The Rearranged Life

by Annika Sharma

  “Of course not! That’s crazy!” I am flabbergasted. Does she really think so little of me? She is piecing together every conversation to back her own hypothesis. “How could you think that?”

  “How can I think anything else? You did everything you should have done, and you didn’t get in. You suddenly became very curious about breaking the rules. The only factor that does not fit into the equation is this boy.”

  “Don’t you think I replay all of this over and over in my head? Do you really need to say things like that to make me feel bad?” I slam my books shut.

  “Maybe you should feel bad. Maybe you should have focused more on school and less on boys.”

  “Shut the hell up, Mom,” I say and hang up.

  I shake so violently, the phone slips out of my hands. I don’t bother to pick it up, and it lies on the hardwood floor. I put my hands on my head, trying to breathe but instead, the bile starts coming up. I run to the bathroom and get there just in time to throw up.

  I’ve never disrespected my mother that way in my entire life. Even my teenage years were filled with That’s not fair! and, I hate that!, but blatant rudeness wasn’t something I resorted to. The fact that I couldn’t say ‘Amma’ and reverted to ‘Mom’ tells me I didn’t have the guts to own my words. I’m a phony–a petulant child who couldn’t control her temper.

  Two hours go by, and I finish some homework, before I restlessly get up and start on laundry. I throw in a load, violently shutting the door before going to wash all the dishes in the kitchen. My frustration is being taken out on an unfortunate baking pan when my phone rings in my bedroom, and I make a beeline for it. I’ll open with an apology before attempting a rational, calm conversation with Amma. To my surprise, Nanna’s name comes up on my glowing screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you tell your Amma to shut the hell up?” He doesn’t say hello. For the first time, the calm tone terrifies me. He seethes with quiet fury. The waves of anger travel through the phone line.

  “Did she tell you that she said I should have focused on school more?” I ask bitterly, still trying to defend myself and armed only with my pride.

  He processes what he’s going to say next.

  “She shouldn’t have gone so far with such an untrue statement. But you didn’t have a right to be so rude, Nithyapriya.”

  The use of my full name is deliberate, intended to illicit the same fear anyone else experiences when their parents bust out their middle name. It also serves as a reminder that my name comes from my mother’s… She gave me life, and I don’t have a right to insult where I came from.

  “I’m sorry.” I choke back tears. “Really. I am. She just kept harping on me like I was a failure at everything, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Okay,” he says, simply. “I will tell her you are sorry. And put the comments out of your mind, you shouldn’t remember what people say in anger,” he adds as an afterthought.

  “She didn’t have to go there, Nanna. Like I don’t beat myself up every day anyway.”

  “She didn’t have to, Nithya, but you should have handled it with grace.”

  “How do I handle it nicely when she says something meant to hurt me?” I snap. Again. What is happening to me?

  “You cannot tell us to handle things nicely if you don’t show it by example,” he says sternly. “You sprung this on us, Nithya, in a moment where we were determined to help you. You haven’t even given us a week to process what has been going on, I assume, for months. Yet you expect us to bounce back quickly, on your time and not ours.”

  He’s right. They have been given the shock of their lives, and they need time to process it. But I want to scream, “Don’t hate me!” all the same.

  “So you’re mad at me too,” I say what he won’t.

  “I’m disappointed. I never expected this from you. I thought we taught you better.”

  Though he hasn’t raised his voice, I would rather he yelled at me. To hear my favorite person in the world tell me I’ve let him down is the worst kind of depressing. My stomach plummets through the ground, and the hollow space in my chest fills with regret.

  “How can I make it better?” I ask, determined to comfort him as he’s always comforted me.

  “I wish I knew, Nithya. I wish I knew,” he tells me sadly.

  I hear fumbling in the background, and Anisha shouts that she needs to go somewhere.

  “Luckily, I have another daughter to stress me out,” he says lightly, and I know the shift in his tone is to prevent Anisha from knowing the full extent of the drama her sister is causing. Preventing the loss of her innocence makes up for my own transgressions.

  “Hi, Akka!” she shouts.

  “Hey, kid,” I reply, a lump forming in my throat again as I wonder if I’m setting a bad example. Is she going to look at me someday as someone who stands up for what they believe in or an example of what not to become?

  “I have to go drop her off, Nithya,” Nanna says.

  “Okay… I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Nithya?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you. Don’t forget that.”

  When I hang up, the tears finally come.

  ’ve turned my honors’ thesis in this week on my research lab work related to antioxidants and immune function. Sophia loves any cause for celebration, so she tells us we are going to Indigo tonight. I still have a lab report to write for histology, so I’ll meet Luca, Sophia, and James there. Schoolwork and dancing will be a good distraction.

  I spend a few hours writing the paper, but it is punctuated by distracted thinking breaks, which makes the process that much slower. I wonder how Amma will tell Aunty that Nishanth and I won’t be dating. She doesn’t have to tell if she doesn’t want to. But it’s a small comfort. And what about everything else? The accusations of messing up my medical school prospects because I was with James, the disgrace I’m bringing on my family, the bad example I might set for Anisha… They all replay in my mind over and over. Finally, I just can’t take it anymore.

