Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  “I . . . I wanted to work from home last weekend.”

  “Why didn’t you take your work laptop home? Or log in to the cloud from your personal computer?”

  She mumbled something I couldn’t really hear, and I waved her off.

  “And why did you transfer files for campaigns you’re not assigned to?”

  She didn’t have an answer, and I could see her trembling. I felt terrible, but I also knew what I had to do.

  “We take client confidentiality very seriously here, Vic. You’ve broken at least three conditions in your employment contract—”

  “Serena, it’s no big deal—”

  “It is a big deal. There are trade secrets in those files. Your personal computer could be stolen or hacked.” I paused. “And I suspect that you were going to add those files to your own portfolio of work, help convince another agency to hire you on.”

  My stomach churned as I watched her. I’d never seen her look vulnerable before.

  “You were planning to take credit for my work because you’re still pissed that you didn’t get my job. Is that right?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “That’s really too bad, Vic, because your own portfolio is outstanding. You could have gotten another job on your own merit.” I paused again, feeling sorry for her. “In a few years, with a bit more experience, you probably would have gotten my job.”

  “I’m sorry, Serena.” She started crying, her hands falling into her face. “I’m so sorry. I’d do anything to take it back.” She looked up at me, whimpering. “Please don’t fire me, OK? Please? I’ll never get another job in advertising if you fire me.”

  She was right. It was a small world, an even smaller industry, and it still wasn’t easy for a woman to get ahead.

  “I propose that Tracy accompanies you home right now so you can get your personal computer, and then our IT department will wipe it clean.”

  Vic nodded, wiping her eyes. Her makeup had started to run.

  “And afterward, you’ll hand me your letter of resignation. I’m not going to bad-mouth you to other agencies, but we’re not going to write you a reference, either. Does that sound fair to you?”

  Fair. Nothing about this world was fair. Vic had screwed up majorly, but I didn’t want to be the reason she didn’t have a future. She deserved another chance; I just couldn’t be the one to give it to her.

  Autumn

  33

  The end of the summer blurred together. Work was busier than ever, especially after Jerry and Patricia announced they planned to assign all future advertising campaigns for all their product lines over to our agency, thanks to our good work with The Fifth Ingredient campaign. Still, I made time to spend the occasional evening with Natasha, to help Mom plan the baby shower. I found a new book club that didn’t invite authors and reached out to Jasmine, whom I’d only caught a glimpse of at Natasha’s gender reveal. We spent hours on the phone reminiscing about business school, about her Jersey Shore–themed bachelorette, and decided to start meeting up for monthly drinks again.

  I also finally managed to organize that long-promised brunch with my school friends. What was meant to be a two-hour catch-up stretched out for an entire Sunday as we remembered just how long it had been. How much we truly missed one another. I told them, point-blank, that they needed to try harder. That we all needed to. Misty-eyed, they agreed, and we held hands, reminding one another about the good times, why we were all still worth the effort.

  And then there was Jesse.

  I couldn’t pinpoint the day it happened. That everything changed. One day we were sharing a bento box beneath a sliver of shade by the National Geographic Museum, and the next?

  We were having coffee or drinks after work on an overcrowded patio near his office. We were sharing every meal together, walks, even workouts, seeing each other whenever we possibly could, sometimes even twice on the same day.

  Eventually, those moments found themselves on one of our balconies, couches, or kitchens. It was a natural shift, so natural that it felt entirely ordinary the first time we cooked chicken curry together, or when my hand lingered on his after we accidentally touched. The first time, while reading the paper, he pulled the pages down and kissed me.

  Weeks passed, and the moments became larger, more meaningful. We made love, and I spent two nights at his apartment without going home, without showering. Natasha and Mark invited us over for lunch. Jesse suggested that I meet his children. I did meet his children. The very same day, I fell in love with them.

  It was painful opening myself up, but I wasn’t afraid anymore. And one muggy night sitting on the curb outside of my local Trader Joe’s, I finally told Jesse why I’d pushed him away twelve years earlier. I told him about my dad and why I’d always had a confusing relationship with alcohol.

  I told him that I was finally ready to put the past behind me.

  Labor Day weekend blew in on a cool, welcoming breeze, but the first hint of autumn didn’t last an hour past dawn. I was awake and restless, and finally, I did what I’d promised myself I’d do that day. I called Dad.

  I’d never seen him in shorts or sandals or even a T-shirt, no matter how hot it was outside. Today was no different. He was wearing his uniform of light khaki pants and a checkered collared shirt rolled up to his elbows. His beard was immaculately groomed. He had a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

  He held them up, walking toward me. I smiled, taking them.

  “What’s this for?”

  “A housewarming present.”

  “I moved in years ago.”

  “I never bought you a housewarming present. It’s been weighing on my mind.”

  I thanked him, leading him into the apartment. My parents didn’t come into the city often, and I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been over. Dad propped himself on one of the stools by the kitchen counter while I made tea, and he babbled about a traffic accident he’d seen on the drive in. Even though I was paying attention, I couldn’t quite get the gist of his story.

