I ponder climbing out of bed—the lure of chai and paranthe is strong—but then I remember last night. Ouch.
I check my phone. Lizzie hasn’t responded to a single one of my twenty “I’m sorry” texts. Sigh. I mean, I get that she’s mad or whatever, but I’m mad, too. And I still apologized. Well, two can play this game. I shut my phone off and storm to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, take a quick shower, and change into clean pajamas. I’m taking the day off. From everything.
Mom’s in the front hall, all dressed and ready, when I pad downstairs in my pajamas. I kind of want to tell her about last night and Lizzie, to ask her what I should do. But she’s putting on her shoes, all rushy and late.
“Patients,” she says. “Back around four. Go eat nashta.”
“Is Pinky coming? Can I—”
Mom shakes her head. “Anya’s going to be there, and I can’t take the tamasha today.”
“You have to convince her to push forward with the surgery,” I say, my voice breaking a bit. “Without it, Pinky doesn’t have a shot at all. I know it’s scary, but—”
“But you are not her mother. And neither am I. But I am yours. Now stop thinking about work. Eat. Lounge. Watch movies. You need the day off.”
I’m about to protest, but she’s already out the front door, closing the door behind her, before I can open my mouth. It’s been like that ever since I started work, ever since Pinky got sick. Like we’re just not allowed to talk about it—about anything—anymore. It kind of sucks. But she’s right. Time to take a day off.
Papa’s long gone by the time I get to the kitchen.
“Jogging,” Dadi says, then makes a face. She doesn’t get exercise for the sake of exercise. She grew up on a farm in Tarn Taran, in Punjab, where they earned their paranthe by working in the fields. She’s got a batch sizzling on the stovetop now—potatoes, onions, and chilis stuffed into a crispy whole-wheat flatbread, pan-fried with ghee. Yup, a farmer’s breakfast for real.
I take a seat and she places a plate in front of me—paranthe, yogurt for dipping, and a few extra green chilis for good measure. My mouth is already full when she starts her lecture.
“Thu nahin gayi nah, driving test?” she says. She tsks. “Khi gal si, Saira?”
I’ve gotten countless scoldings from Dadi. But this one is unexpected. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Well then, get ready. You’ve done everything else ahead of schedule. Why are you letting this one thing hold you back?”
“I’m not—I’m just tired—”
“No.”
“I haven’t had enough time to practice.”
“No.”
“I just … I don’t want to right now. Okay?”
“Not okay.” Dadi takes a seat across from me and pours chai into two mugs. I take the sugar and start dumping spoonfuls into my chai, breathing in the gingery aroma. “Saira, you need to learn to drive.”
“Why?” I stuff more parantha into my mouth, hoping for a reprieve, but Dadi stares at me. “Everyone else drives. I can take a car service. It’s so not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal, puth.”
“You don’t drive. You never did.”
“I am old and weary.”
“Whatever, Dadi.”
“That’s exactly why you should drive.” She takes a sip of chai, and her voice sounds a bit faraway when she talks, like she’s talking to herself and not me. “When I was younger, your age, there were so many things I wanted to do. I used to play field hockey in school in Patiala. Did you know that?”
I didn’t.
“We had these old wooden sticks and pucks, and played in a field just outside the boys school. Me, and five other girls. We were pureh palvans. Real athletes. We’d have our lassi and paranthe for breakfast—and two full mangos each, always—and play for hours. In our kurta pajamas, all dirty and dusty. I would forget my studies for field hockey. But in the end, it was pointless fun. No one took a group of girls playing seriously. They wouldn’t even entertain the idea.”
“That sucks, Dadi.”
“That’s just the way the world works. Worked. Back then. I didn’t learn to drive, I didn’t go to college. I didn’t continue to play field hockey. I got just enough education to be marriageable, and then I was wed. I didn’t complain.”
“You could have complained.”
