Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  “Sure. I’ll—”

  “No, don’t move.” She shook her head furiously, took a swig from her beer, and then pressed the bottle into his hand. “Here. Take mine.”

  You call that chill, Natasha?

  Becket smiled at the half-drunk bottle of beer. He took a sip, catching my eye just as he raised the bottle into the air, and we held each other’s gazes as Natasha and her giggly friend disappeared into the background.

  “So what’s your story?” I asked, after they’d left. We were the only ones left on the couch.

  He finished swallowing and brought his beer back down to his lap. “Do you want the abridged version or the full monty?”

  “The full monty.”

  When you get to a certain age, when you’ve dated a certain number of people, you learn how to cut to the chase.

  “The full monty,” he repeated, sighing through a smile. “Do you have time? This might take all night.”

  God, he was flirty, but there’s nothing I liked more than some innuendo.

  By the end of the evening, we’d learned where each other had gone to school, what neighborhood the other lived in, and where the other worked. (Or in my case, was about to start work.) He’d set his hand on my knee, and when I walked him to his Lyft, he grazed my ear with his lips as he whispered in my ear.

  Lightly, I kissed him, and it didn’t matter what the kiss meant or what he had whispered. It didn’t matter that we were both thirty-six, and if this—whatever this was with Becket—lasted six more minutes, months, or even years. Because the truth was, for me, dating was just that. Dating.

  I didn’t want to have a family. I didn’t want to catch myself a husband #lovehim #blessed.

  I just wished people believed me.

  2

  SANDEEP

  Six years earlier

  Natasha, I can’t afford to buy in Georgetown.” Serena brought a fingerful of chole bhature to her lips. “Maybe a studio. Maybe. But then there wouldn’t be room for you—”

  “OK, OK. Columbia Heights it is!” Natasha elbowed her older sister, giggling. “I guess that’s where all the yuppies are going.”

  “So I’m a yuppie, huh?”

  “Yep. And I’m going to be one, too, in six months, roomie!” Natasha squealed. “Can you believe it, guys? Only six months until I’m done with college forever and out in the real world. Living in the freaking city!” She threw back her head with such fervor Sandeep thought it might fall back onto the kitchen floor. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  An awkward silence followed, sending chills down Sandeep’s spine. A moment later, Natasha smiled sheepishly.

  “No offense, Mom and Dad.”

  “None taken, beti,” Veer answered.

  Sandeep glanced over at her husband. Veer was chewing thoughtfully on his food. She spotted a crumb above his upper lip in his whiskers, and she resisted the urge to rub it away. When they first married, she wasn’t fond of his full beard or turban, but it suited his features, his frame, and she very quickly found it irresistible. She still did.

  Veer was strong but silent. Frustratingly silent. Sandeep cleared her throat, nudging him under the table. He didn’t budge, and she wondered what it would take for him to offer anything further to the conversation, if he understood the term “yuppie,” or perhaps might even reveal to his daughters that it had been their dream, too, to buy a place in the city. But in front of Serena, he stayed quiet on all important matters—such as his view on her not yet being married, the hideous tattoo on her neck, and now her decision to buy an apartment on her own. Only later, as they settled together beneath the quilt, would he reveal to Sandeep how he truly felt.

  “Are you OK, Mom?” she heard Serena ask. “You’ve barely eaten.”

  Sandeep looked back at her elder daughter. Serena had switched to Punjabi and was smiling at her. She offered her hand across the table, and Sandeep accepted it, squeezing.

  “It’s nice to have you here,” Sandeep said quietly. “I’m just happy you’re home.”

  Serena didn’t answer, and Natasha resumed babbling about her plans after graduating university.

  It was like “pulling teeth” to get Serena to come home sometimes, or so the American phrase went. Even for her birthday. Would Natasha follow her lead and disappear when she left home that summer? Just the thought of it ruined Sandeep’s appetite.

