American as Paneer Pie Page 12

  chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  As the days went by over break, Ajay Mama and Joginder Uncle got better and better. We called Aaji and talked to her about snow and what we were going to cook for dinner, avoiding the topic of my uncle altogether. We even managed to cheer Aai up enough to put our little rosemary Christmas tree up, and on Christmas morning I woke up to a new Aamir Khan poster and the news that Joginder Uncle and Ajay Mama had been released from the hospital. I loved Aamir Khan, but clearly the news that everyone was okay was the best present of the day.

  Each day seemed to bring with it a new bit of good news. Ajay Mama’s bandages came off and his vision was improving. Joginder Uncle’s bruising was almost totally gone, and he was able to go back to work. Mama finally discovered podcasts while his eye healed. But he was back to talking so much, Veena Mami could barely understand what was going on in the podcasts. …

  And my nights were finally better too. I moved my night-light to another wall, and the shadowy monster was gone for good, so on New Year’s Eve, I woke up refreshed and ready to stay up late to ring in the new year.

  I helped Aai mix the dough for the pizzas we always ate at New Year’s, pouring in the spelt, whole wheat, and all-purpose flours, and the flaxseed meal. Dad was cutting up red bell peppers and onions, and boiling corn.

  “Aren’t you sick of corn pizza?” he asked as he leaned over the stove to check on the kernels skidding around in the bubbling water.

  “Never,” I replied. It was like my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at school. When I found something I liked, I stuck with it.

  “It reminds her of India,” Aai added, putting a glass lid over the mixing bowl so our dough would rise.

  “Remember that restaurant in Pune where we first had it?”

  Aai nodded. “I’m pretty sure that’s the same restaurant where we first had a cheese dosa when you were little.”

  I washed the remnants of the flour and oil off my hands, remembering the first time I bit into a piping-hot crepe filled with melted Indian cheese instead of the potatoes and onions masala dosas normally had.

  “Clearly a very innovative place,” Aai said with a tiny smile.

  “You all left that restaurant with full bellies. I left with a headache because Ajay decided to lead the restaurant in a game of Antakshari. The noise that day! And I’m not talking about the singing. I’m talking about that loud voice of your brother’s,” Dad laughed.

  Aai did too, before quickly looking away.

  Dad cleared his throat. “You have an hour before that dough rises, Lekha. Why don’t you work on your homework? Aai told me you have an article due in a few weeks. Might as well get a head start, right?”

  I shrugged. If only Dad knew how many weeks ago I had been assigned this homework, he may not have thought about today as a head start. But I headed upstairs anyway. After all the bad things that had happened around here, I was on a mission to make things easier on Aai. To make sure my days on the wrong side of the unspoken Desi-kid law were far behind me.

  So up I went. I tapped my pencil on my desk and looked at the pleats of my purple curtains, counting them, guessing their width, and every once in a while trying to figure out what I was going to write.

  The last idea I had was at Diwali, but the spiderweb op-ed was too silly to put on paper. Nixing it, I started to draw a cow in my notebook. Maybe I could write about cows. But I had no opinion on them other than that I liked to draw them. Maybe I could write about puns. Only I wasn’t the one with strong opinions on puns. Noah was. He seemed to know what to say about lots of things I didn’t.

  I glanced at the calendar in front of me. Aai would stick a Post-it note on it with big assignments that were due. The neon pink Post-it that said “Op-ed” was loose in one corner, probably because she had already moved it from November to December’s page.

  I pulled the little square off December, knowing it might as well move to January, since I had no idea what to write about tonight.

  I made a little star under Aai’s handwriting and wrote, “What do I care about?”

  That was easy. My family, my friends, swimming, and school. And fitting in. But I wasn’t going to look like a total loser and write an op-ed about how I wished I fit in better. And I wasn’t going to write an op-ed about what happened to my uncle, even though I did care about it. It seemed pretty weird to have to write an op-ed that said hurting someone was wrong. It seemed like that should have been common sense to everyone.

  I made another star and wrote, “What do I want to say?”

  That one wasn’t so easy. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Politics and protests and important things didn’t matter to me the way they did to Noah.

  I moved on with another star, writing smaller to fit my question on the little space left on the Post-it: “What do I have a strong opinion about?”

  I stared at the words. I tapped my pencil some more. Nothing. I had nothing. Maybe nothing mattered to me enough to voice my opinion on it.

  I flipped the calendar page and moved the Post-it full of unanswered questions onto the snowy picture for January. I still had time to figure out what I had to say. For now, I was just going to enjoy the rest of this year.

  chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  On election day, our last day of break, we got to my old elementary school bright and early in the morning. We walked past a garden of brightly colored, hand-painted kindness rocks by the doors with messages like “Be kind,” “Love yourself,” and “You belong” written on them.

  I followed my parents inside, taking in a whiff of the smell that had surrounded me for five years when I was younger. It made me think of the school library, my favorite place to be, but it also reminded me of the fifth-grade boys teasing me when I first started. I turned the corner for the gym, where a short line of people waited near a sign that said POLLING PLACE.

