American as Paneer Pie

by Supriya Kelkar

  I ran my hand over the new coat of paint. From up close, you could see a little gray smudge clouding the garage door where the words once were. It was like a stain you couldn’t get out. Maybe if I read my op-ed at the town hall, I could wash that stain away once and for all. Or, maybe, if I did use my voice there, I wouldn’t be helpless anymore. Maybe I could finally really start going through my life bravely. Maybe it was time to take this step.

  I turned to my friends. “I’ll do it,” I said, my voice loud and clear.

  chapter FORTY-ONE

  You will?” asked Mr. Crowe. “That’s … that’s great,” he added, recovering from the shock that I would read my op-ed at the town hall.

  I nodded as I took my seat in English class.

  Mr. Crowe began putting the school paper down at everyone’s desks as more kids piled in. “It will probably be a good test to see how you’ll handle the spotlight tonight when your classmates see your op-ed right now.”

  I flipped the paper over.

  “Congrats on the cover, Lekha.”

  I watched as Noah, Emma, Avantika, Harper, and everyone else stared at the front of the paper at what I had written. Liam was the only kid in class staring at the other parts of the paper when I turned his way, acting like nothing had happened. But when he thought I wasn’t looking, I saw him reading my cover. I caught some people trying to subtly look up at me, probably stunned that quiet School Lekha had an opinion. That I actually had something to say after all these years of silently taking whatever was said to me.

  When the bell rang, Harper walked with me and Avantika to FACS, even though her class was on the other end of the school.

  “This is really brave of you, Lekha. I can’t wait to show it to my mom.”

  “Your mom? Won’t she … not like it?”

  Harper shrugged. “She tossed her Winters magnet and bumper sticker out when we went back home after the flood to clean up.”

  Avantika’s eyes widened. “She did?”

  “Yup.” Harper nodded. “She turned red and said they were water damaged when I asked her what she was doing. But they actually looked just fine. I think she just knew they belonged in the trash.”

  * * *

  When school got out, I headed for the doors with Noah and Avantika by my side, giving hard stares back at any kid who dared to look my way, like an upgraded version of my bod-Aai-guard.

  “Look at what happens when you speak up,” Noah said, giving me a proud smile before glaring at an eighth grader who raised an eyebrow my way. “And you were right.”

  “About?”

  “I don’t speak up when Mikey or Liam makes fun of us. I … I’m going to start. I need to practice what I preach,” he added, before turning to Liam, who was at his locker next to Emma’s.

  “Hey, Liam!”

  Liam turned toward us and then looked around, confused. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yeah … yeah, I am.” Noah’s forehead began to glisten, and Avantika put a supportive hand on his shoulder. “I have something important to tell you. …”

  Liam frowned. “What?”

  “Um … Kindness is cool, Liam!” Noah pointed triumphantly at the purposely misspelled poster above the lockers.

  I tried not to smile as Noah’s face flushed. He walked faster, shrugging. “What? I was on the spot. I have better comebacks when I’m writing.”

  “It was perfect.” I smiled as Emma slammed her locker shut and caught up to us.

  “I finished reading it. Everything you said,” she huffed, out of breath. “My parents won’t let me go to the town hall with you guys tonight, but … here,” she said, digging through her bag. “I made this for you in art.” She handed me a painting of robin poop in the shape of a question mark. “It’ll be like I’m there.”

  I smiled. I would miss Emma, but I was glad Avantika and Noah were coming to the old theater downtown for the town hall with their parents to support me.

  * * *

  I entered the theater lobby a little late with Aai and Dad. Mr. Crowe was waiting by the question table to sign me up as one of the people who wanted to talk to the senator, and then I entered the auditorium with my parents and found a seat near the back. There were several arguments between people in the audience, and I started to feel a little nervous, especially when an anti-Winters protestor behind me, who seemed to be looking for a fight, started arguing with the woman behind him about refugees.

  I squeezed Aai’s elbow as I thought about my mental list of suspects. Having my words in the school paper was a big deal. But speaking here, in front of all these grown-ups? Someone in this audience could have written those gutting words on my home. Or maybe no one here had done it. I would probably never know. But would I ever be able to really stop the fear from silencing me?

