Karma Khullar's Mustache

by Kristi Wientge

  “What about—”

  Mom’s phone buzzed and rattled on the counter near the coffeepot just as I’d gotten the nerve to say what was in my head.

  “Just a minute.” She put the plate of toast in front of me and patted my hand before she grabbed her phone. “Dr. Khullar,” she said instead of hello.

  Daddy came out of his study with an empty teacup. “Morning, beta. All better?”

  I nodded because Mom made huge gestures with her hand in our direction for us to be quiet.

  Daddy being in the room squished the few words I’d managed to think of to bring up my mustache to Mom. Besides, the memory of Ruthie pointing out my mustache the afternoon of the Oreo incident and the barf fest at Supremo’s still rubbed at me like a new pair of shoes, making me unsure if I really wanted to talk about it at all. Mom hadn’t noticed the hair on my face. Why didn’t she notice it, if Ruthie and Lacy had? Maybe Mom didn’t pay attention to me as closely as everyone else anymore.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll be over in half an hour.” Mom dropped her phone onto the counter. “Well, there goes my Saturday. You can take Karma shopping, can’t you, Raj?”

  But she wasn’t really asking. She was already halfway up the stairs to get ready.

  I shoved a piece of toast into my mouth because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know how I felt. Mom had always taken me school shopping. Sure, Daddy could take over the cooking, cleaning, and driving us around, but shopping for a bra?

  Now not only would I not get a chance to talk to Mom about my mustache until she was back home and I got up the nerve again, but I’d have to buy a bra with Daddy. Meanwhile Lacy and Sara were probably still hanging out, having fun without me.

  Chapter Eleven

  I slept in my bra Sunday night. I wanted to be used to it before I had to actually wear it out in public, but when I got up Monday morning, it didn’t feel any more normal than it had felt on Sunday. Mom said I was “developing” and should wear it even though I couldn’t see the point. I mean, sure I’d noticed the bumps, but my T-shirts hid them okay. Not only had it been embarrassing to buy the bra, with Daddy pretending not to know me as the saleslady helped, but he wouldn’t even say the word “bra” to the saleslady. He’d just kind of pointed in the general direction of underwear and asked the saleslady to help me. I usually put my new clothes into the laundry once I’d cut off the tags, but I couldn’t imagine Daddy finding my bra in the washing.

  I quickly escaped out of it and shoved it into my sock drawer before getting ready for school. I’d already picked out my clothes the night before, a purple T-shirt I already owned and the skirt with embroidery that I’d gotten from Sara. I even took an extra few minutes to smooth down my frizz halo. I pulled part of my hair back and kept it low, with a small piece falling just across my forehead. Lacy had worn her hair that way when we’d gone out to the dinner-I-never-wanted-to-talk-about-again.

  After brushing my teeth, I spritzed some lemon juice I’d found at the back of the fridge onto my face and patted at my upper lip, evening out the lemon juice and trying to get it to soak in faster. I’d used it yesterday too, but I couldn’t tell if it’d helped. I was willing to give anything a try at this point even if it had been Lacy’s idea. Finally, I added a bit of eyeliner and brushed the mascara through my lashes a couple of times. I decided not to bother with the foundation, since it seemed to mostly rub off in a few hours anyway.

  In the kitchen Mom stuffed her bag with binders and papers, and Daddy whistled at the stove, adding last-minute sprinkles of cilantro and salt to the dal.

  “Morning,” I said, trying to sound happier than I felt. Sara and I hadn’t talked since my puke fest at Supremo’s. I’d almost dialed her number a few times, but I’d been kind of waiting for her to call first. The weird silence between us made me incomplete, a puzzle with a missing piece—a big glaring hole of a piece that left the rest of the picture looking pointless and stupid.

  Mom came toward me and gave me a hug. “You excited?”

  I shrugged, trying to cut her hug short. I still hadn’t forgiven her for making me shop for my first bra with Daddy.

  “You smell nice. What is that?” Mom asked. “It’s very citrusy.”

