Bittersweet

by Shewanda Pugh

  Thinking of his girl warmed him and before he knew it, his mouth opened. “Dr. Dhumal?”

  “Yes, Hassan?”

  “I need help. My parents are shoving a marriage down my throat and I don’t want it. I don’t any girl that isn’t my choosing.”

  Dr. Dhumal stood before him with two cups of tea.

  She sat one before him. “I notice that you might have chosen your own path,” she said and smiled just a little.

  A joke. Right. Because now was a great time to try a stand up routine.

  Dr. Dhumal rounded her desk, took a seat, and sipped her tea indulgently. She nodded at Hassan to do the same, to sip the tea he had not wanted, that he’d asked her not to make.

  He picked up the tea and took a sip.

  “Have you asked your parents to be released?” Dr. Dhumal said.

  Hassan’s phone sirened with a message from Edy again. He cringed. How had he forgotten to turn the thing off?

  “Sorry.” Hassan jabbed at it once, twice, three times because in his hurried state he’d done it all wrong, and then pocketed it in his jeans. “Okay. Dr. Dhumal? It’s not as easy asking; otherwise I would have done it. My parents are dead serious about this. My mom stakes her life on some of the old ways. After twenty years away, she still misses India and she cares what people think. Did I mention that she cares what people think? Anyway, I can’t marry this other girl and I can’t lose Edy. This is your area of expertise, right? Tell me what to do.”

  He’d begun to freight train his words together as his leg tap tapped. The idea that she could give him some solution, even a possible one, shot excitement straight through him.

  “You really should begin by talking to your parents, no matter how scary the prospect may seem.”

  ‘Scary.’ She picked the word that made him seem most childlike and Hassan had recoiled.

  “Be respectful when you approach them. Deferential, but firm. Let them know it’s not the bride they’ve chosen but arranged marriage that you reject. I know Ali—”

  Better than me? Hassan bit down on the question.

  Dr. Dhumal smiled as if she’d read his mind, or, his willingness to ram his head into her desk. “Your father is extremely respected. It might surprise you that he harbors progressive thoughts. I think—”

  A waste of time. This woman was a friggin’ waste of time.

  A little voice demanded that he challenge her on her research, her life’s work, her beliefs. He’d read some of it before his visit, and while it was difficult to navigate, he found himself able to keep up with the concepts. He knew the words she uttered came from a different place, a place of practicality. How often had Hassan heard that his father was well respected in his field and at Harvard? He’d been tenured for awhile now. Maybe Dr. Dhumal needed a piece of that. Maybe she’d been playing it safe in even accepting Hassan’s appointment, not wanting to chance offending his dad or Nathan. Now she wanted to pass off stale advice, rote commands that any robot could have said. He could have gone to the guidance counselor at school for this. Talk to your parents. Be honest. Tell them how you feel. Buckle up and don’t do drugs. Oh, shut up.

  Hassan forced his mouth to mutter the appropriate polite words then got up and left. He felt pissed and stupid, naïve and young, for believing she’d be his Indian fairy godmother.

  Had he really thought he’d find resolution simply by asking for it? Right. Because requests for freedom had always been granted, throughout history. He must’ve been an idiot. Or a child, a stupid child, with his hand out hoping she’d put a treat in it. There were no treats for him, nothing he wouldn’t earn. But that was okay. He was used to running until his guts churned and his legs screamed and the white dots swarmed before his eyes. He was used to taking hits that made him want to stay down and nap for awhile. He kept going. He kept fighting. He found a way to win.