  Aai put a hand over my fingers. “I’m so proud of you, beta,” she said. “You’re not a baby anymore. You keep telling me that, but I think—I know—you’re correct. You’re not a baby. You’re a strong, smart kid.”

  I swallowed hard. “What if … what if whoever did that to our garage hears me speak and comes back to do something worse?”

  Aai’s face twisted with worry. I could practically see her imagining every horrible thing that could happen. But then she took a deep breath in and exhaled. “Those what-ifs are awful, aren’t they?”

  I picked at the upholstered armrest on the seat with my other hand, playing with some loose threads.

  “There are so many terrible what-ifs that pop into my head all the time. But if you just think about the bad what-ifs, you miss out on the good what-ifs. Like, ‘What if Lekha changes the world?’ ”

  I stopped tugging at the fabric and looked at Aai as she continued.

  “You inspire me, Lekha. You know, right after I quit my job, I took some computer classes online while you were at school. To become a website designer. This week I decided to dust off my skills.”

  “You did?” I said, ignoring the argument behind me.

  Aai nodded. “I even got my first job. … Fixing What’s the Mattar?’s website.”

  “Really? What about all the radiation?”

  Aai shrugged. “You have to live, right?”

  “Does this mean I can get a cell phone like Noah?”

  “We’ll talk when you’re in high school.” Aai smiled. “If the circumstances are right.”

  The lights dimmed, and I took my hand off Aai’s, trying to read the op-ed I had typed up in big letters in the Jungle for my speech.

  Senator Winters took the stage dressed in a sky-blue pantsuit with a silky red, white, and blue scarf tied around her neck. She waved to the crowd. When some people began to boo, others began to cheer loudly, while others started chanting, “Don’t like it? Leave!”

  The senator stood at a podium on the stage. “My fellow Americans, I am so glad to be here today, in my first town hall as your senator. I listened to you throughout my campaign, and I will continue to listen to you throughout my term in DC. So, without further delay, let’s get to your questions and concerns.”

  First up was an old man. He told the senator he voted for her but had never voted for her party before. He worked at a manufacturing plant, and his daughter now worked there too. He wanted to know what Winters planned on doing to stop the big three American car companies from building more plants in Mexico and Canada.

  As Senator Winters responded, a man patted me on the shoulder and said I was next. Aai squeezed my hand as I stood up. When Winters was done talking, and some people in the crowd applauded while others shouted angrily at her, the man turned on a microphone and handed it to me.

  My voice was shaking as I spoke with my lips too close to the microphone. “My name is Lekha Divekar.”

  Screeching feedback made most of the people around me cringe. I quickly moved the microphone a few inches away.

  “Hello, honey. What can I do for you?”

  I stared at her. I didn’t like her calling me “honey” like she was a sweet
old grandmother, when the stuff she said helped people think such nasty thoughts and do such horrible things.

  “Do you have something to say to me?”

  I found Noah and Avantika in the audience. Noah had his cell phone aimed at me, shooting a video.

  “Or a question?” continued the senator.

  I reminded myself I didn’t need Noah or Avantika or anyone else to speak for me. I could do this. I nodded at Senator Winters, steadying my hand as I looked at the typed page before me.

  “Questions, questions, questions. I am so sick of questions,” I said quickly, my palms sweating.

  Noah gestured with his hands for me to slow down. I took a deep breath and slowed my pace, reminding myself how light I’d felt when I stood up to Aidy about shaving. Reminding myself how I needed the weight of all this hate to be lifted.

  “Where’s your dot? Where are you from? But where are you really from? Do you speak Indian? Do you speak ‘Hindu’? Where’s your accent? How long have you lived here? Do all Indians know each other? Are you ‘Hindi’? Do you worship cows? If I showed you a cow, would you start bowing to it? Do you shower? Why does your food smell so funny?