“It would be no use.” She refills my chai cup, staring into it like it’ll reveal something big. “But you, puth, you have all the freedom I never did. Sometimes too much freedom.” I know she’s thinking of Vish. I wonder what she’d think of Link. “I never did, beta. So it hurts me when you choose to throw that freedom away.”
She cups a hand under my chin, making me look at her. “Women like your mother, as bold as she may be, they fought for that freedom. They earned it. So that it is a given for you and your sister. You have to honor that.”
I nod.
“So go reschedule your appointment for the driver’s test, puth. And change out of your pajamas.”
I bubble-face at her, filling my cheeks with air, and she pops the bubble like a balloon, with a single finger poke.
I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and throw myself onto the bed, pulling my laptop open. I’m about to go to the DMV site to reschedule. But instead, I head to the Rock Star Boot Camp website. The deadline for round two is a few days away. If I’m going to make this happen, it has to be fast.
I call Vish.
CHAPTER 24
I grip the steering wheel and my own sweat makes the leather slippery. The tendons in my shoulders bunch—anxiety muscle tension. Non-severe, but recurring. Taara’s slightly new car is spotless, and smells like a perfume shop—flowery and sweet—and if I wreck it, she’s warned me a thousand times that she’ll make me buy her an upgraded version, with a leather interior. Because, you know, doctor’s salary and all.
“Turn right here,” Taara says, her left hand firmly on the gear shift, her arm taut and stretched with worry. “And then make a left three blocks down.”
If Mom knew she was letting me drive to our favorite non–Pizza Hut pizzeria, the Princeton Pizza Palace, she’d take away Taara’s keys and ground us both. At first, I didn’t get it. I mean, on the one hand, it’s all pass your road test! On the other, it’s panic about highways. But with demon drivers going eighty an hour, I’m starting to understand the conflict.
The faster we get there, though, the faster we eat. My stomach grumbles.
“Hungry? It’s been so long since I’ve had good pizza,” Taara says. “I’ve been making pizza bagels in the dorm, but the jarred sauce sucks. Maybe I’ll make a batch before I go back down to school tomorrow. I’m going to try putting cumin in it. And maybe shallots instead of onion to make it a bit sweeter. You wanna help me?”
“You should try hospital cafeteria food. Yuck,” I say. “I’ve got rounds tomorrow.”
“Exit right here,” Taara says, her left hand firmly on the gearshift, her arm taut and stretched with worry. “Quick, or you’ll miss it. And then make a left three blocks down. Is it weird being in that hospital again?” Taara asks. “I mean, you must see Harper everywhere.”
I swerve a little at the mention of Harper’s name.
“Be careful,” she says, then asks me another question about Harper.
Definitely not going there. I wave an arm to shut her up. “I need to focus on the road.”
“You need to go faster. The speed limit here is forty, you’re barely doing fifteen.”
“There’s no law that says you can’t go slow.”
“Yes, there is. It’s the law of the starving sister.” She laughs at her silly joke, rolls down her window. “Actually, it’s called the minimum speed limit. You’d know that if it hadn’t been so long since you looked at the DMV booklet, smartie-pant.” She peers ahead, squinting into the distance. “Half a mile down and then a right.” She frowns over the dash.
My hands get even more gross and clammy. Cars honk and pass me on
the left, and another driver shakes his fist at me on the right. Driving isn’t any harder than medicine, but people forget that you can kill someone with a car just as easily as you can with a scalpel.
I make a left and then a right, following her instructions perfectly. But every time I go a smidge over thirty miles per hour, I fret a little. It just feels too fast.
“Hurry up and make the next right,” she says.
My whole shirt is soaked through by the time I pull into the pizzeria’s parking lot. I stop the car. “You park the car.”
“Nope. You’ve got to learn how to do it sometime,” Taara says, disapproval twisting her mouth.
“But not today,” I announce, turning the car off and unlocking the door. The spots in this lot are parallel, and the last time I tried parking with Papa, it didn’t go well. “You do it.”
