The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that,” I gritted out.

  “Uh, you know, Papa? Kareena is really good in computer science too. She explains theorems in a way that’s easy to understand. I’m all technical and boring, she makes the project easy to relay.”

  His parents nodded, and we continued to eat with intermittent questions about school. During the entire dinner, my posture remained straight and rigid, my bites small and exclusive, and my answers as polite and friendly as possible. Hopefully the sweat seeping out of my pores didn’t blind them.

  “Have you any college plans?” his father asked me.

  “I want to get my BS in computer science from UT.”

  “Just like Amit. He might go for master’s or PhD.”

  Amit groaned. “Maybe. We’ll see how much studying I can take.”

  “No ‘we’ll see.’ Why not go all the way?” his dad chided.

  Amit clamped his mouth around a bite of food.

  Then his dad said to me, “We knew your parents when you were little. We miss them.”

  “Well, they’re only a phone call away,” I replied, perhaps more bitterly than intended. It wasn’t that hard to pick up a phone or drive to a house these days. If they were that inclined to see my parents.

  “This is very true. What a shame we let our friendship wither. We’ll get back on track. They’re very nice people. Seems they raised a likewise daughter.”

  “I’ll let them know you said this.”

  “It was nice to see you at Holi,” Amit’s mother commented. “Did you have fun?”

  I grinned. “It was very fun.”

  “Hope to see you at more functions.” She rattled off a few upcoming events that sounded like lectures and puja.

  “Mandir is open every day,” his father added. “You should come by.”

  I nodded.

  “This Sunday?”

  “I have a lot of homework and finals around the corner, plus sports and . . .” Crap. It slipped out. Where was that high I had before with Amit, when I could tell everyone anything and take on the world?

  “Oh, yeah? What do you play?” Amit’s mother asked. She laughed, motioning to Amit, “Your cousin was good in . . . what did she play?”

  “Volleyball.”

  “Brutal sport, nai?” She clucked her tongue. “She always had bruises on her legs and arms. But she liked it, so who could dissuade her?”

  I admitted, “I was never good in volleyball. I was always afraid of getting hit by the ball.”

  “Seriously?” Amit asked, his right eyebrow quirked.

  “Yes. Balls hurt and you don’t see them coming.”

  “But . . .” He shook his head and clamped his lips.

  “So what do you play?” his mom asked me.

  “Nothing with balls.” I laughed awkwardly.

  They smiled and waited. In the corner of my peripheral vision, Amit pushed around his food and said, “You know why I hate balls? They hurt, and people use them like weapons. Take for example: dodgeball. Why? Why do we have that sport? It’s just mean. There’s no sportsmanship in the game. Just a bunch of people racing to get to a line of balls before their opponents and then brutally hitting them to take them out.”

  “What sport is this that you’re playing, beta?” His mother shook her head ruefully.

  “That’s the thing! It’s not a sport. And they make us play this in gym. I’d rather do basketball or run the track or football. Anyway. That’s why I’m against dodgeball. It has no place in our society. Speaking of society . . .” he went on and I bit back a smile. “The honor society is doing a group picture for the yearbook and I need my one and only suit dry-cleaned.”

  “Why do they make you wear a suit for this picture, huh?”

  “It’s prestigious. Plus, I need it anyway for graduation. I’m giving the speech.”

  “But you’re wearing a graduation gown over your suit. Who will know if it’s just a shirt and slacks? Won’t you be hot up there?”

  “Also my thoughts, Ma, but the principal told us today. Please? Can you have my suit dry-cleaned?”

  “Hah,” she agreed.

  “Oh, my mom made a dessert too,” Amit said, turning to me with such enthusiasm that he could’ve burst.

  “Is it edible gold?” I joked.

  “You mean varak? It’s edible silver foil.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Gold and silver are not close.” He laughed as his mother excused herself, disappearing into the kitchen, and returning with an uncovered plate filled with long, green, diamond-shaped sweets with a shimmering layer of thin foil.

  “Oooh, pista barfi,” I said.

  She passed around the plate and I grabbed two, yep. They were a smidge warm and nutty with texture. She had only a saucer-size plate, and that was as close to remembering my diet as possible. I’d never known an Indian mom not to offer sweets to her guests, and since it would be rude of me to object . . . well . . .

  I took a small bite. “This is amazing.”

  “Thank you. It’s my Masi’s recipe. It’s adaptable to kaju and badam. Take the rest home. Your parents will like too.”

  “These might not make it home.”

  Amit purposefully held up his wrist to glance at his watch. “It’s getting late and it’s a school night.”

  “Amit! Don’t be rude,” his mother chided.

  I grinned. “It’s true. I have to get going.”

  Amit’s father walked us to the door while his mother wrapped the sweets and handed them to me. Shoes on, sweets in hand, I was happy to leave. It wasn’t so bad after all, and they seemed to like me. Well, they seemed to like the impression I gave.

  Yeah. They liked the impression.