  “I am sick of being made to feel different. Like I’m not important. Like I don’t matter. Like I’m less than everyone else around me. Like I’m not good enough. Like I’m not American enough. Like I’m just an unwelcome guest here that everyone else is putting up with until I leave.” My throat started to feel funny and I blinked a bunch of times to stop myself from crying as I continued.

  “I am not the enemy. I am no less human than my fellow classmates. I am no less human than anyone in this room. I am not something getting in the way of what you want. We all want the same thing. Why is that so hard to understand?

  “On some level, I get it. The thing is, I did the same thing to someone else. I made her feel like she was less than me. Less American. Less welcome here. But it’s wrong. I was wrong,” I said, looking at Avantika.

  “And what you’re doing is wrong, Senator Winters. Really wrong. What you’re doing is dangerous. What you’re doing hurts. Because what you’re doing makes the questions louder. They make the people asking them stronger. They make the divide greater. They make empathy harder. They make compassion disappear. They’re ruining our country.

  “Yes, our country. Because it’s mine as much as it is yours. I’m not a guest here. This is my home. I have as much of a say here as you. I matter as much as you. Don’t like it?” I swallowed hard, wetting my dry throat, making sure my voice would be heard. “Too bad. I’m not leaving.”

  I clicked off the microphone, handed it to the man, and quickly sat down, my chest trembling. Mr. Wade whistled loudly as half the audience applauded and the other half muttered to themselves. I was just glad no one yelled at me.

  “Thank you for voicing your concerns, young lady,” Senator Winters said. “That’s the great thing about this country. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. I’m afraid I’m not going to stray from mine. Our borders need to be secure. …”

  I shook my head, thinking back to what Aai had said at Gudhi Padwa. Nothing I had said had made a difference to Winters or her supporters. Everyone had made up their mind.

  “You were amazing,” said Dad, patting my head as the senator finished and the next constituent talked.

  “You’re my hero,” said Aai.

  My heart was racing, and I felt hot all over as Senator Winters continued. “Do we have to stay for the whole thing?” I asked, feeling like I would cry if we stayed any longer.

  Dad shook his head, and we headed up the aisle toward the lobby. I felt hundreds of eyes on me and people whispering as we passed. I couldn’t tell if they were people who agreed with me or agreed with Senator Winters. After my speech, all the whispering sounded bad.

  But I tried not to let it bother me as we entered the lobby. I had said my piece. I had done what I said I would do. I finally spoke back and spoke up in the biggest way I could.

  “Young lady!” called a gruff voice from behind as we neared the doors to the parking lot.

  I turned. Mr. Giordano was there. My stomach sank. I was not prepared to be yelled at by my neighbor. “Good speech. That took guts, young lady.”

  I glanced at my parents, shocked, and then looked back at my neighbor. “Thanks.”

  Mr. Giordano nodded, turning to reenter the theater, but then quickly stopped, looking back at me.

  “My grandfather came here from Sicily in 1904. Everyone in town treated him like he was garbage. But he still fought for his country in World War I.” Mr. Giordano’s gray eyes started to be obstructed by tears as he looked off into the distance and nodded to himself over and over and over. “Yes. Good speech. That was a good speech.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Maybe I couldn’t change the senator’s mind. Maybe I couldn’t change most of her supporters’ minds. But maybe I could change a couple of people’s minds. And they could change a couple of more people’s minds. And things could get better. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  I watched as Mr. Giordano waved to my parents and walked away from the theater, out the doors to the parking lot. Maybe he had finally had enough.

  chapter FORTY-TWO

  The week after saying what I needed to say at the town hall, I knew just what my midterm dish was going to be for FACS. It definitely wasn’t a jack-o’-lantern with a blueberry bindi. And that wasn’t just because Aai ditched her app and went in person to every grocery store in town, all of whose managers confirmed that pumpkins were way out of season. It was because I had the perfect idea for what represented me.

  So I spent the afternoon mixing the dough and shredding the cheese with Aai, and the evening boiling and curdling the milk into cheese.

