Aai stood up, the spare tire secured, the look of fear in her eyes replaced with a look of reassurance. “You don’t need to worry. We’re here. And we have room.”
chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
The lights in our kitchen flickered as a flash of wintry lightning briefly lit up our yard. Mrs. Walbourne, Harper, and Harrison sat at our table, shivering from their damp hair, despite having changed into dry clothes. I sat by Harper, exchanging awkward glances as Mrs. Walbourne kept asking how she could help my parents and they kept telling her she was our guest and to just relax.
“I’m starving,” said Harrison, swinging his legs at the table.
“I think you will like this Indian food once you try it,” said Dad as he heated the leftover pan of paneer and pot of varan from lunch on the stove.
I put two wicker, peacock-shaped pot holders down on the table, and Dad brought the food over. He lifted the lids, and the aroma of lentils and garlic and mint from the paneer floated around us. Dad served varan in little steel bowls for everyone and spooned cubes of paneer onto all the plates. Harper scrunched her nose, trying not to show her repulsion.
Harrison was not as subtle, poking at his paneer. “It smells gross.”
“Harrison!” said Mrs. Walbourne, looking at my parents. “I’m so sorry.”
Dad smiled. “It’s no problem. He’s just a kid. Maybe we can make a sandwich for him?”
Aai dug through our fridge. It was loaded with vegetables and fruit, but there was just one broken end piece of bread left. Aai was planning on placing a grocery order with her app on Sunday, since we had been gone for dinner tonight at Gudhi Padwa. She emerged with a few glass storage containers full of pizza slices.
“How about some leftover pizza? I made it yesterday.”
“Made it? You must be Supermom. When I want pizza, I just order takeout,” laughed Mrs. Walbourne.
Aai smiled at her. I could tell she wanted to tell Mrs. Walbourne all about the dough conditioners in take-out pizza and the BPA in the grease sheet that lined the box, but she was stopping herself. I breathed a sigh of relief as she silently put the pizza slices on her iron tava.
Mrs. Walbourne stood up. “You can just—”
A crack of thunder silenced her.
“Sorry?” asked Aai, turning on the stove.
“You can just nuke it. It will be faster.”
Aai took a second to answer, buying time as she flipped the pizza onto its face so the cheese began to sizzle on the tava. “Oh, that’s okay. This is almost done.”
Harper raised an eyebrow at me. “She doesn’t like to microwave food,” I whispered to her. “She doesn’t like radiation.”
I stopped short of telling her how Dad always tells Aai you get radiation just from walking on the planet, or that there is a lot more radiation when you fly on a plane, like we did every two years to India.
Mrs. Walbourne sat down as Aai served the pizza. “Gosh, you’re really making me feel like a bad mom. You don’t even microwave?”
“I don’t like using radiation to cook food that my child is going to consume,” said Aai, matter-of-factly.
But Mrs. Walbourne looked down. I could tell she was offended.
“Please eat. It’s all organic. And the cheese is rBST free too.”
Mrs. Walbourne looked at Aai as if she were speaking Marathi.
“The growth hormone? We only buy dairy without it. Actually, organic never has it in it—”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Walbourne, her forehead getting shiny, like she wished this experience was over already.
I wished it was too. Didn’t Aai realize not everyone was paranoid about stuff like she was? Or not everyone could afford the food she bought, which Dad said was way overpriced? It was almost better a few hours ago when Aai didn’t think it was worth making an effort with people we didn’t know. This was just embarrassing. Mrs. Walbourne must have been embarrassed too, because everyone was eating their pizza, which really wasn’t as warm as it would have been in a microwave, and not talking. Everybody just went on chewing, pretending homemade pizza tasted good the next day and not more like soggy bread soaked with tomato sauce covered in cold, thick globs of cheese.
“To our dear old friend in the sky, good old pizza pie,” said Dad, taking a bite of pizza between spoonfuls of varan.