  This game would be no exception. He’d find a way to win.

  ~~~

  Hassan slid into Edy’s room around eleven-ish and caught the backside of her slipping on a nightshirt. Uninterrupted skin had a way of hypnotizing every time. When she turned, startled to see him, the hem of her shirt fell mid-thigh as she yelped.

  “Hassan! Cough or something so I know you’re here,” she hissed.

  He shut the window behind him. “Sorry I’m late,” he said and nodded toward the nightshirt. “A few seconds earlier would have made all the difference.”

  Edy giggled and punched him in the arm. Was it crazy to love a girl’s laugh that much? That laugh refueled him; it gave him infinite miles for the journey.

  He remembered when they visited the house on the Cape with their family and she’d been dancing up on their rock, the rock where they’d carved their names so long ago. He’d watched her, melting beauty of a dancer that she was and finally, finally dredged in an inhale. How long had she kept his breath? He didn’t know. But even that was hers to have.

  The house on the Cape. That brought a scowl. Why was it being appraised? Were they selling it?

  Edy sat on the bed and looked up, eyes leery, mouth pouting. Already, he thought about kissing it off. “What have you been up to today? I texted you, you know.”

  He pulled off his jacket and draped it over her desk chair. Lying wasn’t really his thing, especially not to Edy. Still, he wanted to handle his problem his way, without her feeling like she needed to jump in and help. He’d spent all evening going back and forth over whether to talk to his parents. He had no other ideas. In the end, the gauntlet had been thrown for him when he overheard his mother on the phone with Mala’s aunt, making plans for tea at Tealuxe in Harvard Square. Did Hassan want to come since he was listening?

  Edy blew a raspberry and thumped him on his nose. Hassan thumped her right back.

  “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve got that backwards, haven’t you?” She leaned back on her arms, eyes soft. “Why are you so distracted?”

  He looked away. It was the only thing Hassan could think of to do. If she kept looking at him with those warm brown eyes, eyes that knew the rough parts and still loved him … Hassan knew everything would tumble out.

  “Football stuff,” he said. “I—met your father on campus. We got sort of carried away. Sorry I didn’t answer you.”

  There. A full out lie. And of course she knew it, because she only saw the back of his head as he spoke.

  “Oh,” she said, in that way that ‘oh’ means ‘oh, I see,’ when the person really did see. And it hurt her. Hurt bled both ways between them. It always had.

  “I had a fight with your mom,” she said, and inexplicably, guilt hung in her voice. He wished it wouldn’t.

  “About what?” He stretched out on Edy’s bed.

  She lay down to face him. “Ballet. You. The future.” She dropped her gaze. “She says you talk about college all the time and where you’re going.”

  He raised a brow. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “Do you talk about college all the time? With your parents?”

  Hassan hesitated. “It comes up.”

  “But it doesn’t come up with us?”

  This was a mudslide and he needed off it, fast. “I don’t know, Cake. It’s still early. You know how parents are. They get hyperactive about the future.” He ran a hand over hers. She slipped away and went for the desk drawer.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything, but not telling you about the fight bugged me,” She handed him a wad of papers. Stamped at the top was ‘Youth International Ballet Competition’. “Your mom wants me to compete. She thinks I haven’t been as aggressively in pursuit of my future as you’ve been with yours. She also pointed out that she’s my only support system, and when I lose her, I lose everything.”

  “When you lose her,” Hassan echoed. “Not if.” He’d laugh if it weren’t so sad.

  Edy stood in her nightshirt and inhaled deep.

  “Tell me,” Hassan said.

  “No, you tell me first. Start
with where you were.”

  He cursed inwardly. He had no skill with deception. “Alright, alright. I didn’t meet your dad today. But I’m not ready to talk about what I did do. Just … know it’s something for us that might take a long time to finish. I’m working on a better us, that’s all.”

  Those eyes again. Soft enough to silence the frustration that hammered trapped within him. Soft enough to remind him of all the tender parts and moments and unforgettable ways they knew and continued to know each other, of all the ways she belonged to him and he, he’d always belonged to her. He’d meant to say all that. He’d meant to promise her everything, but not yet hung on his tongue, too. He hated not yet the way he hated Mala and arranged marriages and expectations never ending.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  But soon.