  When the tea was ready, I joined him on the neighboring stool. I’d never heard him talk so much, at least not to me, and it occurred to me that he was nervous. My whole life, Dad and I were rarely alone together. I’d always made sure of it. I always thought that it was because I couldn’t stand the sight of him, that I hated him. But maybe deep down I knew. I knew that if we looked into each other’s eyes, if we were honest with each other, we would have to address it.

  “So,” Dad said, switching gears suddenly. “What is . . . up?”

  I smiled at his tone.

  Should I just get to it? Neither of us were good at small talk.

  “I’m sorry, Serena,” he blurted.

  I looked up. There were tears in his eyes, and his cheeks were bright red, no easy feat for someone with our complexion. Tears welled up in my own eyes.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “There’s no excuse for—”

  “It’s OK.” I cut him off. “I know. I . . . Let’s not. Let’s just start over, OK?” My voice cracked. “Starting today. Starting now.”

  “Hah. Start over.” He nodded, massaging his face with his hand. “How?”

  I thought fondly about all those times I’d sat at the dining room table in Jesse’s family home, watching them together as a family. I smiled.

  “Let’s just . . . talk.” I hesitated. “Actually, there is something I want to tell you.”

  “Hah?”

  “Do you remember Jesse?”

  Dad’s eyes brightened in surprise. Mom must have kept the news from him.

  “Jasmeet? Of course!”

  “We’ve . . . reconnected,” I said, giving Dad time to process what I meant. “Jesse’s divorced now and has two children.” I stopped again, trying to read his face. Divorce wasn’t uncommon in our community, but it was still a bi
t of a taboo. “Would that be OK with you?”

  “Well.” Dad breathed out heavily. “Does he make you happy?”

  “He does.” I smiled. I couldn’t help it. “He really does.”

  “Then . . . that’s wonderful news.”

  It wasn’t just me who talked that morning. It turned out Dad and I were rather similar; he could be very chatty, too.

  He told me about what it was like to move to America when he was in his thirties like me. How much harder it had been to get used to this way of life, his lack of social capital, so unlike his life back in Punjab.

  He said he’d been secretly saving up to take Mom to India and then Thailand for a few months when he retired the following year. After, I told him everything about my new job, nabbing Jerry as a client, the ins and outs of The Fifth Ingredient campaign. I even told him my salary; he didn’t balk. He told me he was proud of me. That even though it was unattainable to most, that he was happy his daughter had achieved the “American Dream.”

  “I work in advertising, Dad.” I laughed. “It’s my job to make shit up and pretend there’s an American Dream to be purchased.”

  “Do you really feel that way about your industry?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes. But I do love my job. Deborah’s philosophy—and I agree—is that we have to make changes from the inside. That’s why we only sign socially and environmentally ethical clients.”

  “Like this Fifth Ingredient.” He nodded, swallowing. “So tell me about this new commercial. Will I be able to watch it on TV?”

  “We’re buying loads of regional airtime. You’ll definitely see it. And an abbreviated clip of it will show up as sponsored posts on Instagram and Facebook.”

  “What’s the commercial about—can I get a preview?”

  I hesitated.

  “Kya?”

  “I actually got the idea from you.”

  His face fell, and I shook my head vigorously. I hadn’t meant to imply his past behavior with Mom was going to be the commercial. “No. It’s not about that.”

  When he didn’t respond, I continued.

  “Do you remember that afternoon at the Hartshornes, when the penguin—I mean, the waiter—offered you wine?”

  Dad nodded.

  “You didn’t know if the pinot noir was red or white wine—not that you should have. It’s cultural knowledge, right? People who didn’t grow up in ‘wine country’ or who don’t drink it or socialize with people who do—why would they know?”

  Still, Dad wasn’t saying anything. He was hanging on to my every word.

  “Anyway, it got me thinking. Jerry wanted a commercial that would sell his beer to today’s average American. Like himself before his business took off, or like you. Someone who immigrated to this country. And neither of those men would know if pinot noir is red or white.”

  I flipped open my laptop. It was already open to the script. The commercial would begin shooting that week. “You see,” I said, pointing to the scene heading. “It all starts at a wedding. There’s an Indian bride, a white groom, and it’s a very bougie wedding—”

  “Bougie?”

  “Bourgeois. Like, fancy.”

  “So Natasha’s wedding.”

  I laughed, returning to the script. “Precisely. So anyway, there are lots of shots of the happy couple and their young friends drinking and dancing and enjoying themselves. Their clothes are super modern, nothing about the ceremony is traditional. No gurdwara, temple, or church. No white dress or sari. For example, instead of a wedding cake, they eat kimchi cupcakes . . .”

  Dad chuckled, and it made me laugh, too. I was surprised he knew what kimchi was.

  “And in the background,” I continued, “are their dads. Average American guys like you and Jerry, and they look completely lost.”

  A smile stretched across Dad’s face as he caught on. “Like I did ordering the pinot noir?”

  “Is it OK that I borrowed from real life?”