  I grabbed a bagel and shoved it into the toaster. I wanted to stuff all my annoyance with Mom, confusion with Sara, and frustration with myself into the toaster and burn it all up, but emotions didn’t come in a convenient bagel shape, so I was left to shove them further into myself.

  Kiran stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. I think he only ever gave himself five minutes to eat and get ready in the morning. He held the fridge door open with his leg and pinched the back of my arm as I reached around him for the cream cheese.

  I elbowed him in the shoulder.

  Mom tried to straighten the collar of his shirt, but he ducked and grabbed half my bagel and his bag. “See ya.”

  I didn’t bother arguing with him to give it back, because with the way I felt, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to keep down the other half of the bagel. With a sigh Mom turned back to me. “Well, here are a few things from the university. Even an extra eraser and folder for Sara. I know how much you girls like to match.”

  “Thanks,” I said, even though I was pretty sure Sara’s Teen Bop magazine had an entire back-to-school article on matching school supplies being so third grade.

  Daddy picked the receipt for the folders up off the counter. “Not even a staff discount?”

  “Oh, stop.” Mom waved her hand, fanning his comment like a bad smell. “You know there’s been budget cuts in every department.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do know about the budget cuts,” Daddy said, tugging on his beard.

  “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t trying to bring up what happened with the funding for your department.” Mom sighed. “I’ve gotta go before traffic gets bad. Be back for dinner!” she called to no one and everyone.

  Daddy cleared his throat a few times but didn’t say anything else. I shoved the new school supplies into my bag, along with the stainless steel tiffin Daddy had packed. It had one compartment for dal and one for chapatis. The two pieces were flat bowls that stacked on top of each other and clicked together with a handle.

  It was the same tiffin Dadima had used to pack for Daddy when she lived with us. Now that he didn’t use it, he packed it for me. Since kindergarten Mom had packed my lunch box with sandwiches and wraps, but I liked that Daddy wanted to pack me a tiffin with rice and curries. The tiffin somehow made it feel like Dadima would be with me all day.

  My fingers lingered on the handle, and I imagined Dadima’s hand right where mine touched the metal. Her hard, calloused hands would pat mine, and she’d say the short prayer she often said, “Rang tamaasaa pooran aasaa kabeh na biaapai chintaa.” Which meant something like “joy and happiness be yours, may your wishes come true and worries never trouble you.”

  Worries. They always troubled me.

  • • •

  I leaned against the pillar Sara had chosen during orientation, inhaling the diesel from the buses, the floor polish from the open office doors, and the antiseptic smell of the freshly cleaned classrooms, and waited for the buses to arrive. Usually I’d be worried about the amount of carcinogens I was breathing in, but right then I actually couldn’t get enough of that first-day-of-school smell.

  I busied myself by watching familiar faces file past.

  Sara started taking the bus last year when her mom began working part-time. She used to say I was so lucky because I walked, but after a month on the bus, she decided that the bus was the best way to get to school. The older kids talked about scary movies we weren’t allowed to watch and rumors about the eighth-grade dances. I smiled now, remembering how Sara would listen to their conversations and tell me about them as we walked to class.

  As the buses started to pull in, I patted at the lemon juice above my lip. Between the lemon juice and the few strokes of mascara, I hoped it would be enough to disguise the hair
for today until I could come up with a better plan.

  “Karma!” called a familiar voice.

  Ruthie jumped down each step of bus forty-two. She ran to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. I gave her a quick squeeze, glancing over her head to find Sara.

  But I saw Lacy first. Well, first I saw sparkly blue shoes and then the matching sparkly clip in her hair. Of course. I should have remembered that Lacy would be taking the same bus as Sara, but somehow I had expected her to arrive in a chauffeured car with paparazzi tailing her. It actually struck me as kind of funny that she walked off an ordinary, yellow, rusting school bus.

  Sara filed off the bus behind Lacy. She saw me and waved. I pushed off the pillar, keeping one hand in Ruthie’s.

  Lacy glanced up but pretended she didn’t see me. I knew she was pretending, because Sara and I had invented that look together last year to use when we were alone in the hall and a teacher walked toward us. It was a way to avoid having to look at or talk to someone.