  Thirty

  Football and Mala had become Hassan’s obsession almost to the exclusion of all else. He woke with thoughts of one or the other and nodded off while wrestling through the challenges they posed. Round and round he circled near solutions, approaching them with hint of excitement, thinking this could be it, only to fall back in dismay and begin again.

  His problem was that he wanted it all. He wanted Nathan tossing a football at the five-year-old him. He wanted his father with that obnoxious pride. He wanted his mother with that mother’s smile, forgiving him always for anything. And he wanted Edy, Edy for him and only him, on and on, forever.

  Damn it.

  “Hassan, what was the Reconstruction Era?”

  Oh. A look up confirmed that not only was he in history class, but that Mr. McGuire was not pleased with him being startled. Either that or he’d snacked on a lemon while Hassan stared down at his desk.

  “Um, yeah. Reconstruction.” He ran a hand through his hair. Being called on sucked. Not because he never knew the answer, but because school already felt like a constant spotlight. Let someone else sweat under it for a change.

  “We’re waiting, Mr. Pradhan.” Mr. McGuire smirked as if he expected Hassan to bow out or something. A dumb move considering who his dad was and what his parents required.

  “The Reconstruction Era focused on reuniting the South with the Union following the Civil War. They were rebuilding the South since it was wrecked.”

  That earned a couple of snickers.

  “Oh, and helping out former slaves,” he added.

  “Thank you, Hassan.” McGuire looked for a new victim. “Melanie Thomas, tell us an initial goal of Lincoln’s at the onset of Reconstruction.”

  “Uh? Not to die?”

  Nice.

  Mala’s aunt seemed genuinely surprised that he didn’t know they were in Boston. It stretched the imagination to think that adults were playing tricks behind his backs, all for some big gain. Though Hassan wondered if his thinking in this was all wrong. He loved his mother. She was a good person. Only, she flew dogmatic at times and pushed at having her own way. Even as a kid, she’d give him the silent treatment if he misbehaved, questioned her too firmly, or did something that otherwise displeased her. Hassan hated her silent treatment, so he learned quickly what she liked and disliked.

  He’d given more thought to Dr. Dhumal’s suggestion and he did plan on talking to his mom and dad. He expected explosions and because of that wouldn’t come like a child twisting in the wind. He’d have bargaining chips on his side and he’d be prepared for his mother’s emotional rebuttal.

  School went at a slug’s pace compared to the fire rushing through his veins. Edy must’ve asked him a dozen times what was wrong, and at least once, he snapped. Even his apology felt rushed and half baked as he slammed books into his locker so he could hustle on to practice. He had a hot tip to make good on and only a sliver of time to get it right.

  On the field, he ignored the recruiters and where he’d be in the eventual. He smashed helmets, got the adrenaline flowing, and tipped a nod to the guy from Alabama.

  The drive from South End to Copley Library was short and parking sucked. After a bit of circling and making peace with the notion that he’d receive a ticket, Hassan trotted back to the Main Library and burst in, ready.

  Every head looked up at him.

  Okay, so he hadn’t thought through every aspect of his plan.

  Head bowed, he managed an embarrassed cough and nodded at the stern grandpa manning circulation. Something told Hassan he had his hand on a phone, ready to report the first sign of menace.

  His gaze followed Hassan as he walked.

  Quickly, calmly, Hassan made to the Teen Room with what he hoped was a disarming smile.

  He spotted Mala’s hair first: thick, dark, and running the length of her chair back. She sat across from another, younger girl, with a pointy nose and chubby face. They had enough paperbacks scattered between them to start a bookstore, maybe two.

  Hassan snatched a stray chair, flipped it backwards, and joined them.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Mala jumped while her friend turned a frightening shade of cherry red. Hassan took a closer look at their books. Confessions. Crave You. Faking It. Ripped.

  Four arms swept the paperbacks and they whooshed into the girls’ laps, some into their book bags, a few on the floor, forgotten.