“Is that a Hindi thing? Like a prayer?” asked Mrs. Walbourne, using the word for the language and not the religion.
“Mother!” said Harper, her face matching the cold marinara sauce on her pizza.
I guess both our moms could be equally embarrassing.
“No, it’s that old song.” And then Dad began to sing, and I began to slouch in my chair, wishing I could disappear. “My very educated mother just served us nine pizza pies.”
Mrs. Walbourne looked at him blankly.
“You don’t know it? My older cousin-brother had come here for his PhD in the 1970s.”
“What’s a cousin-brother?” asked Harrison, pushing his bowl of varan away.
“Shh!” said Harper, scooching the varan back.
“It’s okay,” said Dad. “It’s another name for ‘cousin’ in America. His doctoral adviser’s kids would sing that song whenever he would visit them. When he came back to India, he would sing it all the time. It’s a way to memorize the planets. But now that Pluto, the pizza pie, is gone—”
There was another flash of lightning outside, and then all the lights in our house went out. Harrison screamed.
“Don’t worry,” said Dad as Harper consoled her brother. “Let me go start the generator.”
I heard the noise of loose change and pens hitting each other in the drawer as Dad fumbled before finding a flashlight. He followed the beam of light to the front door and headed to the generator on the side of the house, which Aai had insisted we buy after a day without power during a summer storm years ago.
We sat in silence, chewing our cold pizza in the dark.
“This is actually pretty good!” exclaimed Harrison.
We heard the hum of the generator, and the lights suddenly turned on.
I looked at Harrison’s hands. He was holding his slice of pizza, and it was coated in all the paneer from his plate and Harper’s.
“It actually tastes better than candy on pizza,” he said, chewing away with a big smile on his face.
I looked at my mom, Mrs. Walbourne, and then at Harper, and before we knew it, everyone at the table was laughing, together.
chapter THIRTY-NINE
By eight o’clock that evening, our house was full of even more laughter, and a lot more people. Avantika’s family and Noah’s family, including Cookie, were all in our house for the most epic sleepover our street had ever seen.
They didn’t have generators, so my parents called them over. We made room in our kitchen fridge and in the one in the basement, which was mostly full of grains and lentils, for their gallons of milk, so they wouldn’t rot in refrigerators that didn’t have power. There wasn’t room for the Popsicles from Noah’s freezer, so Aai let us eat them all after checking that they were free from cochineal and carmine, the red dye made from crushed bugs.
Avantika’s parents were a little uncomfortable with a sleepover with girls and a boy, but not as much as Noah, who was forced to have his first sleepover. I let Harrison and Mrs. Walbourne sleep in my bed upstairs, while Noah, Harper, Avantika, and I set up colorful sleeping bags, lush brown blankets, and mismatching pillows in the family room. I got to share my sleeping bag with Cookie, who was the best foot warmer ever. Even better than the kitchen vent.
“I don’t know why you can’t stand her sleeping in your bed,” I told Noah. “It’s so cozy.”
“Wait till your foot falls asleep,” said Noah, rolling his eyes as he put on his noise-canceling headphones. He started reading one of my parents’ old, sexist Betty and Veronica Archie comics, which Aai had agreed to give to me as long as I promised to understand they were from a different time, when some people treated girls like the
y were not equals.
Harper flipped through an Amar Chitra Katha telling the stories of the emperor Akbar and his witty adviser Birbal. I watched her face for any signs of laughter, but she was staring intently at every page, fascinated.
Next to Harper, Avantika started putting some lotion on her hands.
With no one looking at me, I took my big bun of hair out and started braiding it. I left the front of my hair pinned in place as I made eleven braids out of the rest of it. I opened the noisy lid of the glass coconut oil jar and scooped out a white glob, watching it melt to a clear liquid from the warmth of my hand. The strong scent of coconut filled the room. I ran my fingers down my smooth, heavy braids, thrilled I wouldn’t have to spend an hour in the morning unknotting my hair.
