(10) Boys Don’t Do That

Jaron steps out of a silver car, hair effortlessly tousled (but not messy, somehow), black jeans and a not-ratty t-shirt. He’s even wearing a chain around his neck.

He never dresses like that in school, where it’s either sweats or his baseball uniform. He’s actually dressed well for once, and of course I notice, so of course I have to tease him. I walk down the path of the front yard to where he’s parked. “Did you dress up for me?” I ask.

He turns bright red instantly, which means he did dress up for me. I can see why he likes making me all flustered. It’s great seeing him all shy and stammering because of me. “You didn’t,” he accuses. “You didn’t even try for me.”

“I was going to! I was just busy this morning!”

He grins.

And now I blush, and I also hate him. “Ugh… just—come inside,” I mutter.

He puts his hands in his pockets and follows me closely, his arm brushing mine.

“Stop that,” I mutter.

He curls his finger around my forearm. I shake his hand off as we walk inside. He lets go and looks around. He whistles. “And I thought the front lawn was big. Nice ass house.”

“Um, thanks.” I look around. It seems that my grandparents are unpacking, Aunty is nowhere to be seen, and Dad is probably still sleeping. I pull Jaron up the stairs. “Let’s go to my room.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? You’re a bad host.”

“Do you want a drink?” I snap.

“No.”

I drag him into my room and shut the door. I do not want any of my family to meet Jaron. I don’t know why. But I don’t want it. Maybe we should go to the boba place down the street or to a park for maximum family-avoidance, but I hear voices downstairs. Likely my dad greeting my grandparents. So it’s too late now. We’re stuck up here.

I glance at him. He’s leaning on the door, his hands pressed behind him, between himself and the door. He smiles.

“Why are you so smiley all the time?” I mutter.

He shrugs.

I clear my throat and gesture to the TV. “Okay. Um. You wanna play a game?”

“Sure.” He flops on my bed and takes the console from my hands. I can’t even think of something mean to say about it, so I fish another one from the closet and gingerly sit down next to him, overly aware of his presence on my bed.

“I have… uh, a couple diff—”

His hand snakes around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I snap. “You can’t play when you’re like that.”

His controller is somewhere on the floor. “Oh, come on. You didn’t really think I came over for video games.”

Obviously I didn’t think that. I also didn’t think he’d be so blunt about it either. I look down and fiddle with my own controller. He takes it out of my hands and cups my face, smiling. He kisses me.

And it’s great for a few minutes, and then I turn my head away. “Um, it feels strange to do this while my family’s home.” And also, we hardly knew each other. I really didn’t know anything about him, except the fact that he was the pastor’s son and he played baseball. He probably didn’t know more than a few basic facts about me either.

“Let’s just watch something,” he suggests. He picks something on my Netflix, one of Marvel’s Thor movies, and then pulls me close. “I don’t like the new ones,” I say.

He shrugs. “He’s shirtless half the movie.”

“I’m not gay,” I tell him.

He smirks. “Sure.”

I rest my head on his chest since that’s the only place I can rest with the way he’s holding me. He presses short kisses to my lips every once in a while. I stay still, but my mind does not. I have too many questions. Are we together? Did this mean something? What about Ansel? Jaron just got dumped like 4 days ago, so I was probably a rebound, wasn’t I?

I am shaken from my thoughts, and the unfortunate fact that cuddling like this is disgustingly comfortable (maybe because of Jaron’s muscles, which are a nice cushion), by a shout from downstairs: “Indra!”

I flinch. Jaron scrambles to the other side of the bed, looking way too guilty. I thank god that no one opens the door. My dad just shouts.

I clear my throat. “Um, yes!?” I shout back.

Whatever Dad says next is muffled. I open the door and lean over the railing on the stair. “What?” I say.

My dad is looking up from the living room, holding a mug of coffee and hair rumpled. He squints. “Your grandparents have some friends here that are holding a pooja. They insist on going. Today. In an hour. Be ready.”

Jaron comes up behind me, also looking down.

My dad’s gaze shifts to him. “Who’s… that?”

I scowl. “My friend.” I shove Jaron back into my room.

My dad smiles. “Bring him. If you want.”

“No. I want to stay home.”

“No,” Dad says, and walks out of my view from the stairwell so I can’t even argue with him.

Jaron is sitting on my bed again, reclining comfortably on my pillows in a very sexy way.

Sexy?

Ugh. He’s not even doing anything. Why is that sexy?

“What’s a pooja?” he asks.

“I dunno. It’s like a Hindu religious thing. I have to go to it to keep the peace.”

“Cool. I’ll come. I heard your dad telling you to bring me.” He looks down and picks at his shirt. “Can I wear this?”

I tilt my head. “Yeah.”

He looks a bit disappointed. “So I can’t wear something of yours?” He pouts, but in that fake way that people do when they’re trying to get something out of you.

This idiot. Loser. Dork. He was not cute the way he thought he was. Or so I tell myself.

I look through my closet for something that’s loose on me so that it might be okay-sized on him. I glance back at him. “You don’t mind going to this thing my dad is forcing on me? When we’re supposed to be making out and cuddling?”

He smiles, then covers his mouth and looks to the side. “No, I don’t mind. I just want to spend time with you. We can make out after.”

“But you didn’t want to game,” I accuse. “That’s spending time with me.”

He sighs, leaning against the wall and looking down. “’Cause if we’re sitting in bed together, I’d rather be making out than playing games.”