  Okay.

  “Hey,” Hassan said. “So, uh, remember me?”

  Mala eyes swept the room. Dark, wild, desperate. “Yes, of course I remember you. We’re engaged,” she whispered. For some reason, the other girl flushed again, threatening a shade of lavender or maybe plum this time.

  “We shouldn’t be speaking without a chaperone,” Mala said. “It’s inappropriate.”

  Hassan’s gaze flicked down to Ripped, missed on the floor. “I, uh, don’t think you do everything you’re supposed to.”

  For whatever reason, the smaller girl giggled wildly, face scarlet, fingers waving like jazz hands.

  “Are you okay?” Hassan said. “Can I get you some water?”

  “She’s fine,” Mala said tiredly. “But you should go.”

  “Not until I know when I can talk to you. Just you.”

  “On our wedding night.”

  So, never.

  “Sooner than that,” Hassan said. “Please.”

  “I can’t be seen talking with you,” Mala said. “Don’t dishonor me by staying further. If someone sees us…”

  Hassan sat back and stared at her, face contorted by her words. ‘If someone sees us.’ It could have been his mother talking; she’d phrased that so well. For a moment, he considered the possibility that his mother chose Mala for him, because of their likeness to each other and her willingness to bend. But no, that couldn’t be true. They’d been matched since birth.

  “Let me get this straight,” Hassan said. “I am sitting right here. You’re sitting right here. You expect me to marry you, yet you can’t have a conversation with me because someone might see us?”

  Mala cringed. “Please keep your voice down. The other patrons. They’re beginning to look.”

  He’d do better than that. Hassan got up and left. He might have been gone, but he hadn’t given up. Mala had the same schedule every day after school according to his friends at Back Bay. So, he’d try her again and again, until she bent, until she broke. Mala had to see that marrying a guy who didn’t want her was an insult; it was preposterous. And if she couldn’t see that, it was Hassan’s job to make her see.

  Thirty-One

  Edy woke to the rude feeling of bed covers being snatched back and a flush of cold seizing her limbs. On opening her eyes, she faced her mother stern expression.

  “Get up.”

  Oh jeez.

  “Where am I going?” Edy rubbed her eye with a fist.

  “With me. Now hurry up.”

  Great. She was a regular bastion of knowledge this morning.

  Edy shifted enough to face the window and saw sunlight in streams. Blocked partially by the tree outside, it hit only the foot of the bed, leaving her to wonder about the hour. Her mother blocked the view of the
nightstand where a digital clock would have displayed what her body already told her: that it was too early and that she needed more sleep.

  But Rebecca Phelps wasn’t the sort to repeat herself.

  Edy rose, freshened up, and pulled on yoga pants with a long sleeved tee she’d picked up in Paris. When she got downstairs, she found her mother in the Lexus with the engine running.

  “Do we … have an appointment somewhere?” Edy said.

  Her mother sighed. “You and I need to talk. Elsewhere, that’s all.” She threw the car into reverse and they were off.

  Talk. About what? The election? Her parents? Cam? Edy closed her eyes and tried to imagine whatever truth her mother was about to reveal. Cam, she decided on. She was ready to be honest about Cam.

  But they didn’t need to drive anywhere for that.

  Cowardice told Edy to refuse. A pounding heart told her to refuse. But how had the girl who fought Reggie Knight turned to fear when riding with her mother?

  “You wear dread bold,” her mother said. The disdain in her voice hung plain. “What? Do you think I’d harm you? I’m the one who gave birth to you.”

  Like she’d never hurt her before. Edy refused to spend time puzzling over that statement or why she’d put so much emphasis on her giving birth to Edy as opposed to another. It was a jab at Rani, she knew. But she’d always made tiny stabs like that. Far easier was it to criticize someone else’s effort at parenting than to stand up and attempt one instead.

  The city fired past them in a blur. Old brick building, older trees, all swept aside by Edy’s eyelids. The rock rock of tires soothed as they raced down I-93 heading south. The air weighed with expectation. She hadn’t answered her mother. No one ever went without answering her mother. So, it became plain to Edy that she hadn’t posed a hypothetical question.

  “No,” Edy sighed. “I don’t think you’d hit me.” Why would she? She never had. Then again, nothing was done until it was done, so that was clearly dumb logic. But she didn’t actually fear her mom, she realized. She feared her revelations.