She frowns and sighs, but gets out and comes around to the driver’s side. I stand near the restaurant door as she parks the car.
I hold the door open for a young couple on a date. They can hardly keep their hands off each other. It would be cute if it wasn’t gross.
My phone buzzes. There’s a text from Vish about our plans for tonight. We’re going to go to the movies, then go over our plot to convince Link to make another tape. If he’ll even talk to us at all.
I sigh and follow Taara as she walks into the restaurant, the sharp, spicy scent of garlic hitting us. It’s old-school Italian and very charming, all white-and-red-checkered tablecloths and waiters with chef’s hats on. It’s always bustling, and there’s hardly a free table since it’s a Saturday night. We claim an empty booth near the windows, and order garlic bread with cheese and a large pepperoni and veggie pie.
The couple is in the next booth, sharing one seat, the girl’s legs thrown over the guy’s. They pause their making out to order a sausage-and-peppers pie.
Taara looks at them, then at me. “So how’s it going with Vish?” she asks before I can even take a sip of my lemonade. “It’s been, like, two years, right? Serious stuff.”
“I mean, I like him all right,” I say, wondering if I’m giving myself away. The garlic bread arrives then, gooey and sticky, and I attack it, breaking off a piece and dunking it into the spicy marinara. I take a big bite, and when I look up, Taara is watching me really intently, her forehead lined with seriousness.
“You know you can talk to me about that stuff, right?” she says, her mouth a grim line. She hasn’t touched the garlic bread. “Like, I know Mom wouldn’t talk to you about it—she never talked to me, even though she’s a doctor. But I’m here if you need me.”
I try not to laugh. “It’s mostly just Bollywood movies and ice cream. No biggie.”
“It is right now, maybe. But at some point, you know, things might get a little more intense. And if you need to talk about birth control or any of that stuff—”
“I definitely do not need any,” I say, my voice a little too loud. “And, dude, I’m a doctor, too. I know all about that stuff.”
“Yeah, technically you do. But you’re a kid. This side of it is new. And weird. For everyone. Even Girl Genius doctors.”
“Well,” I say, stuffing my mouth with garlic bread and avoiding her gaze, “we’re not having sex anytime soon.” Which is totally the truth. I take another bite. “And if we were, I think I’d have it handled.”
“All I’m saying is, I’m here if you need me.” She finally takes a small piece of garlic bread, removes some of the melty cheese, and nibbles at the edge of it. “And I want to be. When Marc and I started—”
I nearly spit out my garlic bread. “I do not want to hear about you and Marc.”
Taara laughs. “Okay, okay. You don’t have to be such a prude about it. As a doctor, I’m sure you know that it’s all perfectly natural.” She pauses. “And healthy.”
“It’s just not something that’s happening between us,” I say, and regret it instantly.
“Why? Is it the chemistry? I mean—”
“I like him a lot.” But not in that way. Or, correction: There’s no point in liking him that way. In any case, the way I feel about Link, I can tell the difference. “I’m not ready. And Vish’s fine with that.”
“Well, if you won’t talk to me about it, I hope you’re at least talking to Lizzie,” Taara says, and I nod, even though every single thing Lizzie believes about me and Vish is a lie. It has to be.
“Here you go, ladies!” The waiter arrives with our pizza, placing it in the center of the table. It’s steaming and melty, with crunchy burnt cheese toward the edges, the pepperoni crisped and beckoning.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, digging in for a slice, and this time Taara does, too, picking off a few pieces of pepperoni and popping them into her mouth. “And everyone’s always all up in my business—including you. It needs to stop. I mean, you don’t like it when they’re always trying to marry you off.”
“Yeah, but you and Vish give them hope. Visions of future grandkids or something. But if you want privacy and freedom, you need to get your license,” she says. “So you can actually have some control over your life.”
“That’s what Dadi says.” Taara raises an eyebrow. “There’s always car service. But I will. I’m just … busy.”
