Rani Patel In Full Effect. Sonia Patel
same thing Mark said.
Then he grasps the corners of my glasses as if they were made out of a single dry spaghetti that would snap if handled without care. He realigns them on my face.
Our faces are so close…
“Thanks.” I don’t say anything else because I have to focus on willing myself to not grab his face and kiss him. I’m taken aback by his sweetness. If he’s this charming to me, a mere classmate, what’s he like with Emily? I’m holding my breath.
“No worries. Anything you wanna talk about?” His amiable eyes reassure me and suddenly I envision we’re in a confession booth. He’s Father Damien and I’m a churchgoer ready to admit everything. Tell him all about what’s going on with my family. Pour my heart out about how much I’ve liked him since last year. That I wish he wasn’t going out with Emily.
But all that stays locked up in my mind’s confessional. I’d never tell him the stuff about liking him because I ain’t one to stir the pot. And I’m no homewrecker. Mos def. Unlike that skeeze named Wendy.
“No.”
“Ok, but you know you can talk to me anytime, right?”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
“Oh, and here are some receipts for the assembly.” He hands me a brown clasp envelope.
“Thanks V.P.” I slide the envelope between my books.
He smiles, then checks his ultra manly G-Shock. “Time for A.P. Calc.” He jumps up, then holds out his hand for me.
Bald nobody and class hottie. Walking to class. Like Beauty and the Beast. Only in reverse.
The large, copper svastika, the Hindu symbol of auspiciousness, hangs on the front door of our house. Trouble is, it reminds me of a Nazi swastika. The Nazi party turned the traditionally positive symbol forty-five degrees to the right to make it their own. The symbol creeps me out, at any angle. And with the recent inauspicious happenings in my life, I can’t help but think I’m walking into a Nazi lair.
Not exactly my idea of home sweet home.
I push the door open. The smell of Indian food drives away the thoughts of Aryan supremacy. I’m comforted by the scent of cinnamon, cumin, and coriander, redolent of the states of Punjab and Gujarat. Definitely matar paneer. Bubbling dal and bhatt too. In an instant, I’m ravenous.
I pull my Adidas high tops off, almost knocking over the Ganesh statue on the shoe cabinet. Maaf kaaro, Ganesh. Forgive me.
I’ve been at a student council meeting that lasted until 6:30 p.m. It went well. We got everything squared away for the school dance on September 20th. It’s a fundraiser for our senior class luau in May.
That’s why I didn’t help Mom at the store today. My frequent unwanted visitor—guilt—comes knocking. Forgive me, Mom.
She’s kneading wheat flour in a large stainless steel thali. She’s bearing down on the dough with all her might, like she’s pushing down on a bike pump that’s stuck only she doesn’t know it’s stuck. I look around to see if there’s anything I can help her with.
That’s when I spot two Island Air plane ticket receipts next to the plate of the bakhri she’s already made. I wonder who’s going on a trip. Like a robber, I swipe one of the golden brown bakhri and take a bite. I close my eyes and savor the bite. It’s still warm and crisp on the outside. It tastes delicious. It puts loaf bread to shame. I open my eyes and worm my way closer to the receipts. I take another bite and lean forward on the counter. I sneak a peek at the printed names.
Pradip Patel.
Wendy Nagaoki.
And I check out the destination.
Moloka’i to Hawai’i.
So they went to the Big Island! I drop the bakhri on the counter and my arms fall to my side. I take a step back, feeling nauseous. I clench my fists under the countertop.
I guess Mom believes me now. That’s three strikes:
1. Roses—Tuesday, August 6, 1991.
2. Run-in with Dad and Wendy at Kanemitsu’s—Saturday, September 7, 1991.
3. Plane ticket receipts found—Monday, September 9, 1991.
Three strikes and you’re out, Dad.
Too bad Mom hasn’t said one word about any of it. So it’s back to me being Nancy Drew.
Rani Drew.
I need to solve the mystery that is my mom. I should just ask her about the receipts. Seems pretty basic. But communication has never been our strong point. Not like Nancy Drew and Hannah Gruen. I mean poor Nancy never knew her mom. I think she died when Nancy was a youngster. And I feel bad for anyone who loses their mom. I can’t imagine. But at least Nancy had Hannah—her loving Mom figure and counselor. Mom’s not Hannah Gruen.
There’s no Meera Gruen.
Not even close. Mom doesn’t discuss difficult situations with me. Saturday night was an anomaly. I mean, I was out of my mind with emotions. I didn’t have my usual wits about me to talk myself out of telling her anything. And she acted like a real live human being.
But now it’s back to our standard operating procedure. And the (Enormous. Elaborately adorned. Indian.) elephant in the room of our lives sits pretty. Eating juguu with its long trunk.
I keep my face calm. “You ok, Mom?”
“I’m ok.” She doesn’t look up from her kneading.
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’m ok.” She kneads furiously.
Dang, she’s strong.
I stand there still as a mannequin watching her wallop the dough. I wonder how long it took her to become such a master bakhri maker.
“Need some help?”
“No.”
I rest my elbows on the counter and cup my face in my hands. My eyes follow her hands as they divide the dough into small balls, then flatten each dough ball into individual discs. With a velan, she rolls each disc into a circular flat, like a tortilla. Perfect six-and-a-half inch diameter circles. Each exactly the same size and thickness. Without using a mold. Last time I tried to make bakhri each one turned out to be a different shape, thickness, and size. Kind of like the Hawaiian islands.
I linger and psych myself up to ask her about the receipts.
Come on, Rani, you can do this. You got this.
I’m sweating. I have to pull at my shirt to keep it from sticking. Moist pits and all, I picture myself as Rocky Balboa. Donning my gloves. Hopping about in my gold and maroon colored robe to stay warmed up. Then I step into the ring.
“Hey Mom, what about these receipts?”
Silence.
After five more minutes of nada, I devise a different strategy.
Try playing piano. Maybe that’ll relax her and she’ll open up.
I walk to the living room and play Für Elise. It’s my mom’s favorite, I think, because I’ve noticed she usually gets a half-smile when I play it. My fingers press the keys and I peek at her. I’m hoping the beauty of the piece will draw her out of her shell.
Nope.
She doesn’t seem to hear it, still completely absorbed in making the bakhri. So I stop playing halfway through. I drop my hands into my lap and stare out the sliding glass doors at the channel. It’s calm, like I wish I was. I get up and head to the entryway for