The Whole Story of Half a Girl

by Veera Hiranandani

  “Does this mean he’s not going to get a new job?” I ask, hoping Mom means I really can ask anything I want.

  “Eventually.” Mom puts her fingers on her forehead like she has a headache. “Dad has been depressed before, but this time it’s a little worse. His doctor will help him through it, and as soon as he’s feeling better, he’ll find another job. In the meantime, I’m going to have to work more.”

  I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. I try to think about other times I’ve seen Dad like this, but I can’t.

  “When was he depressed?” I ask.

  “A long time ago, before you were born,” Mom says. “But please don’t talk about it with other people. Dad needs his privacy. We all do.”

  Natasha climbs on my bed. Mom comes over and puts her arms around us. We sit quietly for a little while until all I want to think about—all I can think about—is sleep finding me.

  She kisses me on the cheek and says softly, “I’m sure you blew the judges away.” Then she leads Natasha out of my room.

  I never ask if I can go over to Alisha’s house.

  chapter fourteen

  When the tryout results are posted on Friday afternoon, I see a crowd of twenty or so girls looking for their names on the list in the girls’ locker room. I watch Kate run up to the list, bounce on her toes, and clap her hands. I watch Jess look at it, squeal, and hug Kate. I watch some other girls look at it, hang their heads, and walk away. I watch Christina, the girl I met at Kate’s house, look at it and start crying. I push my way to the front. Kate comes up out of nowhere and puts an arm around my shoulders. My eyes scan the list. I don’t see my name, and I swallow hard to make sure not one tear sneaks out. Then way at the bottom I see two names. One is mine. It says in bold capital letters SONIA NADHAMUNI—ALTERNATE. “Alternate.” It’s a word I’ve never really heard of before, in the sense that someone could be one. Yet I am.

  I’m not sad, I’m not happy. I’m an alternate.

  “What does it mean?” I ask Kate.

  “It means you’re totally on the team!” she says, hugging me.

  I see Jess and some other girls who’ve made it huddle around one another, talking fast with flushed faces. I was better than Jess, way better. I was better than most of those girls, maybe not Kate, but better than most. Maybe it doesn’t just have to do with how good you are. Those girls aren’t new. They have names everyone can pronounce. They know exactly which lunch table they belong at.

  “But how is it different?” I ask Kate.

  “Don’t worry. I’m captain, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re on the team just like anyone else,” she says. Then she grabs my arm and thrusts me into the circle of the other giggling cheerleaders. Their voices blur into one shriek of excitement, one high-pitched sound that rings in my ears.

  I find out later from the other alternate, Ann, what it really means. It means I can practice with everyone, but I only cheer in the games when one of the real cheerleaders can’t make it, which is probably not very often. Ann doesn’t seem upset by this, so I pretend I’m not either and stand with my hands in my pockets with a stiff smile on my face. I’m half Indian, I’m half Jewish, and now I’m half a cheerleader.

  I’ve avoided eye contact with Alisha all day, but here I am waiting for my bus with no escape. She comes up to me, but before she even says anything, I tell her why I didn’t call her. “I kind of got into a fight with my parents last night and I never asked them about coming over. I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Was the fight about coming over to my house?” she asks.

  “What? No. Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” Alisha says, and walks off to where her bus pulls up.

  I trudge off to my own bus and wonder if Alisha will ever want me over again.

  At home nobody rushes to ask me if I’ve made the team or not. Natasha is locked in her room again, banging on her drums louder than I’ve ever heard her. Mom is busy making dinner, and for once I’m happy to see her cooking even if she’s preparing something with lots of tofu and spinach to make up for lost time. Dad’s outside in his navy blue bathrobe sweeping leaves off the patio.

  It’s strange how robes and pajamas can seem so cozy at the right times and so sad at the wrong times. I open the sliding glass door and feel a surprising chill in the air. It smells like cold dirt, like snow about to fall, like winter.

  “Can I help?” I ask him.

  He turns around and then I see it, the cigarette in his mouth, the smoke in the air, curling around his head. He might as well be naked. I’ve never seen him smoke. I didn’t even know he did. I wonder what other things I don’t know about my dad. A quick sweat breaks out on my forehead. I grip the doorframe to steady myself.

