Love, Hate and Other Filters(12)

He blinks at me, as if this doesn’t compute. “You don’t like the beach?”

“I get antsy just lying around, and I can’t really swim and—”

“You can’t swim? Seriously?”

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? I’m always having to explain my life. I hate explaining, but out it comes. “When my mom was young and on holiday in Bombay, she saw this girl get swept out to sea by a huge wave. So when my dad tried to teach me, my mom was constantly hovering with a life preserver in hand. I couldn’t deal with her anxiety, so I gave up … We don’t take beach vacations, anyway …”

Phil sits back in his chair, disbelief written all over his face. I cross my arms in front of my chest, my standard defensive position.

“I’m going to teach you.”

“No. No. I can’t. You can’t—”

“I can. Literally.” He’s not letting me off the hook. “You know, I lifeguard at the Y in summer, and swimming is a necessary life skill. I can teach you. I want to.”

I nod along, but regret every word that has slipped out of my mouth. I don’t even own a swimsuit, something Violet teases me about relentlessly.

“It’ll be fun. I promise. I won’t let a rogue wave take you.” Phil smiles, giving rise to the irresistible dimple. Maybe I don’t want him to let me off the hook.

“Stop smiling. Fine. I’ll do it, but I’m not going to be happy about it.”

“Great. The weather’s actually supposed to be hot next week. We should take advantage of global warming while we can.”

“Don’t you have something better to do with your time than watching me potentially drown?” I’m hoping for one very specific answer, but then the image of him kissing Lisa in the art alcove pops to mind.

“I usually go to Michigan with Lisa’s family, but not this time.” Phil stares out the big plate-glass window. Then he turns back to me and says, “I guess I get to be the tutor now.”

The late-morning sun makes him squint. He hates driving east on the freeway at this hour. He leans forward in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel with sweaty palms. There’s hardly any traffic. Or maybe he just doesn’t notice it. His heart beats loudly in his ears. Voices fill his head.

The repetitive, barely audible prayers of his mother.

The rasp of his father’s demands to do something with his life.

The bark of the nasty woman, telling him he wasn’t needed for a second interview, thank you very much.

The calm whisper of the instructor: relax your shoulders, drop your elbows.

The talking heads in the basement. Sweat-beaded faces, lips moving all at once.

And a lone voice of encouragement: the middle school teacher who gave him a gold star. He remembers the teacher’s name. But he won’t allow himself to say it out loud or allow it to linger in his memory. He forces the teacher from his mind.

No time for sentimentality.

He eyes himself in the rearview mirror.

There is no turning back.





Hina meets me at the train station, a squat green glass behemoth that looks too big for a city block. My pocket camcorder raised to my eye, I film the Saturday afternoon crowd entering and leaving. I love how inconspicuous this camera is; it fits in the palm of my hand. As we exit, I turn my lens to the pink banners fluttering from the lampposts—ads for a fundraising walk for breast cancer in a few weeks. I make sure to capture them on film.

Hina designed them. They’re all over the city. I’m in awe of her again, as always.

I pan down the line of taxis, right up until Hina and I enter one. She squeezes my shoulder as I adjust my belt. “So glad you’re going on a date and doing teenagery things. Try to get into at least a little bit of trouble, okay? And where is the young, dashing Kareem taking you?”

“A fondue place not far from your apartment.”

“Geja’s Café? He must want to wow you.”

“Don’t worry. He’s not going to pop the question or anything,” I reply coolly, though my pulse quickens.

“Well, my wry little niece, he’s definitely trying to make an impression. And he asked your parents for permission to see you, right? A very suitable boy, indeed.”

The driver pulls over in front of Hina’s place. I love my aunt’s condo—a two-flat walk-up in Chicago’s Old Town neighborhood. To me, it is freedom.

“Go ahead and get settled in your room. I’ll get lunch together.” Hina steps into the kitchen while I head down the hall.

The comfy bed is piled high with Indian patchwork pillows in rich hues of chocolate, burgundy, and emerald embellished with tiny mirrors and gold tassels. The raw silk duvet cover is a deep bronze color. A wooden partition carved with intricate floral designs serves as the headboard. It belonged to my grandparents and smells like the sandalwood incense my nani used to burn day and night.

I unpack my dark skinny jeans, the slightly wrinkled black silk camisole I borrowed from Violet. I hang them in the closet. Then I fold my cherry-colored cashmere sweater and place it on a chair. After that, I kick off my beat-up, round-toed black flats and flop onto the bed, turning to stare at the ceiling. Kareem is picking me up at seven. That leaves five hours for nervous anticipation. I need to get all the blushing out of my system now.