I turned the cards over so that I could see only the pictures and stuck them up. At least the postcards still came. The Sri Lankan postal service was bullshit and everything took ages to get here, but at least they came.
I guess I couldn’t stay holed up in the kitchen forever. I made my way upstairs. It’s funny how you never notice the smell of a place when you live there, but it punches you right in the gut when you visit. The carpet cleaner Mom likes, those Jo Malone candles Dad buys her for every single special occasion, and laundry, and packed lunches, and happier times.
There was a new picture on our staircase gallery—an eight-by-ten professionally taken close-up of Mom. I know most children say their mothers are beautiful, even when they are obviously not. It was a matter of principle, I suppose, even if your mom looked like the Wicked Witch of the West. But it’s not just me who thought my mother was the most breathtaking being on the planet. Straight-up Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. Strangers in the street would stop and stare at her, that’s how lovely she was. Blond hair. Blue eyes. The all-American wet dream. And she only got more beautiful as she got older, like her genes aged in reverse. How the fuck is that even possible? And she wasn’t just beautiful. Just like Glinda, she was good. She was kind and generous and spent countless hours volunteering her time and money towards various projects. Villages in India had potable water because of her. Schools in Mexico had libraries. Orphans in Africa got fed, even though she always referred to Africa like it was a country, and never could remember the orphans’ names. I suppose I was a project too. Probably her least successful one.
I never knew why she hated having her picture taken. The poor women in her charity circle had to practically wrestle her to pose for this portrait when she received their annual award—the Angel in the Bay. Cheesy as fuck, but fitting for someone who did as much fundraising as she did. Gorgeous and philanthropic. A devoted wife. An exemplary mother. The kind of woman who could be featured in one of those magazine articles about Women Who Did It All. She’d have been a Stepford Wife, if they weren’t fucking robots. If only she had a perfect child too. It was all too fitting that they would adopt a daughter from an exotic island—the charity circle wouldn’t shut up about it.
Dad got the photograph blown up despite Mom’s protests about her nose being too large and her chin starting to look saggy. To him, she was perfect. If he could have worshipped the ground she walked on, he would have willingly done it. Us mere mortals could only ever dream of being loved the way my mother was. She smiled self-consciously down at me as I hesitated on the landing that led to the bedrooms.
I suppose I could just take the master. It’s the bigger room, and it’s not like anyone is using it right now. But I swatted the thought away. Too weird. I opened the door to my old room, and, of course, it was preserved like a shrine to my teenage angst.
The posters of Green Day and Fall Out Boy looked slightly puffed up from all the layers underneath them. Posters I had never taken down but simply tacked over. Posters of the Sri Lankan cricket team and Bollywood actor Shah Rukh Khan, which were then covered by posters of NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys, which were hastily covered up by more-alternative bands.
I still remember when Christina Hannigan came over in eighth grade. “You actually like cricket?” she asked, equal parts of disdain and glee dripping from her strawberry milkshake Lip Smacker–pink lips. Her mom was friends with mine and they kept insisting we hang out even though Christina got everyone in my homeroom to make sniffing sounds and say they smelled curry whenever I walked in. I begged Dad to take me to Hot Topic the very next weekend so I could redecorate, and I told the kids in homeroom that I saw Christina changing before gym and that she definitely, 100 percent, used her brother’s old socks to stuff her bra.
All my old clothes were donated to the Salvation Army and various charity drives years ago, so my wardrobe and drawers were bare. Fuck, I was going to need some clothes and my phone charger at some point.
I emptied out my pockets. What I wouldn’t do for a drink right now. I know my parents kept a steady supply of Glenfiddich in a cabinet in the kitchen. I shouldn’t though. I should text Nina about today, not that I knew what the fuck I was supposed to say.
Hey, Nina, my asshole roommate’s dead, right after he tried to blackmail me. But his body wasn’t there when the cops came, and they don’t seem to care too much. Oh, and remember the ghost I made up when I was twelve? Yeah, I saw her last night. Wanna hang?
No way.
She’d up my dose and call me crazy, just like everyone else.
I sat down on my bed. I needed to make sense of all this bullshit first. If only I knew where to start.
Maybe a small glass of scotch won’t hurt?
8
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
THE DOOR TO THE Curry Palace was sticky and cold. I hesitated outside for a minute, wondering whether I should just turn the hell around and go back home. I really should be getting some sleep and settling into my parents’ without rushing downtown. I hadn’t even showered since yesterday. And if I was being completely honest, I didn’t really know what the hell I was doing here. I just knew that I couldn’t keep calling the restaurant without it seeming dodgy as fuck, and if I was looking to make sense of whatever the hell happened to Arun, this was as good a place to start as any.
So there I was, hoping for the best. Ideally, that last night had just been a very bad dream and that he would still show up to work, but infinitely more likely, that someone could at least tell me more about him. More than the fact that he really fucking loved Bollywood movies and sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, because that was about as much as I knew.