  After dinner, Veer and Natasha disappeared into the sitting room, and Sandeep relished having Serena to herself. She was always more forthcoming when it was just the two of them, and Sandeep enjoyed learning more about her daughter’s mysterious life through anecdotes and passing comments she let slip without realizing it. Tonight, there was one particular piece of information she was determined to retrieve, and she waited for a lull in the conversation for her opportunity.

  “It’s a big birthday this year.” Sandeep sighed, watching her daughter spoon leftover chicken curry into an old yogurt container. Natasha was the outright beauty, but Serena was uniquely striking. Her intense eyes and lovely lips. Even her short hair suited her graceful cheekbones and neck—if only she hadn’t ruined it with that tattoo.

  “The big three-oh,” Serena said dryly.

  “Do you have special plans for tomorrow night?”

  She held her breath, waiting. Serena turned her gaze.

  “Special plans, Mom?” Serena paused. “Why yes.”

  Sandeep’s heart sang. “Acha?”

  “My friends are throwing me a birthday party. You remember Jenna, right?” Serena snapped the lid on the yogurt container. “She’s going. The whole school gang, and my city friends, too. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Serena’s eyes were piercing.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen some of them.”

  Sandeep swallowed hard, forcing a smile. For weeks, ever since Serena announced she wanted her family birthday dinner to be held the night before the big day, Sandeep had been convinced. Surely, it meant she was dating someone. Surely, on her thirtieth birthday, she would only put a boyfriend above her family.

  “Sounds like a fun party,” Sandeep answered finally.

  “You look disappointed,” Serena said. Her eyes were uncompromising. “Was there something else you were trying to get at?”

  Sandeep thought she’d been subtle, but apparently not.

  “I’ve asked you so many times not to push me, Mom.” Serena’s voice had changed. “I have no ‘special plans’ tonight, tomorrow, next year. Not ever. Do you understand?”

  “Hah,” Sandeep answered, out of instinct. “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. Because every time I come home, you show me some random guy’s bio data,” Serena scoffed, imitating Sandeep’s accent. “Or badger me about who I’m dating, or just assume that anything special in my life has to do with a guy!”

  Sandeep bit her lip, frustrated. “I am not pushing. I am suggesting. I know finding a good match is a problem for educated women.”

  Serena groaned, but Sandeep persisted.

  “Let me help you. You are so busy, working so hard.” Gently, she patted her daughter’s cheek, trying to articulate her next thought: that she knew Serena and knew what she was looking for. What she needed. A man who understood the way the world worked now, who was strong, and above all else, was strong enough to accept Serena as his equal.

  It’s what she meant to say, but instead, her words failed her. Instead, she said, “I will find you a man that accepts that you work.”

  The moment the words left her lips, Sandeep knew they were the wrong ones, that they hadn’t reflected what she truly felt. Her intentions had jumbled up as soon as she spoke, and now it was too late. Serena was enraged.

  “I just can’t believe you sometimes!” Serena spat, tears in her eyes. “You don’t get it at all, Mom.”

  �
�Beti—”

  “But maybe I haven’t been clear enough.” She seemed to be chewing her words, slowly. “I do not want you to find me someone. Because I do not want anyone. OK? I am never getting married and having a family.”

  Sandeep’s ears rang. Serena had hurled out these angry words before, and here it went again.

  “Why don’t you believe me?”

  “You were so close to marriage with—”

  “That was years ago. Before I had a career, before I knew what I even wanted. My priorities have changed.”

  “No husband? No family—”

  “Why,” Serena said, icily, “exactly should I get married, Mom?” She gestured to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and then toward the sitting room. To her father.

  “Explain it to me.”

  Love could not be explained or reasoned with. Neither could Serena. She was stubborn, just like her father, and often it seemed like nothing Sandeep said or did would ever change her mind.