“Well, you have to log those hours with Papa,” she says. “And really practice. It’s the only thing you’re not that good at.”
I scoff, then shove at her arm. She laughs. We both know she’s right.
She nods, then focuses on her pizza, taking a bite and then another. “I’ve missed this,” she says, her mouth half-full, and I don’t know if she’s talking about pizza or us. “Rutgers would be so much more fun if you were there.”
“I’ve got to study for my boards.”
“Dude, you’re always studying. What’s the point of being sixteen if all you’re gonna do is work?”
I stare at her from over my slice, taking another bite. Work is fun for me. But I don’t know how to explain that. It doesn’t seem like something Taara would understand.
“College is weird,” she says. “I mean, the hanging out and stuff is cool. But my classes are so boring, I can barely keep my eyes open. Especially biochem.”
“Is it Tarcher?” I say, and she nods. “I had him, too, when I took the summer intensive at Rutgers.” When I was eleven. “I might still have my notes, if you want them.”
She shrugs. “Would it be like beyond horrible if I dropped the class?”
I nod my head and swallow a bite of pizza. “Better to knock it out early, because all the other chem classes will build on it. We could always do a study group or something if you want. I thought it was fun.”
“Of course you did,” she says drily. “But I have a tutor. This kid George. He’s Greek. And hot. He’s in my lab group.”
“Well then, I guess you’re all set.” I guess little sister tutoring big sister would be a bit weird anyway.
“But really,” Taara says, her voice all serious all of the sudden. “I think I’m gonna drop it. And premed.”
“What?”
“Two doctors in the family is plenty, right?”
I nearly laugh out loud. But I manage to control myself. “Nope. The more the merrier. For real, Taara. Mom would flip.” After all, if I don’t take over the practice, Taara’s next in line. Though I realize why the weight of that obligation might make her run. I take another nibble of my pizza. “And besides, what else would you do?”
“I dunno. A lot of things. I was thinking about maybe taking some nutrition classes. That’s sort of sciencey, right? Because I could add real, practical information to my FoodTube videos. And I joined this drama troupe on campus. We’re doing an updated version of Hair.”
I nearly spit out my bite. “Wait, isn’t that the one where they’re all naked onstage?”
Taara shrugs. “You make it sound so scandalous. I mean, it’s about art and expression.”
“Tell that to Dadi, dude.”
“Don’t yo
u dare tell Dadi!”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
She reaches over, and we pinkie swear on it. I hate keeping secrets from everyone. But if I have to do it, having Taara on my team definitely helps. But the secret she’s keeping could blow up big-time. All I know is, if it does, I’ll stand by her side.
And if she can go after what she wants, so can I.
CHAPTER 25
Monday morning, and I am nothing if not determined. This is happening. I mean. I’m sixteen. I’m the only teen doctor in the known world. I’m a goddamned genius. I can do this. I know I can.
But there’s sweat pooling in the small of my back, and glistening above my—recently groomed, thanks, Mom—eyebrows. My heart is racing and my palms are so clammy, I nearly drop my clipboard. Why does he manage to make me feel this way? There’s no rational, medical explanation for it. Some would call it lovesickness—in Hindi they call it prem rog, an actual affliction caused by lust and longing, that can manifest itself in symptoms like nausea, mental anguish, and even depression. Not fun. But this feels like something way worse. And I’m worried there isn’t a cure.
Checking to make sure none of my superiors—or snoopy fellow interns—are around to watch me make a fool of myself, I rap gently on the door, and hear a mumbled “Yeah, I’m up.”
So I push back the curtain and step in. “Morning,” I say, my voice squeaking with false cheer and bravado. I’ve got to tone it down. “How are you feeling?”
Link frowns from his prone position on the hospital bed, then immediately reaches for the call button to summon a nurse.
“Wait, wait, please, just give me one minute. Hear me out for a second.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Just—I have something to tell you.”
“No.”
“Your tape. I have an idea. A really good idea.”
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 17