  He holds out his broom to me, sits down on the picnic bench, and presses the cigarette into the stone patio until it’s out. I begin sweeping fast. I want to finish and leave this stranger smoking on our patio.

  “Did you make the team?” he asks.

  I stop sweeping and watch as the last of the smoke curls out of his mouth. Through the haze I catch a glimpse of my old father with his crow-eyed smile.

  “I only made it as an alternate,” I say, and wonder if he’ll know what I mean. I cough a little with my mouth tightly closed.

  “Are you happy about that?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s better to be an alternate than nothing at all. Nothing’s worse than being nothing. Remember that, Sonia,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say. “Dad?”

  “What?”

  I want to ask why he’s smoking, if he feels depressed right now, if he feels like nothing. “I’m going to see if Mom needs help with dinner,” I say instead.

  “Good,” he says, holding out his hand to take the broom back, and I let him have it. I walk away and close the glass door behind me. When I’m far enough away from the door I turn around. His back is facing me. The broom is propped up against the picnic table. He’s crouched over a bit, the smoke once more rising above him. I don’t go into the kitchen to help Mom. I go into my room and start on my homework even though it’s Friday.

  On Monday morning Dad’s in a suit drinking coffee and rushing around the kitchen. Mom hands me a plate of scrambled eggs and wheat toast. I take it and sit down across from Natasha. We both stare at our parents over steaming plates of food.

  “Hey,” Natasha whispers.

  I take in her big brown eyes and dark floppy hair that Mom has given up trying to control. I forget sometimes how little she still is. In fact, the way she looks now, with her cheeks rosy and big, I can remember what she looked like when she wore diapers. I suddenly want to hold her hand and sing to her like Mom used to let me do when she slept in a crib.

  “Yeah?” I whisper back.

  “Is Dad better now?” she asks.

  “Maybe,” I say, and hold out my hand flat on the table so she can slap me five.

  Dad’s talking to Mom by the stove. His eyes are bright and flashing. At one point Mom reaches over and straightens his tie. Then he comes over to the table with his plate and crunches on his toast while glancing at the paper.

  “I want you both to have a fantastic day,” he says, and stands up and kisses us each on the forehead. Then he’s out the door like lightning, as if I imagined the whole thing.

  “Mom?” Natasha asks when he’s gone. “Does Dad have a new job?”

  “No, but he has a job interview,” she says, and I can see from the twitching corners of her mouth that she’s trying not to smile.

  In the afternoon I have my first cheerleading practice by the bleachers near the football field. I tell Mom just as I’m running out for the bus, just kind of yell it out to her, that I’m taking the late bus home because of practice. Her shoulders fall.

  “I’m so sorry I forgot to ask,” she says, but that’s all. She doesn’t say she’s happy for me. She doesn’t say “good job” or “good luck,” or anything like that. Maybe I�
��ll become a professional cheerleader, so she’ll finally have to admit that I’m good at it and that cheerleading is okay.

  chapter fifteen

  When I get to the track near the bleachers, not everyone is there yet. Kate, Jess, and a few other girls crowd together and gossip about the football players who are practicing out on the field. I walk up to them and stand beside Kate. Jess is still trying to convince Kate that Peter Hanson likes her.

  “He’s so looking at you,” Jess says, and glances sideways at the players. They’re completely covered in gear, including helmets. I wonder how Jess even knows who Peter is, let alone sees him looking at Kate. Kate turns boldly in the boys’ direction. “He so isn’t, and I’m not really into him anyway,” she says, but a blush on her cheeks makes me think she cares more than she lets on. He’s one of the tallest boys in our class and he is pretty cute, I have to admit, but he’s always surrounded by a bunch of boys who like to talk loudly and punch each other in the arms. In my opinion no boy could come close to Connor O’Reilly, the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. Connor is a lot different from the boys here. He can draw really well and play the guitar. Sometimes he and Jack would do duets together during lunch. I’m not used to arm-punching, football-playing boys like Peter Hanson. We didn’t have sports teams at Community. We’d run races or play soccer or basketball during recess, but that was it.