  Something spiteful, and harsh, sat on the tip of her tongue, like a sour lozenge. Sandeep was about to spit it out when Natasha waltzed into the room, oblivious.

  “Oh my god, guess what’s on TV . . . Mrs. Doubtfire!”

  “Really?” Serena’s features softened.

  “Remember how we used to watch it every weekend?”

  Serena smiled. “Because we had the VHS.”

  “Mom, have you seen it?” Natasha asked.

  Sandeep hadn’t seen the movie in years, back when her English was much poorer, and she hadn’t understood why Robin Williams had spent the whole movie dressed like an old woman until later that night, when Veer explained the plot.

  “I’m not sure,” Sandeep answered, turning back to the sink. “Should we watch?”

  “I’ll make popcorn!” Natasha swung open the pantry door and then lowered her voice. “So what’s the dress code for tomorrow, by the way? I can’t believe I finally get to meet John.”

  Sandeep’s ears perked up.

  “Tash . . .” Serena hushed. “Not now.”

  “You did invite him, right? I won’t grill this one, I promise—”

  “Shh!”

  “Just gotta make sure they’re good enough for you, sis . . .”

  The two daughters chattered like small sparrows as they set to work on the popcorn, speaking in hushed voices. Sandeep couldn’t understand much of what they were saying—their English was too rapid, too colloquial—but she’d heard enough.

  She heard there was a “John.”

  So Serena was dating someone; she just didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to get her heart broken again.

  Sandeep smiled, wondering if John was Sikh or even Indian, and was surprised to find that she didn’t really mind. The question that had seemed so pivotal when Serena first became a young woman had paved the way for more important ones.

  Was he educated? Would he respect Serena’s strength of character?

  Would he love and cherish her daughter the way she so dearly deserved?

  By the time Sandeep was settled into the love seat next to her husband, Natasha had pulled out the cupcakes she’d baked and hidden in the garage. She’d also arranged for paper plates and napkins patterned with “30” in gold and black, and handed a plate to each member of the family. One cupcake and a fistful of popcorn each. After, she hopped on the other couch with Serena, nuzzling into her the same way she had as a girl.

  Sandeep loved how close the girls were. Serena babied and Natasha worshipped, and suddenly the thought of them living together in the city made it a bit more bearable that she’d soon have no children at home. Her daughters were grown-ups. Well, at least Serena was a grown-up. As infuriating as she could be, Sandeep was proud that she’d raised her to be strong-willed, and never compromised from being anyone but herself.

  Sandeep was the same. It’s the reason they frequently collided.

  Had Natasha not interrupted them in the kitchen, Sandeep’s argument with Serena would have escalated. It would have turned into another fight, another reason for Serena to storm out. Another months-long stint where she refused to come home. Sandeep was grateful. If she didn’t want to lose Serena for good, she supposed she had to be grateful.

  She also had to accept her as she was, but Sandeep was still learning how.

  3

  I stood up as the door opened, pulled my shoulders back, and smiled. It almost felt like my first day of high school, except this time I wasn’t wearing an outfit that Mom found in a thrift store bargain bin or received as a hand-me-down from one of the affluent families at our gurdwara. Today, I had ironed my favorite black trousers and paired them with bold red heels and a crisp white collared shirt. I had worn contacts for all of Natasha’s wedding functions the week before because she’d begged me to, but I hated poking at my eyes, so I was relieved to be back in my glasses. Today, I’d picked out my favorite pair of gold-green cat eye frames. I felt fabulous.

  “You must be Serena Singh,” a woman said, pushing through the door.

  “Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “You must be Tracy.”

  Tracy, my human resources contact, nodded at me, taking stock of me as she shook my hand. I could tell I was not what she expected as her eyes fixated on my neck tattoo.

  “Did you find parking all right?” Tracy asked. “I can validate it until we organize your pass.”

  “No need,” I said. I didn’t have a car. “I took the bus.”

