by Holly Bodger
And I guess he has
won
something.
He might get another chance
to stand here again.
to force some
other boys off the track.
to intimidate some
other girl into picking him.
When I place the cord
over his head,
he says, “It seems your ‘Never’ has ended.”
Although I force a smile,
to myself I say,
We’ll see about that.
I turn to face the crowd,
avoiding Nani’s smirk
burning like a spotlight
from the front row.
My cousin reaches out his hand
as if to show we are
one.
I snatch mine away
as if to prove we are
done.
I tuck my hand behind my back,
my fingers wrapped around Kiran’s
words.
In my head,
I say these words to my cousin:
You will never touch me.
You will never touch me.
You will
NEVER
NEVER
NEVER
touch me.
A smile crosses my face,
increased by its own irony.
The audience probably
thinks
I’m happy.
And I am.
But not for the reason
they think.
The director dips her thumb
in a silver tub of vermilion.
She brushes a line across
my cousin’s forehead
and another across mine.
She hands us each
a plain gold ring. A symbol of
our promise. Our promise
to show up at the temple.
to accept the seven blessings.
to smile when our names are published
on page three of the Koyanagar News.
I slip the ring onto the fourth finger
of my right hand.
I remind myself that
promises
in my family
are like the wax seals
we place on our envelopes:
made to be bro ken.
I look over my shoulder
to see if Kiran
is wondering what I’ll do.
If he believes I’ll marry my cousin.
If he sees my actions as a response—
a reaction?
a rejection?—
to his poem.
I want to find a way
to show him
I’m playing the game.
To let him know
this is not my real choice.
To let him know
this is not the end.
But I can’t.
It’s too late.
The platform is empty.
Kiran is gone.
34
The audience claps.
My heart contracts
as if it’s suspended between their hands
as they
POUND.
POUND.
POUND.
I tell myself not to panic.
Kiran had to leave.
Had to go. Go
wait for me?
When the audience goes silent,
my cousin joins
his smiling sisters
and Mota Masi,
his grinning nani.
They’re off
to celebrate.
to say goodbye.
to send him for the husband training
he won’t need to take.
I return inside with the other girls
and their families.
We’re supposed to drink champagne
until the losers have dispersed,
but all I want to do
is grab my bag
and join them.
Although I brace myself for a final
snip
from Nani,
she doesn’t give me
so much as a glance.
I suppose as far as she’s concerned,
her work is done.
I was her pawn and
the game is over.
Of course, if you ask me, I’d say
it has just begun.
She tells Mummy she needs
“to see some friends.”
Translation?
She needs to gloat over the women
whose granddaughters
chose the rotten market mangoes.
On her way to follow Nani,
Surina gives me the smug look
I’d been expecting from our matriarch.
She congratulates me
with air-kisses near each of my cheeks.
“Better to play fair for a life of hate,”
she says, twisting my words,
“than cheat for a life of love.”
With that, she’s gone.
Gone to return to her plastic happiness.
Gone to pretend she’s not
crac king
at the seams.
I return to our table for my bag.
Say: “I need to use the bathroom.”
Know: I need a quick escape.
A quick way
to say goodbye.
to rip off the plaster
before I feel the pain.
Papa holds out my bag.
“I suppose you’re looking for this,”
he says, hanging it off my shoulder.
Then he places his hand
on my chin and adds,
“Remember, beti,
no bird soars too high,
if he soars with his own wings.”
He hugs me tight
and adds in my ear:
“And sometimes, when wings burn,
they rise from the ash
as fins in turn.”
He steps back with a smile.
Leaves me wondering
where he got that second quote.
I don’t remember it from Blake,
and though he could have made it up,
it would be
an odd coincidence.
He can’t know about
Kiran’s plan.
He didn’t see the poem
and they haven’t even met.
Have they?
But when?
Could Papa know Kiran from the market?
Or could Kiran also be from Mannipudi?
Before I can ask,
Papa goes to serve the drinks,
leaving me with Mummy.
She hugs me, too.
Tight.
Too tight.
Too tight for her normal self, that is.
“This is a new beginning for you,”
she says as she pulls away,
and wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“Do not let anger over the past
become the fuel that fires your future.
Let it be the love your papa and I
have for you,
because no matter what you do,
that will never, ever go out.”
I look into Mummy’s glistening eyes.
See
a girl with a mother
she could never please.
a mother with a girl
she could never not support.
I give her a kiss
of thanks—
of goodbye—
then I force myself
to stroll down the hall,
even though
my mind wants to
sprint!
But it can’t because I
must
continue.
Must graciously smile
at the “Congratulations!”
shot my way.
Must only wish I had a shield
off which they could bounce.<
br />
Bounce off me.
→ Hit Nani instead.
When no one is looking,
I duck into the kitchen.
I return to the bathroom
I was in before.
I grab the washbasin.
Steady myself.