  Finally when all the girls arrive we sit on the grass and Kate starts to run the practice. First she takes down everyone’s size for uniforms and asks for a show of hands of who wants sneakers and who wants saddle shoes. I have no idea what saddle shoes look like, so when Kate first asks who wants sneakers, I raise my hand. I’m the only one. The other girls sneak sideways glances at me while Kate writes something in her notebook.

  “Okay,” she says. “Before we start warming up, I want to tell you some stuff. First”—she pauses to run her hand down her golden braid—“I’m so psyched about this team. We’re the youngest squad in the county and that’s really awesome.” A few girls yell out a “whoo-hoo!” “And second, as captain, I’ve decided to cut out the alternates.”

  I look at her in shock. I make my hands into fists, dig my nails into my palms. Fine, she’s throwing us off the team in front of everyone else. Fine. Fine. Fine. I always knew there was something about Kate I couldn’t trust. Maybe she just thought it would be fun to mess with my head. Mom will probably be thrilled.

  “Including the alternates, we have ten people on the team,” Kate continues while she paces back and forth in her pink sweats. “The seventh-grade team has ten people, not including alternates. So I’ve decided that Sonia and Ann should be regular members of the team and cheer at all games. If someone’s sick, we’ll just change the pyramids last minute. Sound cool?” She says this loud and strong, in true cheerleader style.

  Before I know what’s happening Ann comes over and gives me a quick hug. Some of the other girls clap. I catch Jess’s eye and she quickly looks away. My hands tingle and a smile spreads slowly across my face.

  After practice Kate asks me to have dinner at her house.

  “I guess that’s all right,” Mom says when I call her from the pay phone in the gym. “Pick you up at eight.”

  Kate pulls on my elbow. “Ask her if you can sleep over,” she says. The thought of not having to return to my nervous mom and sad dad and confused little sister sounds pretty good.

  “Can I sleep over?”

  “On a school night?” Mom says.

  “I don’t have any homework,” I lie. “Please.”

  There’s silence on the other end for a second. “Are you sure it’s all right with Kate’s parents?” Mom asks.

  I cover the phone. “Is it all right with your parents?”

  Kate nods.

  “Yes,” I say.

  To my relief, Mom doesn’t bother to ask how Kate knows this, but from the impression I got from Jackie, Kate probably has school-day sleepovers all the time.

  “What are you going to do for clothes, a toothbrush, lunch?” Mom asks.

  “I’ll borrow stuff from Kate.” Kate nods vigorously while I say this. “She says it’s fine.”

  By some strange miracle Mom lets me.

  The bus trip to Kate’s house is much shorter than mine. She could actually walk to school, but since it would be along a very busy road her parents don’t let her. We go in the back door and Kate throws her backpack down in the corner of the small kitchen. I put mine next to hers.

  “In the closet, please,” Jackie says, pointing to the backpacks. She stands over a round wooden table, arranging a vase filled with yellow roses. She’s wearing a pair of tight jeans, a lacy white T-shirt, and sequined pink flip-flops. She looks cooler than most of the teenagers in my town.

  Kate takes our backpacks and hangs them in the coat closet. Then she starts hunting through the fridge. I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets and watch Jackie fiddle with the roses.

  “There’s some ham and Swiss in there. Hey, Sonia,” she says, flashing me a quick sparkly smile. I like the way Jackie says “hey” rather than “hi.” It makes me feel like she knows me better than she does.

  “Hi,” I say, giving her a little wave. “Thanks for having me over.”

  Kate grabs some ham, cheese, a loaf of pumpernickel bread, and a jar of mayonnaise and sets up on the kitchen counter. I’ve never had a ham sandwich in my life. I don’t tell this to Kate. I help her, hoping she thinks I eat ham sandwiches every day. Kate’s probably never had non-meat meat loaf either. We both make a sandwich and she pours me a glass of Coke. Then she takes her plate and her Coke, stuffs a can of Pringles—another thing I’ve never eaten—under her arm, and starts for the living room. I follow her.

