If You See Me, Don't Say Hi

by Neel Patel

“What—why?”

  “Because it’s getting late.”

  “But we were only getting started.”

  “I think we’ve gone too far.”

  He fumbled with his jeans. He buttoned up his shirt. After a few moments he gave me a look I will never forget.

  “Mallory has hypothyroidism,” he said. “She’s been having a tough time.”

  I should have told him I was sorry. I should have told him it was a mistake. Instead I told him the truth: that hypothyroidism was really no big deal. Dave gave me a look of such loathing that I felt the hairs on my neck stand on end.

  “Mallory will be waiting.”

  “But you haven’t even finished your drink.”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  “But we were having such a good time.”

  “She needs me,” Dave said, crossing his arms.

  And the room went red.

  I picked up Dave’s drink and examined it under the lights—then I poured it out on the floor.

  “Well, isn’t that nice?” I said, watching the stain spread. “What a wonderful boyfriend you are.”

  * * *

  By the time we returned to the party it was in full swing. Dave put his hand on my arm.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t come inside.”

  I didn’t argue; instead, I watched as Dave unbuckled his seat belt and slipped out of my car.

  “I thought it was supposed to snow,” I said, following him.

  But he didn’t answer me. He sprinted across Mallory’s front lawn. When he didn’t return, I walked around to the trunk of my car. Somewhere behind my father’s golf clubs and tennis shoes was an emergency kit with a box full of tools. I pulled out a hammer. I slung it over my shoulder. I squeezed through the bushes and went around to Mallory’s back porch. Beyond the windows, I could hear Christmas carols and the sound of Mallory’s high-pitched voice piercing through the night. I saw her shadow through the curtains. She wouldn’t ask Dave where I was. It wasn’t her style. Before I knew it, I was standing on Mallory’s back porch, looking up at that ridiculous life-size Santa Claus, its pink face grinning at me. It was probably the largest one around. It was like Mallory to do that, to steal the attention away from everyone else, the way she had stolen Calvin Rhodes right from under my nose. I raised the hammer over my head.

  I swung at it but missed. I swung again, this time striking it between the eyes. I kept swinging, sometimes missing, sometimes breaking a limb, sometimes losing the hammer altogether, until there was nothing but a heap of red and white scraps piled up on the ground. Then I began to swing at everything else: empty flower pots, a yellow pinwheel, three decorative gnomes all lined up in a row. I did this until my hair was flat and my arms were sore and my red sequined dress had a tear running down its side. I started remembering things, too: the time I got a bad haircut and Mallory invited everyone over to see it, the time I lost my favorite earrings and Mallory showed up with them at the prom, the time Mr. Moncrieff made all of us watch Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and Mallory told the entire class that it was true: she had seen my parents eating monkey brains as well.

  I saw her face in the window. She was looking right at me. After a few moments, she opened the door.

  “You’ll freeze to death out here.”

  I told her I was already dead. Mallory lit a cigarette and walked over to where I was standing, reaching for my hand.

  “Don’t tell Dave about this,” she said. “I told him to quit.” We were silent, gazing out across the yard. Then Mallory let go of my hand and started to cry.

  “It’s not fair.”

  She was drunk—she would never have mentioned it otherwise. She began sobbing into her hands. “I never knew,” she said. “You never told me, but then someone mentioned the accident and now it’s all I can think about. Oh, Sabrina. What happened?”

  I tried to remember the last time I had seen my parents alive. It was last Thanksgiving, and my father had burned the turkey. Three days later, he drove into a guardrail.

  I took the cigarette from Mallory’s hands. I flung it into the bushes. I looked up and saw something moving over our heads.

  “It’s snowing,” I said.

  “It is?”