  Tracy nodded vaguely and then waved her arm at the office behind her. “Well, this is it! Let’s have a tour, shall we?”

  The office took up half of the second floor of a building a few blocks south of Dupont Circle. It was open concept and had lots of natural light, and there were touches of the infamous Deborah Kim style everywhere. The warm leather lounge chairs and hanging plants in the lunchroom. Trendy acrylic desks organized into eye-pleasing pods. A gallery wall full of art from some of her most successful advertising campaigns, as well as staff and family photos. I wanted to pinch myself. I couldn’t believe I was here.

  I’d parlayed a college internship at an advertising agency infamously known as a “boys club” into a junior copywriting role after graduation and had worked hard to climb the ranks. But there were only so many times I was willing to tolerate having a male colleague take credit for my work or being passed over for a promotion into a leadership role. I had been quietly interviewing around town for six months when I received an e-mail from none other than Deborah Kim, Korean-American advertising legend who had left the helm of one of North America’s largest agencies to go solo a decade earlier.

  “I’ve gotten too big. I can’t run the accounts and the campaigns,” she’d said when we met up after hours at a restaurant far away from my old office. “We’re a small team, Serena. Agile, socially ethical, none of those ridiculous old-school traditions weighing us down. And I need a creative director who gets that.”

  My heart started beating so loudly I could swear the whole bar could hear it.

  “I’ve seen your work.” Deborah sipped her cranberry juice. “Nicely done with the McMichael campaign.”

  I hesitated, and then she laughed.

  “I know you were on the account, and that means you did the work—even if that fucker Iain took the credit.”

  My old boss Iain was a fucker. It felt good to hear someone else say it.

  She’d tapped her trimmed, unpolished nail on her wineglass hard enough that it clanged. “Sell this to me,” she said, so I sold it to her, and three hours later she offered me the job.

  My dream job.

  On the tour, Tracy showed me where everyone sat: operations, HR, finance, accounts, business development, purchasing. Each department had its own pod of desks, and I couldn’t stop admiring how beautiful the office was. How friendly it felt.

  Tracy stopped sho
rt at a pod at the far end of the space, pointing. “Our digital director, Ainsley, sits right here with her team—website, analytics, all that fun stuff I don’t understand. She’s on vacation right now . . .”

  I nodded, following Tracy’s hand as it flicked to the opposite pod. “And your team sits here. The creatives, as we laywomen like to call you.”

  Your team. I couldn’t help but smile. I was finally running my own team.

  After thanking Tracy for the tour, I sat down at my desk, powering on what looked to be a brand-new MacBook Pro. There was a stack of business cards next to the mouse.

  Serena Singh. Creative Director.

  More like: Serena Singh. Creative Director. Badass Brown Girl. Advertising Ass-Kicker.

  A beat later, the clacking sound of heels made me look up. Victoria West, my senior copywriter, was walking toward me. I’d Googled everyone who would be working for me, and just flicking through their social media, I knew we’d make a great team. Who knows . . . maybe we’d even become friends.

  “I’m Serena,” I said brightly, standing up. She walked right up to me, but she didn’t smile at me. If anything, her expression turned to a snarl.

  “You’re in my seat.”

  I froze. My hand, which I’d been about to extend to shake hers, began trembling.

  “That’s where I sit. I’ve sat there since I started four years ago.”

  There were six desks in the creative pod, and Tracy had clearly pointed to this one on the end, closest to Deborah’s office. Hadn’t she?

  My computer sat on it. My business cards, too. Well, this was awkward.

  I looked back at Victoria. Her face was unreadable, and I was both aghast at her manners, and at myself, because it had been a full eight—nope, nine—seconds since either of us had said anything.

  “Uh.”

  Good god, Serena, say something! You’re her new boss. You’re Badass Brown Girl, and Advertising Ass-Kicker, remember?

  So much for this not being like the first day of school. This felt exactly like the first day of school, and I had just met the Mean Girl.