  All you do is look down at your shoes or socks and pretend you have to fix something. Then by the time you look up, the other person would have walked past you.

  It had to be “the look” because how could she have to fix anything on a brand-new pair of sparkly shoes? If Sara had told Lacy about the look when they were together last night, Sara must have told her other secrets too. Pinpricks of uneasiness washed over me.

  “Hey,” Sara said. “I didn’t know if you’d be waiting here.”

  “Of course.” I forced a smile onto my face, because she would’ve known I’d be waiting if she’d called me over the past two days.

  “Sissy,” Ruthie said, tugging at Sara’s backpack strap. “I don’t want to go. Can I go to your class with Karma?”

  “Ugh. I knew this would happen. If you don’t go, Mom will have to drive you tomorrow.”

  Sara’s eyes begged me for help. “Sorry, guys. I have to walk Ruthie to the crossing guard.”

  Sara was the Oreo filling that bonded Lacy and me. Without Sara, Lacy and I weren’t anything but two black discs with nothing holding us together. I flushed at the memory of the entire Oreo incident in Sara’s basement. Before I could come up with an excuse to tag along with Sara, Derek ran by and yelled, “ ’Stache Attack!”

  Kids from other buses walked around me, and a few laughed at Derek and looked at me, puzzled. They didn’t get the joke.

  Yet.

  Chapter Twelve

  I pulled on my backpack straps and held my breath as I walked toward Ms. Hillary and my classroom. Just before I reached the classroom door, I looked over my shoulder at Mrs. Clark’s room across the hall. The kids were drawing on the board and sitting on their desks waiting for the bell. As I got closer to my classroom, something about Ms. Hillary’s scowl told me she’d be the kind of teacher who would make us play “educational” games on party days, while Mrs. Clark’s class would be drinking soda and popping balloons.

  When I walked into the classroom, everyone sat at or stood near a desk, with their bag on the floor next to them. There were no assigned seats, but Lacy stood by some desks in the back row, talking with Kate and Emma in a way that made it clear she had assigned those seats for her and her followers. She had followed Derek to the classroom, without giving me so much as a glance.

  I didn’t know where to sit. I’d never had to choose where to sit before. Sara and I always just walked into the classroom and sat. But now I didn’t know which desk Sara would choose. Was she a Lacy follower?

  “Oh my gosh,” Sara said, walking up behind me.

  I didn’t bother to stifle my sigh when I heard Sara’s voice.

  “That took forever. Ruthie started crying, so I had to stay until one of the teacher’s aides came.” Sara blew at the short strands of hair that she’d left loose around her face.

  “She’ll be okay. Remember how much you cried on the first day?”

  “Ugh. Please do not remind me.” Sara rolled her eyes and shook her head, but she had a smile on her face. “Do you smell that?” she asked. “They must have used some heavy-duty lemon cleaner in here.”

  I reached up to my mouth and rubbed the sides like I had an itch. My lip felt sticky. “Yeah. That stuff is really strong.” I needed to wash the lemon juice off, the first chance I got. I put my backpack on the desk next to me and reached in to get the eraser and folder Mom had given me that morning. “My mom—”

  “Sara,” Lacy called. “Kate and Emma wanna read that article. Bring it here. ”

  “Yeah, sure.” Sara pulled her bag up onto her shoulder and looked over at me. “Come sit with us.”

  I turned my head to the back of the room, where Lacy sat. She whispered to Kate and Emma. Their eyes darted back at me and they giggled. Lacy put her finger over her lip in a ’Stache Attack sign.

  “Actually, why don’t you sit up here? With me?” I asked.

  “Sara, the article,” Lacy said.

  “Okay,” Sara said. “Let me give this stupid magazine to Lacy. Just a minute.”

  I kept my bag on the desk. I tried not to move it too much, so the dal wouldn’t spill.

  “Hey,” David said, walking toward me. Well, David shuffled more than walked. One leg was longer than the other, and he tended to drag the shorter one even though his shoe had a thicker bottom to even his legs out. My mom had tried to explain to me in kindergarten that David had been born premature and had been really sick as a baby. His name was always on honor roll with mine, but his body and maturity never seemed to catch up with the rest of us. Still, he had been off-limits to real teasing since kindergarten.