  Mallory spun around, reaching for my hand again. The snow fell like diamonds, glistening in her hair. ◆

  the other language

  Sometimes, at night, I heard my parents complaining about me in the kitchen, arguing over which one of them had failed. I was not like their friends’ kids, who won spelling bees and math competitions, spent their summers learning French. Though my father was a doctor, I had no aspirations of becoming one. I spent my evenings alone, in my bedroom, watching MTV. During commercial breaks I listened to my parents condemning me from below, wondering how I could be so unremarkable. They spoke in whispers, in Gujarati, but sometimes, when I had done something particularly shameful, they spoke in another language entirely: Swahili.

  Though my parents were Indian, they had never lived in India—their parents had left India to help the British build the rail. My father was from Kenya, my mother from Uganda. Our house was filled with the evidence: wooden elephants and charcoal drawings of Maasai people holding spears. All throughout the basement were videos of African wildlife and photographs of my father standing in front of wildebeest. Sometimes I heard them whispering about how dangerous it was, how lucky they were to have left. I’d heard stories about servants revolting against their employers and stealing their gold. I’d heard about Faraji, my uncle’s gatekeeper, who’d locked him in his bedroom while hoodlums looted his home. It was dangerous to be an East Indian in East Africa, they said. So I was surprised when my father came downstairs one evening and announced to everyone that he had closed his office for the month. Our tickets were booked. We were going to Kenya for three weeks in December and I would be missing school.

  * * *

  On a winter morning, I awoke to my alarm clock and stared outside at the large piles of bluish-white snow. What a difference it was, later, to see the spiky greenery outside Jomo Kenyatta airport. We had arranged to stay with Rajesh Kaka in a white mansion on Riverside Drive.

  “Patel family—this way.”

  A large man ushered us through the crowd. I had never seen so many people: women in caftans, merchants selling beads, African tour guides holding up pictures of leopards and gazelles. We approached a white Jeep parked on a mound of thick red clay. Red dust colored our skin.

  “Jina langu ni Jozi,” he said. “Your driver for this evening.”

  Jozi gave us juice boxes and french fries and we ate them in the backseat of his car. My sister made a face. She was sixteen—less concerned with Africa and more concerned with her Mariah Carey CD. She complained about the insects, the heat, but mostly, the absence of her friends. I had no friends of my own, and thus complained of nothing.

  The servants took our bags. I was on the first floor, in a wood-paneled apartment overlooking the pool. Outside my windows were banyan trees and clusters of palms. I explored the room for a while before taking a nap—we had been traveling for days, and I could still hear the aircraft’s engine in my ears. It was nightfall when I awoke. Rajesh Kaka was serving my parents a drink on the lawn. Nirmila Aunty, his wife, sparkled at his side. “Do you know who I am?” she said, rushing over to me in a silk tunic, smothering me in her breasts.

  I told her I did.

  * * *

  That night, we grilled fresh mogo with red chili and lime (that starchy snack my parents could never replicate in the States). Nirmila Aunty was solicitous, Rajesh Kaka, too. He would laugh that raucous laugh of his before ordering more food. He yelled at a houseboy for dropping a pan.

  “Watch your things,” he later told us. “These people are thieves.”

  My father was dozing. My mother was drunk. My sister was fiddling with her Discman. I decided to take a walk. I entered the kitchen and opened the fridge, staring at the contents: mason jars filled with red pickles, bottles
of white wine. I heard someone call my name; it was a houseboy. He was smiling.

  “Need something?”

  He looked my age, with skin like chocolate, eyes like graphite, thick, kinky hair that glistened as if wet. His name was Kito. He wore white Nikes that looked brand new. I was surprised; most of the other boys wore sandals.

  “I live just there,” he said, pointing to a small crumbling compound Rajesh Kaka had pointed out that morning: the servants’ quarters. I told Kito I wanted a cup of Milo. He opened the cupboard.

  “I can do it,” I said.

  He ignored me, fetching a jug of milk, mixing the Milo with a spoon. I was embarrassed: he was my age and he was serving me. He placed the Milo next to a plate of Jaffa Cakes and coconut macaroons. When I was finished eating, he cleared my dishes in the sink.

  “You like football?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Good. We can play tomorrow.”