“I heard the grown-ups talking about your mama and his friend,” Avantika said, reaching for a dab of coconut oil. She took her seashell clip out and ran her fingers through her silky locks, which were shining even more than usual thanks to the oil. “If I had known earlier, I wouldn’t have ignored you in FACS. I would have been there for you.”
I nodded. “You’re here for me now. And I’m here for you.”
“Always.” Avantika smiled as she dropped her clip into her bag and dug around in it, taking her Fair & Dainty cream out. She opened the lid and saw me staring at her.
“I thought that was going to stay in a drawer,” I whispered, not wanting to draw attention to Avantika. There was no way Harper and Noah would be comfortable around a skin-lightening cream discussion.
Avantika snapped the lid open and shut over and over again. “It’s silly, isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “It’s not silly to feel bad about yourself. I know what that’s like. But you don’t need to change the way you look. You’re perfect the way you are.”
Avantika squeezed the tube, leaving an impression of her fingers in the metallic material. “I’m not perfect.”
“You’re better than perfect. You’re you. And I think I’m jealous.”
Avantika smiled sheepishly. “That’s not true.”
“It is. You’re confident. You speak up for yourself. … Why can’t you do it about this little tube of cream?”
Avantika looked at me, and finally handed me her Fair & Dainty. “Okay. Chuck it.”
“What are you going to tell your mom?” I asked, getting up to toss out the racist cream.
Avantika shook her head. “I’m just going to tell her I threw it out because I’m not going to use it anymore.”
We shared a look, and then I went into the kitchen to throw the Fair & Dainty out for good. As I headed back to the family room, Mrs. Walbourne came down to the kitchen and Vikram Uncle handed her a cup of tea.
“Harrison’s asleep,” she said, inhaling the aroma of lemongrass and ginger. “Do you mind if we turn on the radio? I just wanted to hear if there was an update about our house.”
Dad nodded, turning the radio on to the station it was always set on, except for Saturday mornings when my parents would listen to the Hindi music programs from Detroit. The local newscaster began talking:
“Many are wondering how much Senator Winters will do for the refugee center after its leadership accused her of running a campaign based on xenophobia and nationalism, blaming immigrants for everything from the loss of jobs in the auto industry to—”
Dad quickly talked over the radio while Mrs. Walbourne focused on her tea as if it were the most interesting thing she had ever seen.
“You girls ready for conference finals?” asked Dad loudly.
“I think so,” said Harper from her sleeping bag. She twisted her body so she could see Dad in the kitchen. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Divekar?”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Walbourne put down her cup of tea and leaned forward in her chair. I wondered if she thought Harper was going to say something about Senator Winters. I wondered if the question was going to be another one that made me feel bad about myself.
“What is that thing you say to Lekha before we swim?”
Dad turned the radio down. “ ‘Himmat karke badha kadam.’ It’s part of a saying. ‘Himmat karke badha kadam, tere saath chalega har aadam.’ It means to bravely take that first step forward, and everyone will be right by your side, because we’re all in this together.”
I paused, soaking in Dad’s answer, and realized Harper’s question hadn’t made me feel bad at all.
“Wow,” said Mrs. Walbourne. “Wish I had heard that when they cut back my hours at the plant.”
“I am so sorry to hear about your job,” Dad said to Mrs. Walbourne.
“Thanks,” she said with a small smile. “That saying’s really beautiful.”
Dad nodded. “My roommate, Yousuf, in medical college in India taught it to me. It was when I started my surgery rotation and I had to observe in the operating room. It was a leg surgery. Nothing too complicated. But I wasn’t ready to see all that blood. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay on my feet and not pass out in front of everyone. I was so nervous the night before, I couldn’t eat. That’s when he told me this. It’s what his mother used to tell him when he was nervous to go to school as a kid. It’s what her father used to tell her when she was a kid, nervous to participate in protests against the British for India’s independence.”
