Chapter 2:
Thou Shalt Not Flirt
Even school the next day is less boring than church. After the first half of the day, I settle into my corner on one of the many lunch tables and begin to read the assigned pages from my history textbook. I enjoy it enough that I was excited to start. Art isn't the only thing I like, contrary to popular belief.
"I didn't think you were the studying type," someone says.
"I definitely am. Assuming it's interesting." I look up, and it's Jaron. Oh, right, his family had just moved here. The odds were high that he was in the same high school as me, as there were only two in the district. He already has two boys on either side of him. Friends, I assume, on his very first day. I resent that. How the hell did he make friends so fast? I squint at him. "Do I know you?"
He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Surprise flickers across his face.
I smirk. "I guess you're not very memorable."
"We met at church. I'm Jaron," he reminds me.
"Oh. That's nice." I know both boys he's with, and I am not friends with them. I look them all over. All three of them are dressed in baseball uniforms. "Of course you play baseball," I mutter, "White kid poster boy."
He glares down at me, gold hair falling over his forehead. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks. "What do you play?" he challenges.
I hesitate. "Tennis."
He grins instantly. I put a finger in his face. "I know what you're thinking. Don't say it. It's racist. Not all Indians play tennis."
"But you do," he says. "Are you on the school team?"
"No. I like to play indoors, where there's air conditioning." He laughs at me and so do the other two. "You're blocking my source of light," I snap, "Go away."
He doesn't move. "We thought we'd sit with you," Jaron says.
"Why?" I ask.
"Well I don't know anyone else."
I point to the boys flanking him. "You know them."
Jaron nods. "I guess so." And then when I attempt to look hostile, they leave, thankfully.
One of those boys nudges Jaron. "Told you dude, he's a loner." And then I can't hear what they say next.
I return to my textbook.
———
Patrick usually picks me up from school since he works from home and Mom has to go into work. "Hey, kid. How was school?"
I climb into the car. "Good." That's about the exact same conversation we have every day. I scroll through Instagram for the next 10 minutes until we get home, where I see my dad—my real dad—waiting in front of the house.
He grins. I poke him to see if it's real. "I thought you were traveling for work," I say.
"Ended early. Booked the first flight home." My dad and Patrick give each other stiff, awkward nods, and then my dad returns his attention to me. "Spend the week with me, Indra? I missed you."
It would get me out of church next weekend, and I wouldn't have a curfew. Not that I went anywhere, but I liked not having it. "I'll pack a bag. Wait here."
I push my backpack into my dad's arms and rush inside to toss some clothes into a duffel. My dad is in his car which is a BMW—and much cooler than a Prius. "Bye, Patrick!" I shout.
"Bye, kid," he murmurs.
"Dad, is Aunty there?" I ask once he starts driving.
"Yes, Indra. My wife will obviously be at my house."
I prefer Patrick to my dad's new wife. She was overly traditional, and though I know she means well, it was so fucking annoying.
I had a feeling that my dad only married the new lady to save face. Kind of. Well, my mom married Patrick after the divorce. My dad's parents thought that was shameful, and that my mom should remain single out of respect for my dad. I dunno, it was some weird traditional logic that no one but them really understood. So my dad agreed to marry some woman that they found for him to stop their whining.
"I'm not going to do anything she tells me to," I say.
"You're coming to spend time with me, Indra. Don't worry about her. Just be polite."
"I'll try."
When we get to Dad's house, which is the one I grew up in and he got it in the divorce, I fly inside. "Indra!" Dad shouts, "Hold on—!"
Aunty appears in the doorway like a ghoul. She says something in Telugu.
"Um, what?" I say.
She switches to English. "Wash your feet."
"But my feet were in my shoes, and I'm leaving my shoes outside." I don't really know much about anything Indian, other than the fact that I am Indian, but taking off your shoes at the door is the one thing I do know and heavily appreciate.
"It's bad luck to walk into your home dirty," she says.
Ugh. My dad is already washing his feet in a small copper bowl at the door like he's used to this. We never used to do it before. I reluctantly do the same, and then ignore her and go up the stairs.
"You need to teach him Telugu," I hear her saying to my dad. "It's embarrassing." Then they switch to Telugu, which I can't understand and that's frustrating because if they're talking shit about me, I want to hear it all so I can be angry about it.
I slam my door shut because I can. And it's loud enough that I don't have to hear whatever she says next. My dad will come up here when he manages to get her off his back, and then maybe we'll game or watch something together. In the meantime, I flop on the bed I've had since I was six, with the same floral sheets my mom picked out—still haven't changed them—and start drawing my car again. But with colors.
My dad knocks on my door a short while later. "Come in!" I shout.
He has a giant packet of chips and a second controller. He stands over me and looks down at my sketchbook, now halfway complete with the car.
"Do you only draw cars?" he asks.
"No. I drew a zombie yesterday." I flip the page to show him. "And also a mop."
He smiles and sits down next to me. "What are you thinking? Mario Kart?"
"Okay, but only once. I have A period tomorrow. I should be up early."
We play 8 rounds before my dad decides to be responsible and shuts it off. "Go to sleep now," he says.
I make him leave the chips here. I'll eat those for breakfast so Aunty won't be offended that I didn't eat whatever she cooks. Her food is too spicy for me, which is so embarrassing to admit, so I just try to avoid it. I fall asleep on my textbook as I finish reading the assigned chapter.
———
On Friday I go to the gym. Not to lift heavy things and sweat senselessly, but because my dad suggested we play tennis. I lose to him, but not by much. At least he's not destroying me anymore. There will be a day that I finally beat him, and I will gloat until his ears explode, but today is not that day.
We give up the court to others and sit on a bench near the weights, peeling off our wristbands and packing up, zipping our bags. "Getting old," my dad mutters, twisting from side to side.
I ignore this and wipe my face. "I'm ready to go—"
"Can you move?" Jaron asks. Great. He was at my gym too.
"Huh? Oh." I was in front of the dumbbell rack. "Well if you're nice about it." I cross my arms and glare.
Jaron sighs, which makes his chest rise and stick to his white, slightly wet tank. I'd never realized it under all those button-ups, but his arms were lean and strong with hard-won muscle. "Please move," he snaps.
I move.
"What?" he says, peering into my face like something is wrong with it. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He easily picks up two weights that I would definitely struggle with.
"I didn't know you lift," I say.
"For baseball.
I snort. "What heavy things are you lifting in baseball? You should...like..." I swing my arms. "Be batting."
"Weight training is important." He turns away and walks off.
"Weight training is important," I mock at his back, though I don't think he hears it.
"Was that your friend?" my dad asks, having come up behind me.
"Not really—"
"You should invite him over."
What was it with my parents and trying to force me into friendships? "No," I say, "I barely know him." Besides, how was I supposed to tell my parents that I couldn't make any friends because I was annoying and no one liked me? I sling my bag over my shoulder. "I have homework. Can we go?"
"Weekend homework?" My dad asks, following me.
"Well yeah. This isn't preschool." And maybe I was going to practice drawing anatomy. That was important to my development as an artist. Totally unrelated to anything I saw today.
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