I pushed my way inside. It wasn’t a complete dump. I saw a few families seated at the small Formica tables, but it was mostly the college-student types. You know, the ones who insist on their curries being extra spicy and then gush out tears and sweat and snot as they chug down cups of chai and fan themselves, proudly reassuring everyone that this is the way they like it. Talk about having a BDSM relationship with your food.
I was greeted by an eager girl who accessorized her hostess uniform with those chunky sneakers that looked like space boots. She had her black hair up in a messy half bun that was more trendy than disheveled, and if I wasn’t so preoccupied with my dead roommate, I might have asked her how the hell she managed to get her South Asian hair to behave like that.
“Welcome to the Curry Palace,” she chirped. “Do you have a reservation?”
I wondered if I should sit down and order something. Maybe they would be chattier about Arun if they felt I was a paying customer. But my stomach turned at the thought of food.
“Actually, I’m trying to find Arun.” I was too fucking tired to come up with a lie, and I mean, I had to try something.
“Patel or Mukerjee?”
“Patel.” I needed to start somewhere. Fifty-fifty odds, right?
Her grin didn’t waver. Good for her.
“Patel, huh? The cops already came by looking for him today. He in some kind of trouble or something?” She gave a little laugh.
Nosy bitch.
I gave her my best smile and moved in a bit closer.
“No, I’m his roommate,” I said, like it was supposed to make sense. “I just—well, I was wondering if I could talk to one of his friends or something? I’m trying to figure out what happened to him.”
“His roommate, huh? Hang on a bit.”
She ducked inside the restaurant and went in towards what I assumed was the kitchen. I just stood there stupidly, wondering how long she would be, whether this was all a fucking mistake, whether I should just go back to my parents’, when she returned with a man who had clearly eaten way too much naan and curry in his day and eyed me like I was a fly in his mango chutney.
“You’re Arun’s roommate?” he asked, his impressive mustache curling down.
�
�Y-yes. I was wondering if—”
“You tell him he’s fired.”
What the actual fuck? How could you fire someone who’s dead?
“I—I’m sorry, I actually came here to—”
“What do these kids take me for? A bloody fool?” His voice was thunderous and his Indian accent was even thicker than Arun’s. “I have had it up to here, you hear me?” He held his hand up to his head, like this was supposed to mean something to me.
“You tell that good-for-nothing madharchod that I never want to see his face here again. And if he comes here asking for his last salary, I don’t care who the hell he sends, I will stick my foot so far up his—”
“Pa,” the girl from earlier interjected, laying a hand on his arm. She looked towards the diners. A few of them had noticed the commotion and were staring our way.
“You tell Arun never to sight this place again, you hear?” He dropped his voice but didn’t look any happier. “I’m fed up of helping these fellows without visas, then having them run off the moment they get a better chance somewhere, leaving me understaffed and desperate. No care about the risk I take. No care about what it does to my business when the police come sniffing around here.”
I didn’t need this shit. I didn’t need this stupid old man treating me like I was to blame by association. I sure as fuck didn’t need a restaurant full of people staring at me like I was the one who was guilty of something.
I flashed an apologetic grin and shrugged in the direction of the diners. I’m just a poor girl getting her ass handed to her.
“Sorry for wasting your time. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to him myself.”
“You tell him I said to go fu—”
“Pa!” The girl took my arm and led me towards the door. “As you can tell, it looks like he’s run off, and my dad’s pretty pissed. This is the third guy to leave without notice this month.”
It’s probably because your dad’s an asshole.
“The cops said he’s gone missing,” she continued, her voice low, “but that’s pretty typical for someone in his situation. And it freaks the rest of our staff out when the cops come, you know?” Well, whose fault was it that your dad hired undocumented workers and then treated them like shit?
“Sure.” I smiled. “I understand. If he does turn up, let him know that I’m looking for him, okay?”
I mean, unless the asshole rose from the dead, I knew it would never happen. I just wish someone would believe me so we could focus on the more important thing here—who the hell killed Arun, and why?
9
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
I ZIPPED UP MY jacket as I walked away from the Curry Palace, slowing down to pull out my phone. I had to text Nina. I couldn’t put it off forever.
Hi, something happened
“Hey!” someone called out from behind me.
What the actual fuck was this?
I turned around, gripping my keys in my hand and tensing up.
“Hey!”
It was a waiter. Just what I fucking needed. Another reason for that asshole owner to be pissed at me.
“I’m Arun’s friend. Just a minute!”
Fucking finally. A person in this godforsaken town who could verify that Arun was an actual living, breathing person.
I looked him up and down. He was in a white kurta top and waistcoat, a small smudge of orange butter masala bleeding down his sleeve. There was something familiar about him.
“Do you know where he is?” He was panting a little.
“Sorry, no.” I gave a polite smile. I couldn’t very well tell this stranger that I had yanked Arun’s dead body off my kitchen table, could I? “That’s why I came here. To see if he showed up to his shift.”
“That’s really weird. I thought he’d tell me if he was taking off. But then again, he probably thought it would be easier this way.”