Take one last look at
the girl
who won’t exist anymore.
No more
horse-drawn carriages.
warm dinners.
feather pillows.
No more
fancy clothes.
beaded shoes.
golden bangles.
No more
morning rides through the dew.
afternoons reading Blake.
late-night giggles with Asha.
No more
Surina.
Mummy.
Papa.
No more Nani.
No more cousins.
With my breath trapped
inside my chest,
I take out my knife and
hold it to the side
of my neck.
“Time for Act V,” I say,
keeping my fists tight.
Then, with a single swipe,
I flick the knife like a crop
and slice off my braid.
I unwind my sari,
and a ring falls to the floor,
the emerald gleam
unmistakable.
Around the gold band is a tiny
piece of paper that says,
For your real future.
I know then
Mummy doesn’t mean the one with my cousin.
She means the one I can buy
if I sell her engagement ring.
if I use the money to find Asha?
Or Kiran?
Or a life that simply isn’t here?
I pull the gold band off my right hand.
Replace it with the emerald,
stone facing in.
It will be a secret from the outside world,
and yet a constant reminder to me.
A reminder of how
one thing—
a ring?
a decision?
a law?—
could be both my beginning
and
my end.
I dump out the contents
of my bag. Find Papa’s
hat and clothes.
Find something I didn’t pack, too.
The Registry?
How did I get the Koyanagar Registry?
It wasn’t in the safe.
I know.
I looked for it.
Did Papa put it in here?
No. Nani would never tell him
where she keeps the spare key.
She hasn’t even told me.
I bet Mummy knows,
but she didn’t bring a bag
to the tests today.
Papa did.
And he was holding my bag
when I came in
from the Choosing Ceremony.
Could Mummy and Papa
have planned this
together?
Could they want me to take
away Nani’s most precious
possession? Escape from Koyanagar with
her secrets?
her power?
her sins?
I shove the Registry in my bag,
smothering a bit of a grin.
Nani will be livid
when she finds out it’s gone.
Possibly even more livid
than when she finds out
I am, too.
I pull on Papa’s hat
and his clothes. Remove
the necklace,
and stuff it in my bag also.
I leave my sari—my suns of luck—
collapsed
in a pile on the floor.
Left to be found when
clues,
blame,
excuses
are sought.
I grab some tissue.
Wipe the powder and vermilion
from my face.
I rip the bindi
from my brow.
Unhook the heavy rubies
from my ears.
I peer into the mirror.
See a
poor
unwanted
boy.
I smile
despite my fear,
because I know
unwanted = free.
I sneak out the door.
Ask the crowd
to let me through.
No one moves
because no one is listening.
Their ears are closed.
My voice is no more.
But invisible as I may be,
I know my actions
scream
LOUDER
than I could
before.
When I make it to the bikes,
there’s still quite a stack.
I grab a small gray one
and pretend
it’s my horse.
I
race out of the crowd.
race down the street.
race to the future
I choose for me.
Acknowledgments
I must first thank my brilliant editor, Erin Clarke, who is wholly responsible for turning my little Word document into this beautiful book. I must also thank my agent, Lauren MacLeod, whose ability to instantly respond to every single one of my inane questions still astounds me.
I am thankful to Therese Hesketh, Li Lu, and Zhu Wei Xing, whose article in CMAJ planted the seeds for this story, but I would not have written it were it not for my friend and personal cheerleader, Jillian Boehme. Every writer needs someone like you, Jill, and I am forever grateful that I have been blessed with your pom-poms in my life.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the wonderful Sonali Dev. Everything that is accurate in this book is thanks to you, Sonali, and everything that is not should be blamed on me.
Thank you to my teen readers, Kaitlin Khorashadi and Emily Bertoia.
Special thanks to all of the people who have supported me in this long journey to publication: Yoni Freedhoff, Kimberly MacCarron, Amy DeLuca, Taryn Albright, Loretta Nyhan, Erica O’Rourke, Christine Nguyen, Mónica Bustamante Wagner, Kerry O’Malley Cerra, Kody Keplinger, Gabrielle Prendergast, Marybeth Smith, Chantal Kirkland, Joanna Volpe, and Sara Kendall. Thank you also to all of the members of the Fearless Fifteeners, Class of 2k15, Lucky 13s, Savvy Seven, and the entire Clan MacLeod. I wish I could name you individually but I’d run out of paper!
Thank you to all of my friends and family, especially those of you who answer my random requests for metaphors on Facebook.
Last but not least, thank you to Simon, Charlotte, and Nicholas. Forever and always, I choose you.
About the Author
Holly Bodger wrote her first book at the age of six. Although the two-page novel about a mouse had a somewhat limited print run of one, the critical acclaim received from her stuffed animals convinced Holly to get an English degree and then, later, to write this book, her debut, which has considerably more than two pages. Holly currently resides in Ottawa, Canada, with her family and a motley crew of both real and stuffed animals.