  “Of course, beti.” Dad sipped his tea. “So tell me how the commercial ends!”

  “Well, the dads’ faces light up when they see bottles of The Fifth Ingredient because it’s finally something they’re both familiar with, and they grab two bottles each. One for them, one for their wives.” I grinned. “And the best part is the end. When they find them on the dance floor, both wives are already holding their own beer bottles.”

  “Acha?” Dad beamed, and my face flushed. “That’s very clever.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s absolute perfection. Maybe it will be showcased at the Super Bowl?”

  “A girl can dream.”

  Without thinking, I touched his shoulder. I could feel his arm tense, but then as he caught my eye, it slackened.

  He smiled, pressing his own hand against mine. It was the first time I could ever remember us showing any sort of affection toward each other, and it made my heart so full I could have burst.

  Mom was right. Sometimes, it was OK to love the people who had hurt you. And if Jesse could forgive me, and Mom could forgive Dad, and I could forgive Natasha, and Dad and I could forgive each other, and all of us could still go on and move forward, then I knew without a doubt, there was someone else who would forgive me.

  “Dad,” I said, a moment later. “Have you ever been to a farmers market?”

  “Serena,” Dad tutted. “I am from the village. In Punjab, my father was farmer.”

  “What about a bougie farmers market?”

  34

  As I suspected, Dad had never been to that kind of farmers market before, but he loved it. And today was the perfect day to bring him.

  The market was buzzing when we arrived. And even though the sun was red-hot and the air was still swampy, I could tell it was nearly harvest by the mountains of fresh produce. Kale, beetroot, sweet potatoes, and pumpkins. An abundance of watermelons, apples, grapes, and peaches in every other stall.

  Everyone’s tote bags, shopping carts, and even strollers were full of fruits and vegetables, pies and pastries, homemade jams and chutneys. Dad loved it, stopping at every other stall to buy a basket of raspberries for their morning smoothies or a loaf of banana bread, because it was Mom’s favorite. He was as excitable as one of the free-range children or hypoallergenic dogs roaming around.

  By the time we were halfway down the first aisle, he’d filled one of my canvas bags to the brim. We rounded the corner, and I started to feel anxious as we drew closer to Dirty Chai.

  There were so many days I’d thought about calling, texting, or even dropping by, but then I would worry about what Ainsley would say, what I would say, and chicken out.

  Friendships ran their course all the time. We changed schools, apartments, cities, or jobs, and the people who at one point populated so many waking hours of our lives often disappeared forever. There was never a breakup or a talk. An acknowledgment that we didn’t have anything in common anymore or were too busy or simply didn’t care enough to make the effort to stay in touch.

  The crowd thickened closer to Nikesh’s stall, and the sun beat down harder on my forehead. Easily, Ainsley and I could drop from each other’s lives now that we didn’t work together. We both had our families, our partners, our career paths, the meat and potatoes of a good life. We would be fine without each other, and in some distant future, I imagined us crossing on Fourteenth Street. We’d smile at each other fondly, remembering that silly fight that had put an end to our friendship, and then we’d keep walking, too busy to look back.

  Dirty Chai had a long line out front. Nikesh was working the booth, rapidly filling eco-friendly mugs and taking orders and credit cards. There was somebody next to him I didn’t recognize. He must have hired an employee for the summer, and my heart sank into my stomach as I realized that maybe she wouldn’t be here.

  “Dirty Chai,” Dad said slowly, stopping short. �
��Is that not your friend Ainsley’s stall? We should go say hello.”

  “I don’t know if she’s here, Dad.”

  “Of course she is. She’s right there.”

  I turned to where he was looking. With all the people around, I hadn’t noticed her in the crowd right in front of me, taking preorders on a notepad from the people in line. She had her hair pulled up in a tight bun on the top of her head, a yellow kerchief tied up in a bow just in front, and she was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks and the same faded gray T-shirt dress I’d seen her wear a million times.

  I could walk away right now, and we’d both be fine. We’d manage. But I didn’t want to. I wanted my best friend back in my life, no matter the effort. No matter what I had to do to win her back.

  “Two iced dirty chais, please,” I said, when Ainsley walked up to us. She was smiling but had her eyes on her notepad and didn’t look up.

  “When you get to the counter, that’ll be eight fifty . . .” She trailed off when she looked up and saw me. I couldn’t read her face. Then she noticed Dad, and her face lit up.

  “Mr. Singh!”

  “Ainsley!”

  She embraced him and then ignored me completely while enthusiastically grilling Dad about what he thought about the market, what had brought him to the city.

  “Serena invited me,” he said, putting his arm around me. The gesture was stiff, awkward, but I could tell he was making an effort. I smiled.

  “She invited me to ‘hang out’”—he threw me a wry look—“are we hanging out? More than thirty years in this country, and I’m still not sure I know what that means.”

  Ainsley and I both laughed.

  “We’re hanging out, Dad.”

  “Ainsley, would you like to join us?”

  The line had crept forward, and by now, we were right at the front. Nikesh introduced himself, pressed his hands together in front of his chest.