“Have you heard from his girlfriend at all? Do you know how to get in touch with her?”
“He has a girlfriend?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. He clearly didn’t know anything. I was about to turn away.
“You’re Arun’s roommate, right? He told me about you!”
I swallowed, making sure the smile hadn’t slipped off my face.
“About me?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Had he told him about the letter?
“Lankaven ne?” This caught me by surprise. From Sri Lanka, right?
“Yes,” I replied cautiously. I hadn’t spoken Sinhala in many years.
“Mama Saman. Mehe nam kiyanne Sam kiyala,” he continued. I’m Saman. But they call me Sam over here. Figures.
That was probably what was familiar, then. The accent.
“I’m Paloma.”
“Sinhala bari de?” Can’t speak Sinhala? No shit, Sherlock.
I shook my head, switching my expression to be adequately sheepish. The few Sri Lankans I’ve met here are incredibly, inexplicably easy to offend. They think I’m putting it on. Trying to sound “posh.” Their words, not mine. Like not knowing how to speak Sinhalese somehow made you cooler. But you try speaking a language you haven’t used in eighteen or so years and tell me how you get on with it. It’s not like I have anyone in the Bay Area I can speak to, and my parents thought I was joking when I suggested they learn, and enrolled me in French instead.
You already know how to speak Sri Lankan, Paloma, why don’t you try something new? Mom had explained, and she seemed so excited about the idea of it that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Sri Lankan wasn’t an actual language.
“Nice meeting you, Saman. If you do hear anything, please let me know. I’d better get going.” I wasn’t going to leave a number. I know this type—just wants to be around the drama of a missing person, relishing in the gossip.
“Inna, inna ithing.” Wait, wait, will you?
I must have paused, because Saman had scribbled his number on a slip from his order pad and stuck it out to me.
“Keep my number. In case you need to talk. About Arun, or, well, anything. He told me so much about you.”
It could have been what brand of shampoo I used or what I ate for breakfast each morning, knowing Arun, but something about the way he said it made the ground tilt around me. Had Arun actually said anything? Or was this guy just being weird?
I must have hesitated.
“It’s okay, nangi.” Nangi. Little sister. How Sri Lankan could someone even get? His brown cheeks, covered in stubble though they were, had turned red. The paper hovered between us. “I’m new here. Arun was one of my few friends. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to. Apeyma kenek neh?” Someone who’s one of us.
The air outside grew thicker, suffocating me. I didn’t want to seem rude. Maybe this was a typical Sri Lankan guy’s way of trying to be friendly. Or asking me out. It didn’t mean that Arun told him anything important. It didn’t mean that Arun told him about what he found out. I took the number and stuffed it into my pocket. It really was the easiest way to get this creep off my back. I’d just throw it out later.
Why did they always assume that every brown person wanted to be their friend? Like having excess melanin automatically qualified you to be a part of some special club that ate only spicy food and bitched about not having a bidet-shower next to the toilet. I really should just toss it in the trash. I took a deep breath and continued to walk away, deleting the text I had been typing to Nina.
10
RATMALANA, SRI LANKA
“COME ON, YOU KNOW you can’t wish for more wishes, that’s cheating.” Lihini’s voice was really soft, almost a whisper, but that was okay because she was so close to my ear.
“You didn’t say that, no? It’s the smartest wish. Haiyyo, stop pulling the sheet!” I made sure my voice was low also.
“Aney, you stop pulling the sheet!”
“Okay, okay, so. Keep it down or we’ll get caught.”
Lihini had climbed down from her bunk and gotten into my bed, like we did most nights. We chat and joke until one of us falls asleep.
“Don’t you think Mrs. Evans smelled divine?” I asked, snuggling down under the sheet.
“Tuck your hair in, aney. Don’t let it hang out the side of the bed.” It always bugs her when my braid did that. I have no clue why.
“Okay, okay. But didn’t she smell divine?”
“Divine?”
“It means lovely, no? Miss Sarah taught us last week, remember?”
“You always remember all the good words.”
“I have to remember words. It’s the only way I can become an actress when I get older.” I wriggled my eyebrows at her.
“Being an actress is more than just remembering words, you know.”
“But I can do different faces. And accents. I’ve even been practicing my dance moves.”
“Dance moves?” She sounded shocked, but I knew what she wanted.
“I can’t remember them all, okay. But you know that bit that Shah Rukh Khan does on top of that train? Chaiya chaiya chaiya chaiya? Remember?”
“Shh!”
“Well, I can do that, look!”
I sat up on the bed and started shaking my shoulders and chest like I had seen when Miss Nayana was watching TV the other day.
“Isn’t that the boy’s part?”
“Miss Nayana caught me looking before it got to the girl’s dance.”
“Haiyyo.”
“What to do?” I shrugged.
“I’ll keep an eye out the next time she’s watching TV, okay, sudhu? Maybe you can see it then.”
“Thanks. So, have you decided yet?”
My Sweet Girl Page 5