  “You look beautiful,” James says when I’ve joined them at their booth around midnight. The place is packed already, the booths lit by flower-shaped lamps.

  “Congratulations! College is pretty much over for you!” Sophia cries out, a shot in one hand. She hands me a Shirley Temple, my go-to drink of choice, with the other.

  “College is almost over for all of us. Hell, yes!” Luca clinks his beer with James’.

  “How was your paper?” The fact that James remembers these things is one of the many things I adore about him.

  “Good, it’s just been a long day,” I tell him. I don’t mention my parents’ phone calls. It seems whiny to complain about it here, when everyone is having a good time. I knew they would be upset, so this is par for the course. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I try to dance it off all the while wondering if I should be studying and focusing on school more.

  My favorite song by Jay Sean comes on, and I take it as a hint to let it go. I pull James onto the dance floor. He is a good dancer, but I suppose anyone can be with confidence. Half the fun is because he’s goofy, spinning me in circles and making up moves with Luca that look ridiculous. Everyone within a three-mile radius can tell he doesn’t take himself too seriously.

  The hours blur together. Sophia and Luca join us on the floor. This group of four has become so close, I can’t imagine spending the long nights with anyone else anymore. It’s funny how that happens. One second you’re going through your life thinking everything is complete, and then special people show up and you realize how much more was possible.

  “Can we not end tonight? Let’s go watch a movie!” Sophia sways with Luca’s arms around her and her eyes sparkle. The club closes in twenty minutes.

  “I’m in,” James says. “Just let me grab one last drink.”

  “I want another water,” I add, trailing him.

  He lets out a shout when he gets to the bar as he re
cognizes the person next to him. They high-five and hug as James introduces me to Paul, a stocky and handsome blond.

  “Paul was a co-captain on THON with me. This is his girlfriend Carla,” he tells me, and a girl with the Greek letter zeta on her necklace flips her hair over her shoulder.

  Paul says a couple other committee members are at a booth, and James says he wants to say hi and that he’ll be right back.

  Carla sidles up to me at the bar. “So, you’re dating James?”

  “I am!” Pride bubbles in me. It’s like being the girlfriend of someone famous. A mini-celebrity.

  “When did you guys start dating?”

  “About three months ago.” It feels like a lifetime. Like it could be a lifetime still. I ask about her and Paul, but she looks around and doesn’t pay attention. I wonder what’s taking so long–the frazzled bartenders serve more profitable drinks toward the end of their shift, and should be used to the uptick in orders.

  “Hey, have you told your parents yet?” Carla stage whispers.

  “I’m sorry?” I hope she didn’t ask me what I know she did.

  “You know, your parents.” She says this so exaggeratedly, I wonder if she thinks I, in fact, don’t. “James told us you didn’t tell them you were dating because of your religion.”

  “Oh. Um…” I’m not the best person when I’m flustered to come back with a coherent response.

  “Are they going to, like, disown you? I heard about this Muslim girl who was killed for dating someone different. You’re not going to be killed, are you?”

  “No, I’m not… It’s not even about religion. Even if it was, it’s really not anyone else’s bus–” I stammer. Where’s an eloquent answer about religion, culture, and understanding diversity when you need one?

  “I’m sure you have something really special,” she says with a look on her face like she doesn’t believe it, “but don’t you think it must be hard on him? I can’t imagine dating someone who has to hide me away.”

  I wish I could tell her someone should, so she could stop spewing her ignorance. She takes a swig of her beer, oblivious to the many shades of red my face must be turning. I can’t tell if she’s drunk or not.

  “Who are we talking about, James?” Another girl walks up to Carla. I vaguely recognize her, but can’t place her. “Oh, are we talking about his girlfriend’s parents? How crazy is that?”

  “I’m his girlfriend,” I announce, loudly enough to elicit staged embarrassment.

  “Oh. Sorry! That must be so hard.” She pats my arm with fake sympathy.

  “Actually, no. My parents love him. They love how happy we are.” That is an exaggeration of legendary proportions, but I just want them to shut up. “Excuse me,” I say, leaving zeta girl and her friend behind.

  When we get back to the apartment, we all settle into the couches to watch a movie. Not that I care about whatever’s on. I’m a million miles away.

  What was James thinking? Luca knows. Tommy knows. It’s not about secrecy. It’s the close-minded people that bother me, the ones who don’t even try to understand where others are coming from. To think anyone could ever possibly imagine my parents hurting me because I fell in love! I give an involuntary shudder. Does James feel that way? Had he confessed as much? The more I think about him spilling the beans, the angrier I get.

  The anger isn’t the dominant feeling though. The loneliness is. Today, my mother, who has loved me unconditionally until now and always served as a listening ear, expressed how I had betrayed the years of loyalty she had invested in me. My father, the only person I’ve ever needed in my court and who has ever fully understood all the cobwebbed, musty parts of my disorganized soul, told me I let him down. And then this girl, with one sentence, has planted the seed that James may not be as happy as I thought.