  They didn’t know the real me. I was putting up a front and that was no way to live. Besides, Amit had said his parents were cool. So they should be able to handle the truth, which wasn’t so bad. I mean, why was I still doing this to myself? Why was I always so afraid of what others thought of me? Who were they anyway? If they didn’t like me, oh well. I’d rather be true to myself and not liked for ignorant reasons than to hide myself from people who were, essentially, no one to me. They shouldn’t have that power. I had to stop giving this control to others.

  My insides burned up. You know what? I had nothing to be ashamed of. Their judgment shouldn’t mold my behavior. Instead, my steadfast truths should barricade their judgments. I was a good kid. Freaking phenomenal, if you asked me.

  Part of my brain told my mouth to zip it. It wasn’t their business. They didn’t have the right to be so inside my life. But the other part, the part amped up by Amit’s claims that his parents weren’t like the others I’d encountered, that I should own it and not hold back and not let anyone make me feel bad about myself, revved up.

  Amit held the doorknob between us and smiled, pleased.

  I dragged in a long, deep breath, and his smile faltered. But then something truly amazing happened. He retracted his hand, seeming to know full well what was about to go down. He stood beside me and we faced his parents together. It wasn’t the three of them against me. It was the two of us against everyone else. And that made the excruciating burn in my chest turn into devastating flutters.

  “There’s something you should know, if you’re allowing Amit and me to be friends. Things you’ll hear anyway, but it’s the real me and the real me is perfectly fine, and a perfectly good friend for your son.”

  “Oh?” his mother asked in her soft voice.

  “I’m not top of my class, and that isn’t for lack of trying. We have some very smart people in school, but that’s okay. I’m not going straight to UT, I’m going straight to ACC, and that’s not a bad thing. I don’t pray and don’t go to mandir because people have been mercilessly harsh against me and my mom. That’s why you haven’t seen me in nearly eight years.
That doesn’t make us bad people, and I hope that you’re more open-minded than others have been.”

  Amit nodded to me reassuringly. His parents, on the other hand, stared at me wide-eyed in an awkward, frozen state. But I kept going, because, heck, why not? If I’d vomited words all over Amit about how I truly felt, then maybe that was just the only way I could manage the courage to do this whole confrontation thing. And word vomiting was better than holding it in and slowly dying from the inside.

  “The sport that I play is Muay Thai. It’s like kickboxing. Yes, I fight, but only in practice and with other Muay Thai fighters in regulated fights. That doesn’t make me violent or a bad association for your son.”

  “Oh . . .” His mother frowned as if trying to piece it all together.

  The bile in my stomach crawled up my raw throat. “I’m not perfect, and neither are my parents. But no one is the perfect Indian. Okay, your son is pretty close, but the best thing about him is that he doesn’t judge. He accepts. And it would be great if you allowed us to be friends.”

  I rolled on my heels and looked off into the distance, quietly adding, “That’s all.”

  Amit gave a sweet smile and commented, “I think it takes a strong person to want you to know deeper things about her, and not just what you want to hear on the first impression. All the good and bad, although it’s not really bad at all. She’s honest and open. Great qualities, huh?”

  “Hah,” his mother replied. The simple word (grunt?) had neither derision nor approval, and I couldn’t decipher if we’d be friends come morning. But then both of his parents gave a closed-lip smile and I knew our friendship was burnt.

  Ah, well. It sadly proved my point, but at least they knew the real me and not the presented superficial layer. They couldn’t say Kareena Thakkar tried to pull one over them.

  With my best pleasantries and heartfelt words, I ended with, “Thank you again for dinner and the delicious sweets, Uncle and Auntie. I had a good time, and I hope we’ll do this again.”

  “Yes.” Amit’s father nodded, his closed-lip smile widening, but still no teeth. Never had exposing teeth been so freaking important.

  “Goodnight,” they both said.

  Amit opened the door for me and I walked out into the chilly night air, relief cooling my perspiration and anxiety floating away with the breeze. The door closed behind me and my shoulders relaxed.

  “Well, that was awesome,” Amit muttered beside me.

  I groaned but then asked, “Where are you going?”

  “You think I wouldn’t walk you to your car?”

  “You had to get out of there for a minute, huh?” I asked, waiting for my heart to calm down.

  “Yeah.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I’m tired of hiding or acting like I can’t be my true self around people.”

  He laughed into the darkness. “Finally! You don’t care about others’ opinions.”

  “Sucks that it had to start with your parents. I actually do really care about what they think of me because they’re your parents. I want them to like me, to let us be friends.”

  “What teenager wants to be friends with the kids their parents approve of? We’re going to be rebels raging against parental wishes.”

  My heart warmed. “You’ll be my friend even if they don’t approve?”

  “Yep. But don’t give up on them yet. They’re not like this. You caught them off guard. You did sort of spew words at them.”

  My face turned hot. Oops.

  I unlocked my door and reached for the handle at the same time Amit did. His hand covered mine and I froze. The butterflies in my belly went agonizingly mad as his fingers curled over mine and held our hold against the cold metal. Good thing the driver’s side faced the street and not his house, so his parents couldn’t see all this teenage touching.

  As if that wasn’t enough, his thumb grazed over the side of my hand and I just about exploded. I pulled the door open and retracted my hand. All right. Calm down. I wanted to be friends with Amit Patel, but nothing more. Too many things took up too much time, and anything beyond a casual friendship threatened to unhinge the delicate balancing act.

