There's Something About Sweetie(71)

Sheena looked at her with open pity now. “I can tell my friends to dance with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sweetie felt a hot wave of humiliation. But then it died down. And then she wanted to laugh. Because seriously, Sheena thought she was being nice. Like, she was so totally clueless that she thought implying no one would want to dance with Sweetie because she was fat and then offering to bribe her friends to do it was a good thing. Sweetie coughed to cover the laugh that wanted to burst out. She thought of Anjali Chechi bumping into the instrument table with her wide hips. She thought of who Anjali Chechi was now. And she smiled her most pleasant smile at Sheena. “That’s very … kind of you, Sheena. But it won’t be necessary. As I said, I don’t want to go. So.”

“But, mol, it might be really fun,” Amma said. “You can ride in the limo.”

Sweetie straightened her shoulders. Amma wanted her to go because it’d help the friendship or whatever she had going on with Tina auntie. She was desperate for Sweetie to try to bridge that gap for her, but that wasn’t Sweetie’s job. It wasn’t her job to make other people feel comfortable. “Sorry, Amma. But I meant what I said.” Then, turning to Tina auntie, she added, “Tina auntie, no, thank you. I don’t want to share a limo with Sheena.” She stood. “I have some homework to do, so I’m going to leave now. See ya.” Waving, she turned and left as they watched in shocked silence.

Amma came into her room about twenty minutes later. “Why were you so rude, Sweetie? They were only trying to be nice.”

“I don’t think I was rude,” Sweetie said, closing her book. She stuck her feet under the blanket at the foot of her bed. “In fact, I made sure to not be rude. But …” She took a breath. This time she wouldn’t let the words gum up. “But I’m not a charity case, and I don’t want to be treated like one.”

Amma sat beside her on the bed. “You should go out with Sheena. She’s a nice girl.”

Sweetie held her gaze steadily. “I already have my friends.”

Amma looked frozen, like she didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say. “But, Sweetie … those girls are kind of … wild. They’re tomboyish, no? Not Izzy, she’s sweet. But Kayla and Suki are … are feminists, Tina auntie told me.” She leaned forward when she whispered the word “feminists.” “Sheena’s a much better fit for you.”

Sweetie bit on the insides of her lips to keep from laughing. “Amma … I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m a feminist too.”

Amma stared at her, her eyes wide in horror. She didn’t notice when the red floral dupatta of her salwar kameez slipped off one shoulder. “Sweetie! Feminists don’t get married. Stop that nonsense.”

Sweetie did laugh then, openly. “Amma, what the heck are you talking about? Feminists can do whatever they want. They just want equal rights for women.”

“Ayyo, bhagavane,” Amma said, shaking her head. “Teenagers.”

Leaning forward, Sweetie put a hand on Amma’s. “Why do you think we see things so differently all the time?”

Amma frowned. “What?”

“We fall on opposite sides on almost everything, Amma.” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “We look different and we think differently and …” She shrugged. “It breaks my heart a little.”

Amma looked at her steadily. “It breaks my heart too. But what can we do? You’re the only daughter I have. And I’m the only mother you have. I suppose we must find a way to get along.” Patting Sweetie’s thigh, Amma got up to go.

“If I never lose weight but still end up happy in life, will you be happy for me?” Sweetie asked, ignoring the note of desperation in her voice.

Amma paused, one hand on the doorjamb. Over her shoulder she said, “If you don’t lose weight and still end up happy, I will thank God for working miracles.” Then she left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

A tear spilled over onto Sweetie’s cheek, and she brushed it away with a fist. There were few things that made her feel lonelier than conversations with her own mother.




Ashish and his parents sat in the gazebo, twilight twinkling around them. Pappa was “doing the barbecue,” as he called it, or as Ashish thought of it, burning veggies on sticks and pretending it was kebab. Chef drew the line at grilling, though, so they were on their own.

“So beautiful,” Ma said, taking in the scenery. The gazebo and entertaining patio were perched on the top of a small hillock on their property, so they had expansive views of their carefully sculpted five acres and the western hills in the distance. When Ma realized about two years ago that they only used the space for summer parties, she instituted monthly Friday-night grill-outs. Pappa was on board because he got to buy a giant spaceship of a grill, and Rishi had been on board because … well, because he was Rishi. But now that he was off putting out art history fires in college, Ashish was the only one who had to spend one Friday night every month eating charred bricks masquerading as veggie burgers and pretending to like them.

He glanced at Pappa, smugly turning over the veggie kebabs, which already smelled like scorched plant flesh. Actually, this—hanging out with them here—wasn’t that bad. He remembered trying to get out of these family nights every chance he had up until even a month ago, but right now Ashish couldn’t remember why. His parents … his parents weren’t so bad.