  And the next morning, hours before conference finals, I dropped my dish off in the FACS fridge. After lunch, after Matty presented a soft chocolate chip cookie to show he was really soft and sweet on the inside, after Aidy showed everyone an old Polish dish her grandmother had shown her how to make, and after Avantika talked about her bhel, I was up.

  I removed the foil to reveal a homemade cheese pizza covered in cubes of paneer, just like Harrison had eaten. It was paneer pizza, aka paneer pizza pie, also known as paneer pie. Because like Dad once said many months ago, I was as American as paneer pie.

  That evening at conference finals, fueled by a bellyful of A-grade-worthy paneer pie, I sat on the bench next to my team, ready to swim my best freestyle ever. I adjusted my cap over my birthmark, briefly thinking about what I’d told Avantika about how it was ridiculous to try to change your skin, as Noah snapped a few pictures of me.

  My parents, Avantika, and Emma were in the stands behind me. The Porpoises were next to us, followed by the Edison Electric Eels, dressed all in shiny silver, the Sharks, the Rockets, and the Dragons.

  Aidy gasped when I took off my sweats to stretch and she saw my legs. “You didn’t shave!”

  I shook my head, a few neck hairs snapping from the cap. I was done with Aidy’s voice being the only one we heard. “And I’m not going to until my parents are fine with it. You’re just going to have to accept that.” I paused. I liked the sound of my voice when I spoke up. “Besides, we’re still going to kick some butt. Because we are that good.”

  “Unbelievable,” grumbled Aidy.

  I stared at the rippling water before me. Unlike at the sleepover, there was no sinking feeling from Aidy’s words this time. Nope. I felt like I was floating.

  “What’s unbelievable is you. Teammates stick together. That doesn’t mean everyone does whatever you say. It means we have an equal say. It means we help each other. If you don’t believe that, I’m not swimming with you.”

  “No!” Aidy shook her head. “No. You can’t quit. We need you.”

  “We need each other,” I said, my voice unwavering. “So let’s win this. Together.”

  Aidy nodded, picking at her cuticles. “Together,” she mumbled.

  With the Aidy anchor no longer p
ulling me down, I turned back to Aai and Dad in the bleachers. Dad mouthed “Himmat karke” to me from the stands with an embarrassingly over-the-top thumbs-up. I mouthed “Badha kadam” back.

  The whistle sounded for all the teams to take their lanes. Coach Turner huddled with us next to ours.

  “All right, swimmers. You’ve got this. First place moves on to State. And you have it in you to do that. So, breathe, fight hard, give it your all. Do that, and I know we’ll be in Lansing next month.”

  “Dolphins on three?” asked Kendall.

  “Wait,” said Harper. She looked at me. “Himmat … karke,” she said, pronouncing it the best she could.

  “What?” I was shocked.

  “Himmat karke,” she said again, looking at Coach, Aidy, and Kendall. “It means, ‘Be brave.’ ”

  “Badha kadam,” I replied. “It means, ‘Go for it. Because we’re all in this together.’ ”

  Aidy nodded, and we all shouted, “Dolphins!”

  Kendall, Aidy, and I backed up a little as Harper got into position. When the whistle blew, she kicked as hard as she could. She was ahead of everyone but the swimmer from Preston, who was a couple of feet ahead. I saw Harper squeeze her eyes shut and churn her arms fast, so fast that she was now within inches of reaching the swimmer from Preston.

  The Preston swimmer tapped the wall near us and then Harper did the same. Kendall dove in, her legs wiggling underwater like a tadpole’s tail until she came up for a powerful breath and started whipping her arms forward in the breaststroke.

  I clapped my hands. “Let’s go, Kenny!”

  Kendall was on a roll, swimming faster than we had ever seen her do before, like a speedboat, pushing through the foam so fast, she overtook the Preston swimmer.

  “Yes!” shouted Coach, pumping his hands into the air.

  Kendall tapped the wall near us and Aidy dove in, her body cutting into the sheet of water. I snapped my goggles over my swim cap, ignoring how tight and uncomfortable the hat was on my big hair, and on my birthmark. I watched Aidy do the arm-burning butterfly, over and over.