“Perv,” I say. He looks tired with me already, and I feel a pit in my stomach. “Sorry.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I’m annoying.”

He smiles, pushes off the wall, and slings his arm around my shoulders. “No, I don’t think so.” He looks into my mostly empty closet. “Find me a… what is it called?”

“Kurta,” I say.

“Yes. One of those.”

———

The pooja is hosted at someone’s house. All the women are in saris and all the men look awkward and follow their wives around. Well, except for the priest at the front.

The main ceremony is over, and now everyone just socializes and eats. The food is served in paper boxes, prepackaged by volunteers. “This is really good,” Jaron says, on his second box. “You’re sure it’s fine to have seconds, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He inhales the rest of the box and eyes the table where they serve you again. “Could you get me another?” he whispers. I smile and just give him the box in my hands, which he opens instantly and puts in his old box. “So I don’t look like a pig,” he says.

I snort. “It’s fine.”

He loops one arm through mine, and I decide that it’s innocent enough to let it be, even though we’re in public. “So I noticed,” he says, “you don’t talk to your grandparents. Like, at all. Even when they address you directly.” His head is tilted down, so his hair falls over his brow as he shifts his gaze to me. I want to brush it out of his face. That is not innocent, so of course I don’t.

“What about it?”

“Why?” he asks.

I’ve never told anyone other than my own parents why. Not because it’s particularly sensitive—I’m not sensitive—but just because I never had anyone to tell before. “When my parents divorced… um, I think 7 years ago now, they said some nasty stuff about her. They still haven’t apologized. Pretend like it’s all fine.”

“Holding a grudge for 7 years?” he asks playfully. “Does that mean I have to grovel every time I make a mistake?”

“I dunno. Wouldn’t you have a grudge against people who called your mom a whore? You know I had to search up what that meant. I was 10.”

He blinks. “Sheesh.” He looks around and tries to slow down his eating. “Yeah, I guess I’d hold a grudge too. I’m sorry.”

His presence next to me feels so steady and grounded. And warm. He’s like a radiator. And I want to touch his hair and brush it away so I can see his face. I want to lean on him. Like before, when we were watching the movie.

I can’t wait to go back home so I can do that.

“I’m not talking to my parents right now,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean, no one called anyone… bad names. But like, we’re fighting. Kind of.”

“Sorry,” I say. “That sucks. Must feel like a cold war at home.”

He smiles down into his hands. “Yeah, at home. Bet you didn’t notice anything off at church, did you?”

“To be fair, I don’t really pay attention to anyone at church.”

“That’s a lie. You pay attention to me.”

True, though I’d not admit it to him. I want to kiss him so badly. What if I just did it? No one was even looking in our direction. I look around, growing bold. Maybe a discreet peck on the cheek would be just fine. But to my dismay, I see a group of 3 girls moving directly towards us. They’re dressed in sparkly half-saris with flowers in their hair, jhumkas in their ears, and bangles on… only one wrist?

They fill the space between us, wearing smiles that say mischief. I don’t know these girls, but I suppose I recognize their faces from around school or other poojas I’ve been forced to attend.

Jaron removes his hand from around my arm and smiles brightly. He hides all three of his empty boxes behind him. “Hey,” he says first.

I wish they would go away.

They have henna cones in their hands, and I realize now why all their bangles are crammed onto one wrist: they’re practicing henna on each other. “We need more hands,” the girl in the middle says, brandishing the cone.

I press my arms to myself. “No. We’re dudes.”

“Fragile,” the girl comments, and looks to Jaron instead.

Jaron rolls up his sleeves. “Yeah!”

“See,” the girl in the middle says, “the white guy is fine with it.”

“’Cause the white guy doesn’t know that henna is only for girls,” I say. I roll Jaron’s sleeve back down.

The girl in the middle, to my surprise, does not sit down next to Jaron (who swats my hand away and rolls his sleeve back up). She sits next to me and yanks my arm towards herself. I think she’s forcing me because I am being resistant. People (especially teenage girls, I figure) seem to like bending others to their will.

She hunches over my forearm and begins putting down a design with the henna cone. “Anjali,” she says.

“Oh, nice. I’m Indra.”

She smiles.

One of the other girls (her name is Kaavya) works on Jaron’s arm, and the third (Hansi) girl kicks her feet, looking between both pairs of us.

I watch as Anjali squeezes out a stylized flower onto my hand. Jaron requested a baseball.

“Why don’t I get to pick the design?” I complain. “He gets to.”

“Shh,” Anjali says. “You’re distracting me.”

They leave shortly after, and I frown at my flower. I’ll rub it off quickly when I’m sure we’re out of sight of the girls. “So irritating,” I mutter, stalking out of the yard through the side door.

Jaron follows. “You’re so sour all the time.”

“No I’m not.”

He smiles. “She was hitting on you.”

I glare at him. “She was not. Girls don’t hit on guys.”

“Don’t be sexist,” he says in a professorly voice. I roll my eyes. “And girls totally hit on hot guys. They don’t ask for your number. They just smile a lot.”

“Funny that the gay guy knows more about girls than I do.”

“It’s a perk that never gets used.” He examines my arm. “She also tattooed her number onto your skin, so take that as you will.”

I stare down at it. I hadn’t even noticed. “You’d be a great straight guy,” I say finally.

“You would not.”

I can’t help but smile as we walk down the sidewalk, arms bumping like we’re going to hold hands any minute. We don’t, of course. But it feels like we might.