  My heart leapt. I had never played sports before.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Chicago.”

  He smiled. “Michael Jordan.”

  It was a lie—I was from a small town two hours south of Chicago. I lied about something else, too. I lied about having a girlfriend. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because he had built this image of me in his head—the prosperous American—and I didn’t want to disappoint him. “I have a girlfriend, too,” he said. “Her name is Aisha.”

  He reached inside his pocket to show me a picture. Before he could do so, Rajesh Kaka came storming into the room. “Basi toka!” he yelled. “Get out!” And Kito disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  The next morning, we ate breakfast by the pool: sausages and mangoes cut up into bright cubes. My sister complained about the sun.

  “I’m getting black,” she said, loud enough for the servants, most of whom were darker than she was, to hear.

  We went shopping for textiles and jewelry and little handmade statues of elephants and giraffes. I asked my mother for a woven bracelet threaded with the colors of the Kenyan flag. She snatched it from my grasp. “What kind of boy wears bracelets?”

  I missed my video games, my room. I missed my comic books. I was not used to this place of watchfulness, where it was impossible to be alone. At night, my parents and Rajesh Kaka drank Tusker Lager on the back lawn and gossiped about our family: the ones who were well, the ones who were ill, the ones who had run off and married a Muslim. They talked about my cousin Bijal, who’d scored a 1580 on his SAT. They talked about my sister’s straight As. They talked about the neighborhood wunderkind who was a sophomore at MIT. They didn’t talk about me. At home, I was an unfortunate consequence of parenthood, the kind of child you learned to tolerate—never accept. So I stayed indoors, listening to the orchestra of winged insects outside my bedroom door. I read the dog-eared copies of X-Men I had brought with me on the plane. I counted down the days before I would return home to America, to Illinois, to Urbana, and to the safety of my room.

  Fortunately, we would be going to the bush next week—I was excited for that. I told Kito about it while we were dipping our feet in the pool.

  “You like lions?” he said. “You’ll see many, and wildebeest, too. Maybe if you are lucky you will see a leopard, but not likely. They hide.”

  I asked him about tigers and he laughed.

  “No tigers in Africa.”

  I told him I was joking. I thought he would ask me to play soccer with him, but he took off his shirt. His body was lean and rippled, making me ashamed of my own. He dove into the pool. I went into my bedroom to change, fretting over the slight paunch I had developed, the feminine swell of my hips, but when I walked outside he was nowhere to be found.

  * * *

  It was like that for a while. He would find me throughout the day, poking me in the rib, asking me about the weather in Chicago, or if I had met anyone famous. He brought me treats from the kitchen. I’d see him sweeping the compound and he’d turn around and wave. Once, he threw a ball in my direction, a white cricket ball with a gash down its center. I was grateful for his company. I had never felt so comfortable in the presence of another boy. My own family did not offer me this comfort. At school, I kept to myself, my eyes lowered, my head bowed, as if in constant prayer. I was so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing that I said and did nothing at all. But through Kito’s eyes a new version of myself emerged. His interest in me, his questions about my world, gave me a sense of purpose I had never felt before. I began to anticipate the times I would see him, full of curiosity about my life, and lament the times I did not. It occurred to me, in those moments at least, that he was my only friend.

  * * *

  Our days developed a pattern. My father drank at the local pubs while my mother went shopping with Nirmila Aunty. My sister and I sat around reading Nancy Drew. She complained about the humidity, the heat, our parents, how aloof they seemed here, absorbed in Nairobi in a way that we could never be. I sat and listened to her before my mind would begin to wander, thinking of questions to ask Kito.

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Three.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Gone.”

  I lowered my head.

  “Sorry.”

  He frowned, mentioning a car accident when he was three; then he threw me the cricket ball. I couldn’t imagine losing my parents—and yet I had wished for this very thing, had prayed for it once, after arguing with them all evening. That I could think such horrible things in front of Kito made me ashamed, an emotion I had only recently begun to understand.