  “My bag is there.” For someone so small, he had a really loud, squeaky voice. He pointed at a blue backpack on the other side of the desk.

  “Sorry.” I grabbed my bag and moved over a row.

  “Karma’s stealing David’s seat,” Tom said. “ ’Stache Attack, dude!” Tom put his finger over his mouth.

  Maybe it was just me, but the room suddenly felt quieter and a million degrees hotter. Tom might have been making fun of David or me. I couldn’t tell.

  I wanted to find Sara’s eyes. Instead I found Lacy gawking at David with that freaked-out look everyone makes when they meet him for the first time.

  Last year he missed three months of school for another surgery and came back with a medical waist pack. It looked like a normal waist pack Daddy would wear on vacation, but it had a tube attached and a bag full of pee inside. It’d been weird for the first few weeks after he came back to school. We were all worried about bumping into him or hurting him, and making his pee pack explode, but now we hardly noticed it.

  Lacy, on the other hand, let out a loud, “Eww. What’s wrong with him?”

  David smiled and nodded proudly as he explained his pee pack. He was the only kid I knew who didn’t worry about nicknames. I had to give him credit for being so proud.

  Someone cleared their throat behind me. “You sitting there?”

  I turned around. Ginny, a.k.a. Guinea Pig, stood next to the desk. At least she could directly blame her parents for the torture bestowed upon her, since they’d chosen a hard-to-read name. I mean, “Karma” might not be the most common name, but at least its mispronunciation can’t be confused with a furry rodent. And if just one kid mispronouncing “Ginny” as “Guinea” in first grade could brand you with a nickname for life, what would ’Stache Attack become once it caught on?

  “Well?” she asked.

  I realized I’d left my backpack on the desk I’d saved for Sara. But Sara still stood at the back of the classroom, hunched over a magazine with Kate and Emma. I couldn’t go back there with lemon-smelling clumps of hair on my face and join Sara. And, from the looks of it, Sara didn’t seem to be missing me at all.

  “It’s yours.” I grabbed my things and slipped into the desk in front of Ginny.

  Ms. Hillary didn’t waste any time. She passed out a list of class rules—twenty, to be exact—and then she gave us our locker assignments, which were alphab
etical. Karma Khullar landed between Lacy Jenkins on the left and Ginny Meyers on the right.

  We filed into the hall to empty our bags into our lockers. Ms. Hillary hovered behind us, making sure we could all figure out our combinations.

  Sara and Emma laughed as they put up mirrors and other locker-decorating stuff. I’d seen those locker kit things when Daddy had taken me school shopping, but I’d rolled my eyes. I didn’t think anyone really bought them. Especially not Sara.

  Watching the other girls laugh and decorate their lockers made me want to have someone to talk to as well. I tried to smile at Ginny, but she was busy stacking her notebooks by size. She also added a couple of recycling magnets and a peace sign magnet to the inside of her locker door.

  I opened my mouth to tell her that her magnets were nice, but Ms. Hillary cleared her throat behind me.

  “Let’s not waste any time, please.”

  I lifted my folders plus the one for Sara out of my bag. Yellow dal dripped off the bottom and splattered onto my leg. I quickly wiped it with my hand, hoping no one would notice. Some of the dal had leaked out and formed a small watery, yellow puddle at the bottom of my backpack. I held the tiffin up to figure out how to clean it.

  “What is that?” Lacy inched away from me. She eyed my tiffin like I held a dead rat in my hands instead of my lunch.

  “It’s my . . . um, lunch?” I hated that she made me question everything.

  “Looks like baby poop. Yuck.” Lacy held her hand over her nose and slammed her locker closed.

  I’d thought the tiffin would make me less worried about things, but instead it turned out to be one more thing Lacy could make fun of. Then again, it was just my lunch. It couldn’t possibly be worse than ’Stache Attack.

  A few girls around her giggled. Lacy smiled at her triumph, and she grabbed on to their arms, skirting around me as if dal was contagious.

  “Hurry up,” Ms. Hillary called to David and me, the only two still unpacking our bags.