“Amazing,” said Deepika Auntie.
“That’s really neat,” said Harper.
“I survived the surgery, thanks to my roommate. And then … then I became a radiologist so I’d never have to see another operation again!” Dad grinned as the adults laughed.
I settled into my sleeping bag as my friends pulled their blankets up and began to close their eyes. No one was making anyone feel bad about themselves or wonder if they belonged. No one was asking anyone to do something they didn’t want to do. Everyone was just together, side by side, getting through the storm. I cuddled up next to Cookie, the warmth spreading across my body, and shut my eyes, a smile on my face as I drifted off to sleep.
chapter FORTY
The air smelled like a strange mixture of crisp winter air mixed with a hint of earthy spring rain that morning. Power had been restored, and the Walbournes had left early, after thanking my parents a billion times, to meet their insurance guy and start cleaning up after the flood. With the electricity working, Noah’s parents and Avantika’s parents had gone home to deal with the spoiled contents of their fridges while we played outside.
We were using some of the hundreds of twigs that had blown across our yard in the storm to pick up earthworms that were in the process of freezing on the driveway and move them to safety in the soil.
“Once my mom teaches me how to make bhel for our midterm, you guys should come over. I bet I’ll be able to make it any time we hang out,” said Avantika.
I struggled with a stubborn worm that kept slipping off the wet twig I was using, falling into a coil on the concrete. “I still don’t know what to do. What food describes me? I bet half the school would think if you carved a jack-o’-lantern and then put a blueberry bindi on it, that would describe me perfectly.”
“I think you’re the only one who thinks that,” said Avantika.
I gave up on the worm, watching it try to scooch away slowly, pathetically. “A lot of people think only one thing about me. You don’t know. You haven’t grown up with them.”
“That may be true, but you have to think more of yourself,” said Avantika, dropping two worms off in the soil below Dad’s rhododendron.
“Maybe you’re right.” I decided I couldn’t let the worm die. I took the stem of a stray maple leaf to boost the worm onto my twig and hold it in place as I gently let it go in the peony bed to the side of the garage. I looked at the spot where Dad took our Halloween pictures, at the spot where the words of hate once stood, and turned to Noah.
“I always used to think I have a version of me at home, and a totally different version of me at school. But when I saw what was on our garage, I realized there’s another version too
. There’s the outside version. The one that some people can hate just by looking at me, because of the color of my skin, even when they don’t know me at all.”
Noah bit his lip.
“Your article … it brought up all those thoughts that I don’t like to think about. I think that’s why I was so upset. Because you may know what it’s like to get made fun of at school like me, but unlike me, you have no idea what it’s like to be hated by total strangers just for being yourself.”
Noah’s light skin turned pink. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I never meant—”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s okay. After writing my op-ed, I kind of get why you wanted to put the picture in the paper.”
“You do?” he asked, standing up.
“Yeah. It was wrong not to check with me first. But you were right to stand up to hate, Noah. To speak out. I tried to do that, but … I wasn’t so great at it. And you’re right too, Avantika. Sometimes … sometimes I feel like my voice doesn’t work. Like I let other people say whatever they want to me. I wish I could stand up for myself all the time like you do.”
“The town hall is next week,” said Noah.
“What?”
“The town hall. I heard Mr. Crowe telling you to read your op-ed there.” He paused. “It must be pretty good if he said that.”
I looked closer at the garage, thinking of all the times I let people say stuff to me and for me and didn’t speak up. And the very few times I did manage to stand up for myself. I told Harper how to say my name, but I couldn’t speak fast enough to stop Liam’s questions. I couldn’t tell a teacher how to say my name right, but I could tell Mikey to leave Avantika alone. Why couldn’t I just be brave all the time?
I knew why. Because it was hard. It was hard to speak out against things that were wrong. It was hard to speak up for things that were right. And it was hard enough to do it at school, let alone in a town hall full of grown-ups.
American as Paneer Pie Page 16