  “Thanks for coming over,” he said.

  “Thanks for making me.”

  “Admit it, you liked it.”

  Fifteen

  I glared at my phone. The screen was cracked in the corner and sometimes missed calls and usually skipped the letter “B” when texting. But the words strung together from Coach were clear.

  Don’t forget the money.

  My heart sank. Time to pull up my big girl undies and just ask. Straight out ask. It would be worse to tell Coach I didn’t have the funds later, and it was already getting pretty late. His hopes were high. So were mine. Time for a definite answer.

  “Mama?” I asked, swinging around the corner of the hall to her room, where she lay in bed beside my sleeping father.

  “Hah, beta?”

  My throat dried up. I twisted the edge of my shirt around my finger, dreading this. “I hate to ask, but . . . Coach was wondering when we’d have the rest of the money for the hotel and stuff.”

  “It’s coming,” she said with a faint smile. She knew how hard I’d been working to get funds, and I knew how hard she was working to save money.

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t have to go. It’s fine if we don’t have—”

  “Beta?”

  “Yes?” I gulped.

  “It will be fine.” Her words broke my heart. She said that exact phrase every time things weren’t fine. When Papa first got really sick. When he kept getting worse. When we had to sell the house and some of our stuff.

  “I know we don’t have money,” I said as patiently and understandingly as possible.

  “We will find a way.”

  I tried to reason with her, because what we really needed was a miracle. We weren’t going to go into more debt for me, not for something that was a luxury when we had so many necessities. “It’s less than two weeks from now.”

  “Two weeks is nothing,” she said with an upbeat tone but shaky lips. And I knew.

  I smiled reassuringly. “It’s good either way, Mama. No worries.”

  “In this house, Kareena Thakkar, we do not quit. We do not give up or give in.” She got out of bed and touched my cheek. “Didn’t we teach you that?”

  I blinked away stupid tears. I breathed through a burning chest. And I nodded.

  “Besides. Your coach has already bought admission and plane tickets and a hotel room. I gave him the money you raised from sponsors, said the rest was coming soon. And it will be here soon.”

  “You did?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes. He needed that money a while ago. We couldn’t keep him waiting. So now . . . you’re stuck. You have to go. You want to go. You will go.”

  Yeah. I had to find a way to get the rest of the money. I owed Coach a lot.

  “We’re almost there, beta. Don’t worry, huh?” She kissed my forehead and crawled back into bed.

  I retreated to my room before she insisted that things were fine. I scratched my arm hard to keep the stings of failure from overtaking me. It was okay. I could try next year. And now that I knew I could get in, I had an entire year to come up with funds and to practice harder. Win. Win.

  Really.

  Things were okay.

  My phone buzzed with a dozen text messages. The first few from Lily asking about Amit, and of course squealing with emoji joy for his perfect reaction. The next few from Amit, which went unread because my self-esteem wasn’t ready for the hit of knowing his parents forbade our friendship. The last came from Kimmy.

  You accepted or what?

  I dragged in a super-long breath and released. The computer screen glowed in front of me in my dimly lit bedroom. The social media home page blinked back wit
h its blues and grays. The clock at the bottom of the screen changed to 11:20 p.m. The arrow cursor waited patiently over the “accept” icon.

  I dragged my fingers through my damp hair, dropped my elbows onto the desk, and glared ever harder. Part of me wondered what the point was now. There wasn’t enough dough to get to the Open. But the other part knew I’d have support and happiness and understanding. That half of me needed this.

  Kimmy repeat texted me.

  Oh, freaking fine!

  Hit.

  Connally Girls Athletics private group invitation accepted.

  I see you, girl! Kimmy texted.

  Maybe at this time on a school night, no one would notice me slipping into their space, but then the typing indicator bubble popped up at the top of the group page.

  Hey, y’all! Let’s give a big ole shout-out to Kareena Thakkar. Girlfriend finally joined us!

  Agh! Kimmy!

  I bit my lip and watched in horror as a million, okay not literally a million, but darn near close to a million little typing bubbles with their dot dot dots popped up, followed by an avalanche of comments and greetings.

  What were these girls doing up so late, anyway?

  I read through each comment, and compelled by common courtesy, replied to and liked every single mention. Then the inevitable question sprang up:

  Please introduce yourself, even if we all know you. What’s your superpower sport?

  Another long breath before my fingers typed:

  Hi! I’m Kareena, senior, starting ACC as a sophomore this summer right after graduation, just two more months, then transferring to UT for comp-sci. My sport is Muay Thai.

  I paused. Well, why not spill the whole truth? My journey was about to get epic, and that was something to be proud of.

  I’ve been in Muay Thai since I was eight and competitive fights since twelve. Found out a few weeks ago from my coach that I qualify for USMTO (United States Muay Thai Open). I might even be the first Indian girl in USMTO history. If I compete well, the IFMA (International Federation of Muaythai Associations) might like me enough to invite me to the US team for the World Championships. And if that didn’t already rock my world, Muay Thai is on the verge of becoming an Olympic sport and I could have the chance of getting on the first Olympics team.