  That’s not fair, you told friends about the situation–don’t be a two-faced bitch. James can tell whoever he wants and people are going to react. I rub my temples. My head feels so full it threatens to explode.

  “Hey, I’m going to bed,” I whisper to James quietly.

  “I’ll come with.” He stands and announces to Sophia we’re turning in.

  For all her insistence on a fun night, her eyes flutter too. Luca shakes his head in amusement, and we head to my room. James waits outside until I change into pajamas before he comes in and settles in on my bed.

  “You’ve been quiet, are you okay?” he asks as I pull the covers back.

  “I had a couple interesting conversations today… One with Carla and another with my mom.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Did you tell your THON committee about my parents?” I get straight to the point.

  “I told a couple of people. They were asking about you, and it came up. Why?” He is nonplussed.

  “Because Carla asked me if I told my parents yet.”

  “Okay, and why are you upset?” His calmness infuriates me further.

  “Do you know she asked if it’s because of my religion? Which, to be clear, it’s my culture. Big difference. Secondly,” I rant, “who does she think she is, gossiping about my life? Do you know how it feels to be asked if you’re concerned your parents might mercy kill you?”

  “So, I’m not allowed to tell anyone we’re going through this?”

  “Not people like her!”

  “Well, now that you made it clear it’s your culture, not your religion… Which, by the way, is something I know and respect, so let me have my say. I didn’t tell Carla. Carla overheard Tommy, Ryan, and me talking about it. I didn’t go shouting it from rooftops,” James says sharply. I open my mouth to speak, but he continues. “I was just telling the guys it was hard being told you aren’t good enough for someone you want to be with. None of it makes sense to me.”

  “She made it sound like my parents are evil. They’re the best things in my life, besides you.”

  “I know,” he says, gently, and I feel a little better. “But, Nithya, you have to understand this is really different for people here. You can’t blame her for thinking the worst of something she can’t understand.”

  “Wait… Are you seriously defending her?” The feeling of comfort vanishes.

  “No, I’m not defending her or even what she’s saying. I know your family means a lot to you, and I respect that. I’m just saying it’s really different, and people don’t always understand.”

  “I see. I don’t understand that, but then again, I didn’t grow up in a box.”

  “Look, Nithya, my point is this. Fuck them all. I don’t understand why it matters if someone thinks something so stupid about you. You know it’s not true.”

  “It’s everything, James. In a five second conversation, she managed to cram in that my parents are horrible, you’re being hidden away, we don’t have anything special, and that our lives have become gossip. Do you know what that feels like?”

  “No, I don’t, but–”

  “It sucks, James.” I swipe at my leaking eyes. “You feel like you’re always screwing someone over. My parents called me today, and my mom called me ungrateful. She told me I’m throwing all of their sacrifices back in their faces. Then this girl tells me I’m screwing you over because I’m hiding you away. She asked if I thought you deserved better.”

  “I never said that. I never said I deserved more,” James puts in firmly, but I’m barely listening.

  “My mom said I didn’t deserve the good things my family gave me growing up. She asked if I didn’t get into medical school because I focused on you too much.” I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. James presses his lips together like he’s holding back a comment that will make me react further. “When she said I was ungrateful, it killed me. For a second, I thought it’d be easier if…” I trail off into silence to avoid letting him know for a split second, she got into my head.

  “If what?” he asks, sharply. I can’t meet his eyes. “It would be easier, if what, Nithya?”

  “If we broke up,” I whi
sper. It’s not what I want. It’s not like I can even imagine it now. This chaotic bliss has become a part of me as much as the order in my life has been a part of my past. The can of worms has been opened, but it doesn’t mean I can’t wish I could close it again, just so I could unhear my mother’s words.

  “Do you believe that?” he asks incredulously.

  “I don’t know, James!” I shout, snapping. “Girls like this make me wonder if you’re happy with all of my baggage. Then I tell the truth, and now my family hates me. I lose either way. And I screw everyone over! Do you know how hard this is for me?”

  “How hard it is for you?” James says, an emphasis on the you like he’s making a point.

  I look at him questioningly.

  “We went into this knowing what the hurdles were. I’m not saying it’s not hard for you. I’m not even sure I can imagine how hard it is. But you’re acting like you’re the only one being told you’re not good enough.”

  “Who said that to you?”

  “Isn’t that what this is about? I meet every list of qualifications–but I’m American. That automatically negates everything else. But I’ve been okay with it, because I’ve figured we’re in this together.”

  “We are!”

  “Are we? A couple harsh words, and you’re backtracking.” He sounds calm, but the accusation is there.

  “That’s not true–” Or am I just denying it because the truth hurts?

  “You just told me you wondered if it’d be easier if we broke up! You’re willing to throw all of this away. What we have, this amazing connection, you’re going to throw it away because it’s getting tough.” He shakes his head.

  “What should I do then?” I ask him, frustrated.

  “I can’t tell you,” he answers, knowing I want him to tell me what action to take. “No, that’s not it. I won’t. I won’t tell you to choose me over your family. Or to even make a choice because I don’t believe in that. I will say I didn’t expect you to rethink us.”