  An old woman with a cane was standing by it. She saw us and smiled, talking loudly and slowly, as if we didn’t understand English unless it was slowed down for us. “Did … you … register … to vote?” she asked, making a writing gesture to go along with “vote.”

  Aai nodded. “I have my voter registration card and my ID.”

  “Oh, fantastic.” The old woman smiled, leaning on her cane. “You came prepared. Good for you,” she said, as if she were talking to a little kid, before turning to the next person behind us and speaking normally to ask if he had registered to vote.

  Mr. Giordano was standing a couple of people ahead, along with Noah and his parents. They were talking about something boring like the weather. Noah and I left the line and went to the gray folding chairs outside the school gym to wait for our parents.

  “I got the latest issue of Musings,” Noah said.

  “You did?” I asked. “Did you bring it?”

  Noah shook his head. “They didn’t publish my article.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “It’s okay. You’ll have a front-page op-ed soon in the school paper. That can go in the frame. It will look better anyway.”

  “I guess.” Noah looked down at his hands. “It’s been so many months and I still haven’t gotten a cover. Sometimes I think I never will.”

  “Of course you will,” I said, but he still looked down. “I mean, orca-course you will?” I tried, remembering an animal pun from the book I got at Diwali.

  The corner of Noah’s lips started to move up in a small smile. “Not punny.”

  “First ‘shrimpossible,’ now this!” I smiled, trying to make him laugh. “Are you … are you into puns now?”

  Noah elbowed me. “I’m into serious journalism. Like op-eds. Did you figure out what you want to write about?”

  I shook my head. “Mine’s not due until next semester. I have a few more weeks.” I quickly lowered my voice as Mr. Giordano headed out of the gym and exited the school. “Let’s hope I find something I feel strongly about before then.”

  chapter TWENTY-SIX

  The icy January wind was howling as it body slamme
d our drafty windows that night. I had wrapped myself in a thick blanket to stay warm as I sat at the kitchen table, my feet on the vent right next to the sliding-glass door. I enjoyed the heat as I sketched a blue cow with the watercolor pencils Noah had given me. The TV was on in the family room next to me, as my parents watched the election results come in.

  “Wow, Genesee County’s precincts have reported,” Dad said from the family room, turning up the volume on the television. “Sharpe just barely got a win there.”

  Aai was in the kitchen, half paying attention, half squeezing some lime juice to soak ginger and raisins in for another ayurvedic recipe. This one didn’t taste quite as good as the garlic, but I still liked it.

  “Kent County’s in. Macomb, Washtenaw, Shiawassee. … Look at these numbers. The polls were way off.”

  I watched Aai put the bottle in the fridge, biting my lip at the thought of the raisins tomorrow, when they would be saturated with the lemon juice and black salt.

  “I don’t believe this. Oakland County went to Winters,” Dad said from the family room. “It was so close. How could the polls have gotten it so wrong?”

  “You should shave,” said Aai.

  I turned to her, stunned. Had Aidy talked to her about shaving for swimming? But Aai wasn’t looking at me or my legs. She was talking to Dad.

  “That mustache. Get rid of it. Don’t give anyone an excuse to hurt you.”

  “Listen to yourself. You’re sounding as racist as the people you fear. Do you want me to pull my skin off too? Because I can’t. We can’t change who we are out of fear. What do I always tell Lekha?”

  My belly turned with nerves. I hated when my parents fought. It made me feel uncomfortable. But something about this fight made me feel scared, too, and the chaotic voices on the TV, talking about the election, weren’t helping. “Himmat karke badha kadam,” I said softly.

  “Right. That is how we live our life. Bravely. Because we’re all in this together.”

  “Tell that to our neighbors,” said Aai, sinking to the sofa as the words PREDICTED WINNER: ABIGAIL WINTERS flashed across the screen.

  The news cut to an image of a hotel in Grand Rapids, where Winters’s victory speech would take place. Her staffers and volunteers hugged her. Red, white, and blue confetti rained down on screen as a couple of tears rained down Aai’s face. And the wintry wind outside seemed to join in, its mournful wail filling the dark world around us with an icy sadness.

  chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning everything looked the same. There was still snow on the ground outside my window. There was still organic oatmeal for breakfast. But something felt off.

  I watched Aai run her fingers across the little rosemary tree sitting on our kitchen counter, still displaying the misshapen candy-cane dough ornament and crooked pipe-cleaner reindeer ornament I had made as a little kid in school.

  “There are Christmas decorations and lights on every lamppost in our neighborhood and downtown. There’s a neighborhood holiday party to meet Santa, and Santa leads a parade downtown and turns on the Christmas lights there,” said Aai softly. “Our homeowners association fees pay for that. Our tax money pays for that. We are happy to celebrate other religions. But the one year you asked the homeowners association to turn the lights on early for Diwali, they voted no. Why? Why do they look down on us?”

  Dad looked at me as I finished my oatmeal. “Lekha, why don’t you get your bag ready for school?”

  “My bag’s packed.”

  “You can’t say ‘they,’ ” Dad said to Aai, ignoring me. “Everyone is not against us. You can’t think like this. Look at our next-door neighbors. The Wades are like family.”