  We played catch. I was shaky at first, shielding my face. Kito laughed. He showed me the proper form. He taught me about wickets and runs. He guided me with his hands. He laughed at me when I made a mistake and applauded me when I did something right; sometimes, when I didn’t listen, he would scold me in a deep tone. Fortunately there was no one else. I lived in fear those first few days that one of the other boys, Joseph or Jamal, or a girl even, Esha or Kesi, would join us in a game, that my weaknesses would be exposed. But it was just us. Long afternoons were spent running after the ball, throwing it in the air, drinking madaf—fresh coconut water from the market up the road—under one of the banyan trees overlooking Rajesh Kaka’s pool. Sometimes he would show me things: a book or a game or a pair of headphones he had brought home from the store. In the evenings, Kito returned to the servants’ compound and I was left to wonder about it: what the walls were like, what sort of things he had in his room. Once, he embraced me when I had successfully launched a cricket ball over his head and into the neighbor’s backyard, his warm limbs damp against my skin.

  * * *

  By the end of the week I had made up my mind: I no longer wanted to go on safari. I knew what it would be like: my parents whispering in Swahili, my sister scowling at them from behind, Rajesh Kaka barking out orders in the front seat. I asked my mother if I could stay home.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons we’re here.”

  “But I’m sick,” I cried.

  She handed me some medicine. Her room was full of junk: silk garments, khaki shorts, an envelope, plump with money, stiff shillings she plucked to tip a driver or a maid. She caught me eyeing the envelope and pushed it aside. Then she rummaged through her purse. Finally she stood up and placed her hands on her hips.

  “I can’t find my gold watch,” she said, staring at me. “Have you seen it?”

  I shook my head. She panicked, opening drawers, flinging garments across the room, sifting through every piece of gold jewelry in her handbag. Eventually she threw up her hands. “All right,” she said. “Go and ask your father.”

  The next morning, I stood on the verandah while the servants loaded up Rajesh Kaka’s Jeep, my mother and father bickering over the luggage, my sister giving me murderous stares.

  “He’s faki
ng it,” she said.

  Moments later, I was seeing them off, promising not to give anyone too much trouble. I would be under Nirmila Aunty’s care. The Jeep rolled away in a cloud of red dust. I walked out onto the patio, where Kito was sunbathing on a strip of cement by the pool.

  “You’re here.”

  “I didn’t feel like going,” I said. “I was sick; I’m better now, though.”

  He nodded, light trembling over his face in shimmering gold swirls. He got up from his seat.

  “Good,” he said, toweling himself off. “Because I have something to show you.”

  He pulled out a flyer, flashing it in front of my face. It was for a cricket match. “I want you to be on my team.”

  “Are you sure?” My heart lurched. In school, I was picked last for team sports. I told Kito this and he laughed. He said the match would take place that evening, at a field near the city; he couldn’t do it without me. I couldn’t possibly refuse.

  All day I was anxious. I paced the patio, wandered the halls, approached the servants’ compound outside. It was different from Rajesh Kaka’s house, a string of tiny dorms with geckos running up and down the walls. There was a large iron tap covered in thick green moss at the center of the courtyard. One of the houseboys was crouched in front of it, staring at me. I went back home. Hours later, I was reading my comic book in a hammock when I saw Kito stroll through the gates, carrying a sack of groceries in his arms.

  “For your dinner.”

  I followed him into the kitchen, where I watched him unload meats wrapped in butcher paper, onions stripped of their skins, fresh green coconuts from the market down the road. He was wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt; when he reached up into one of the cabinets, the cuff slipped back to reveal a shiny gold watch.

  I turned my head.

  “You’re dressed up,” I said.

  He opened the fridge, rummaging inside. I remembered my mother searching through every piece of gold jewelry in her handbag, throwing up her hands. I thought about the cricket match that evening—earlier that morning, Nirmila Aunty had promised to cook dinner for me and rent me whatever movie I liked. I told Kito this and he smiled.