she’s just going to come in anyway?
“You didn’t eat your breakfast, so I made you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” she says. She sets the plate on my nightstand along with a glass of milk.
“I’m not hungry,” I say from under the pillow.
She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s still standing there. I hear her sniffle, so I pull the pillow tighter around my head. I’ve heard enough crying for one day.
“I have to go to work,” my mother tells me. “Your dad’s downstairs if you need anything. I’ll be back later.”
After she leaves, I come out from under my pillow. I look at the sandwich, but I’m really not hungry. All I want to do is go back to sleep so I won’t have to think about anything. Mia is staring at my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, whining. I pull off one of the crusts and toss it to her. She catches it in midair and gulps it down without even chewing. I would give her the rest, but I’m not sure if dogs are supposed to eat peanut butter and jelly.
I can’t fall asleep, so I get up and play a couple of games of Brick Breaker on my computer, then I fi
nish reading the last few chapters of Bud, Not Buddy. If the other books this Christopher Paul Curtis guy has written are as good as this one, I’m going to read them all. My appetite must be coming back, because I drink my milk and eat the rest of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and when I’m done, I’m still hungry. Thursday is macaroni and cheese day at Einstein. That’s the only part of school I’m sorry to miss today. A little mac and cheese would really hit the spot right about now. My mom usually keeps a couple of boxes of the instant kind in the pantry, but if I go downstairs, I might have to hear round two of my dad’s stand-on-your-own-two-feet lecture. Instead I decide to do a page of math problems so I won’t fall behind. Right when I think I’m in good shape, I suddenly remember the “personal collection” assignment Mrs. Beam gave us. It’s due tomorrow. Crud. Mrs. Beam had reminded us about it yesterday, and this time I’d managed to write it down, which is lucky because it turns out that it isn’t a personal collection she wants—it’s a personal reflection.
We’re supposed to pick some object that represents who we think we are and then write something on an index card about why we chose the object. This is exactly the kind of touchy-feely stuff I can’t stand. What am I supposed to do, bring in a pair of my earplugs and write I have APD on the card?
I hear a sound out in the hall, and when I turn around, I see a white envelope slide under my door. It has my name written on the front in capital letters. JOE. I’m not sure I even want to open it, but my curiosity wins out.
Dear Joe:
I’m not the best with words, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to say I’m sorry when I’m wrong. You said that boy Dillon never lets you forget who you are, but it’s not his job to remind you—it’s mine. You are smart and funny and the best son a father could ever have. There is more to you than meets the eye, Joseph James Sylvester, and don’t you ever forget that.
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