  “And look at our next-door neighbor on the other side,” muttered Aai.

  “The world hasn’t suddenly changed just because of an election yesterday.”

  “Sure it has. Now everyone can act like the people who attacked Ajay and Joginder. Because our new senator told them it was okay.”

  I began to drum my spoon on the edge of my bowl as I thought about what Aai said. Were we in danger?

  Dad put a gentle hand on mine, steadying the spoon. “How about we all step out and get the paper and some fresh air? Maybe we can go on a nice winter morning walk before school?”

  “What’s the point?” asked Aai.

  “Lekha is the point. Your health is the point. You cannot go further into your shell because of what happened to Ajay, or because of the election. You have to continue to live your life.”

  “Continue to live our life? You are living in some fantasy world. Look at who our senator is. That is how people really think in our town. In our state!” Aai’s voice started to rise.

  “I’ll get the paper,” I said, standing up, hoping to stop my parents’ fight. “Then we have to get to school.”

  I grabbed my bag, threw my coat on, got into my boots, and stepped out onto the icy walkway. I hopped into the grass, deciding it wasn’t worth seeing if there was black ice on the driveway for me to unintentionally skate on, and grabbed the paper at the curb. Through the thin pink plastic, I could see Winters’s smiling face surrounded by the patriotic confetti. I glanced over at Noah’s house, thinking he must have stayed up all night writing his piece on Winters, and turned to my house.

  And then I froze.

  It wasn’t because of the ice on the walkway or the frost on the windows or the light sprinkling of snow on the grass.

  On our white garage door, in dripping black paint, were the words “GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.”

  chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dad, Aai, and the Wades stood before our garage door, where Noah and I had taken countless Halloween pictures, just staring at the words until Mrs. Wade’s phone alarm went off.

  “Sorry,” she said, silencing it. “It’s time for the kids to go to school.” She put a hand on my mom’s shoulder. “I’ll drive them.”

  Aai nodded. “Thanks.”

  A van full of little kids going down the street to the elementary school slowed down as the driver tried to look at what we were all crowded around.

  “We need to call the cops,” said Noah’s dad.

  Aai shook her head. “No. I don’t want to draw any more attention to us and make more people angry.”

  I wanted to disappear inside my jacket hood as another car slowed down near our driveway before zooming off. We were becoming a spectacle.

  “We can’t live in fear,” Dad started, before Aai shot the scariest look at him and he closed his mouth.

  “Okay,” said Mr. Wade. “Then we need to paint over this garbage. Because that’s what it is. Garbage.”

  “You’ll be late to work,” said Aai softly. “I don’t want Beverly giving you trouble because of this,” she added, talking about her old boss.

  “This is more important. And it won’t take long.”

  Dad nodded. “The old paint is in the garage. I’ll get it,” he said, walking up to the door to enter the code on the keypad.

  “And we need to go or you guys will be tardy,” said Mrs. Wade.

  “Wait!” said Noah, pulling out his cell phone. He took a bunch of pictures and e-mailed them to himself. “We need to document this. We need evidence.”

  But I was already walking away, heading toward the Wades’ car. I didn’t want a keepsake picture. I wanted to forget this had ever happened.

  chapter TWENTY-NINE

  I tried to concentrate on school, but it was hard. Noah kept bringing up what happened, and I was running out of subjects to change the discussion to. It was on my mind too, no matter how much I wanted to pretend like it never happened. Every time a kid passed me in the hall, I worried if they had seen what was on my garage, or worse, worried if they had done it. Not that I would have the guts to ask anyone.

  My bod-Aai-guard was back on the job again too. Aai was scanning all the kids during pickup, like she was trying to figure out which one of them wrote on our garage. I waved to Noah, who had Journalism Club after scho
ol, and ran to the car as fast as I could.

  “Everything okay?” I huffed, clicking my seat belt.

  Aai nodded. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  Aai took a turn, and I watched the leafless trees lining the road. Their bare branches looked like open arms, but it seemed more like they were trying to scare me than hug me.

  “They found out who did it?” I tugged on my belt, readjusting it so it was no longer digging into my neck. “I thought you weren’t going to tell the police.”

  Aai turned into our neighborhood. “I got this app. You buy your groceries online and they bring it to the curb. You never have to even enter the store.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. What did this have to do with our garage? “That’s the app you got mad at Dad about, remember?” I looked at the back of Aai’s head. A few strands of hair were blowing around her ear, thanks to the heat vent. “They gave you someone’s tuna by accident last year?” I added, over the garage door that was still unoiled and groaning like it was trying to tell the whole world about what had been done to it.

  “This is how we’re getting our groceries from now on, okay?” she said sharply, pulling into our garage. “I’m not going to give these people another chance to hurt us.”

  I opened the car door, eager to get away from my snapping mother.

  “Lekha, wait!”

  But I had already slammed the car door, grabbed the key from under the stack of plant pots, and turned the garage door handle.

  A sharp beeping sound went off as soon as I opened the door.

  “What is going on?” I asked over the noise, looking around the laundry room for the source.

  “I installed a security system,” Aai replied, punching the year she moved to America into a keypad in the tiny closet right next to the garage door.