  “Don’t eat too much, we’re going to Rudy’s tonight,” Jackie calls after us.

  “We won’t,” Kate calls back. We both sit cross-legged on the couch. I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s salty and full of mayonnaise and wonderful, topped only by a handful of Pringles and a sip of cold Coke.

  “Have you been to Rudy’s? We go there all the time.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I’m relieved that though I’m new to the world of ham sandwiches and Pringles, I have been to the neighborhood Italian restaurant, Rudy’s. But only a few times. Mom thinks it’s too greasy.

  Kate pops a couple of chips into her mouth and grabs the remote. We both settle in on the puffy tan couch. Everything in Kate’s home looks like it’s out of a magazine. A thick, colorful rug sits under the coffee table and the wooden floors shine. There are fresh white roses in a vase over the fireplace. I’m surprised that Jackie lets Kate eat in here. Mom never lets us eat in the living room, the one fancy room in our house. Everything else in our house is sort of crowded and mismatched. There are shelves everywhere stuffed with books and knickknacks. And most of our furniture comes from all the countries my parents have traveled to. Our living room is all from Japan. Our dining room table is from Mexico. And we have lots of pillows and rugs from India all over the house. There’s even one little rug with a big hole in it in the kitchen from the house Dad grew up in.

  Kate turns on what she says is her favorite reality show. It’s about a woman who has to choose a husband out of a bunch of men. She walks around and talks to them in a really sparkly pink dress. Two of the men get into an argument about who has spent more time talking to the woman. Then one man pushes the other into a pool. If there’s one thing Mom hates more than anything, more than junk food, more than cheerleading, it’s reality TV.

  I hear Jackie’s flip-flops flip-flopping down the hallway. “Do you guys want to go to the mall?” She asks, poking her head into the living room with her sunglasses on, twirling her car keys. “I have to return some shoes.” Kate quickly jumps up and turns off the TV. “Sure,” she says, and off we go.

  The mall, a place where Mom drags me and Natasha for new school clothes, sneakers, or bathing suits a few times a year, is a very different place with Kate and Jackie. First we head to the
shoe store, not the sporty discount one we always go to, but a nicer one that has about thirty different kinds of shoes displayed like pieces of art on glass shelves. The way Kate and Jackie walk around intensely gazing at the shoes, pausing to focus on one particular pair, reminds me of a show I once saw about lions hunting their prey. I follow them, afraid to touch anything. Jackie finally pounces on a shiny pair of red flats with very pointy toes.

  “Like?” she asks Kate, holding up the shoe. Kate walks over and takes the shoe from her mother and turns it this way and that. I wonder what she’s looking for.

  “Yes,” Kate says. Then she shows Jackie a pair of black patent leather sandals. They both huddle around the shoes and discuss their good and bad qualities. Kate decides to put them down.

  Just for something to do, I go over and look at a pair of green loafers. The green reminds me of grass in the spring. I run my finger down the fronts of them; I’ve never felt leather so soft.

  “Those are cool. They’re totally you,” Kate says behind me.

  “Really?” I say, and wonder what I have in common with a pair of green loafers. I pick one up and turn it over: eighty dollars, says the price sticker in thick red marker. I’ve never had a pair of shoes that cost more than thirty.

  “Try them on.” Kate holds up the shoe in the direction of the saleswoman. I’m about to stop her, but it’s too late.

  “Size?” the woman asks.

  “Seven?” I say in a quiet voice, and drop myself into one of the black leather chairs.

  The saleswoman comes back, kneels down in front of me, and takes off my beat-up sneakers. I’m afraid my feet smell, but she doesn’t seem to care or notice. The shoes fit like gloves.

  “They look great, Sonia,” Kate says, and Jackie, who’s come over, agrees. I think I’m starting to catch what they have—shoe fever. I picture myself walking into the cafeteria with my green shoes on. The other girls in my class shower me with compliments. Even the boys stare. My chin lifts and my heart swells at the thought. But they’re eighty dollars. I have a dollar fifty in my pocket. Bang. Crash. Boom.