Love, Hate and Other Filters(22)
His training has prepared him. He’s ready.
Every day for the last week, he scouted the route, noting when the mail arrived, by what hour the parking lot filled, when the guards went on break and took lunch. From across the street, he watched the cars drive by the manned security gate—a simple red-and-white metal arm, operated by one guard in a wooden kiosk.
Easy.
Today, four blocks from the building, he eyes a slow-moving police car in his rearview mirror. He pulls up to the curb and lets the cop pass, holding his breath, waiting to see if the car circles the block.
It doesn’t.
It’s Wednesday and freakishly warm, and it’s my third swimming lesson. I walk out of my room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and bump into my mother. Literally.
“As-salaam-alaikum, ummi.” I sound too chipper.
“You are in a fine mood, beta,” my mom replies. Of course, a wave of suspicion passes over her face. “What are you up to?”
“Can’t I just be in a good mood?”
“That’s more like it,” my mom says, a rare twinkle in her eye. It strikes me as weird that she’s not pushing me on this, but then I realize she must think my “fine mood” is because of Kareem. I wonder if she talked to Kareem’s mom and if they are planning something. Crap. And I can’t ask her. Now I’m obsessing. And guilty. She has this uncanny gift of delivering guilt tied up in a bow, and without fail, I accept it.
My dad honks from the driveway. My mom kisses me on the cheek. “Your dad is always rushing me.”
“Khudafis, Mom.”
“Khudafis, beta. And don’t forget—”
“I know, I know. I’ll eat something.”
The front door closes as I step into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Definitely tanner. One more day of sun and Mom will notice. I’ll have to lie again to explain how I could possibly get this tan at the bookstore or at the mall. I don’t have a choice. The lies make life easier for everyone. It’s not even that I’m interested in someone other than Kareem. That’s tiny compared to the big, fat NYU lie of omission.
The response deadline is May first, only days away. I’m still fantasizing that a deus ex machina will descend from the heavens to resolve the situation. Greek tragedies with their revenge, suffering, and extreme sorrow are roughly equivalent to dealing with my mother, so an intervention from Zeus or Athena seems a fair ask.
Of course, I hate when that happens in movies. Because it is one hundred percent the opposite of real life. Like if Lord of the Rings were a documentary, Frodo and Sam would’ve totally died in the fires of Mount Doom, but instead giant eagles fly into the end of all things after a fade to black to rescue them. So why didn’t Gandalf give the ring to the giant eagles in the first place? This has always bugged me. Whatever, though. Violet and I just watched the trilogy for twelve hours of Aragorn. No regrets.
I step into the shower, hoping to wash away my anxiety. It doesn’t work. If I don’t make NYU happen, I might doom myself to the stay-close-to-home-become-a-lawyer-and-marry-a-suitable-boy life that my parents dream of.
I grab a towel as I step out of the shower. “I have to tell them,” I say out loud, hoping to convince myself. Hoping to work up the courage.
I take a peek at my phone. Three missed texts. All from Kareem.
Kareem: Morning, sunshine.
Kareem: Sleeping in?
Kareem: I have a surprise for you.
My spirits sink a little lower. He’s trying too hard. Death knell. Of course, it’s not like I’ve been discouraging him. I mean, I text-flirt and wink my virtual lashes at him. I desire his interest. Basically, I’m leading him on. Now I feel like garbage.
At least the texts, while not exactly a deus ex machina, reveal a stark truth: Kareem isn’t the one. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong, except not be Phil. I know I have to break it off, but it’s never been totally on, I guess.
We did kiss, though. And it was a good kiss. Better than good. It was romantic. He is romantic. And it’s still not enough. I have to tell Kareem the truth about Phil, or I’ll be halfway to engaged by next summer. My mom already has visions of a big Indian wedding dancing in her head; I could see it in her eyes when she said goodbye.
I fall back on my bed, pulling my knees into the towel knot. A montage of the kiss plays in my brain. The flower petals. The rain. The closeness of Kareem’s skin to mine. I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, then another. I trace my collarbone with my index finger. He might not be the one, but so far at least, he’s been the only.
When I turn to the clock, it’s 10:50. Phil will be here in ten minutes.
Whirling around the room, I throw on my clothes, pull my hair tight into a low ponytail, and snag my bag and camera. Hearing Phil’s car in the driveway, I look in the mirror and frown, then slather on lip gloss. It’ll have to do, because the doorbell is ringing.
My camera rolls as Phil and I walk toward the garden. He pushes open the hip-high, rusty iron gate. I zoom in on the metal curlicues and then pan up from the gravel path to Phil’s face. He gazes directly into the camera, reveals the dimple, and begins his smooth narration. “We’re in the Fabyan Forest Preserve.”
He talks and walks, and he’s not self-conscious at all.
The camera loves him. He’s an easy subject to follow. He points out the sun-bleached wooden moon bridge, slats missing, that arches across the dried-up pool. When he points, I train my camera on the knotty dead trunks of Japanese maples and the cherry and ginkgo trees—gnarled limbs reaching toward blue sky. The buds on a weeping spruce cascade over a small embankment—a little hint of life beneath the desiccated vines and leaves. He knows all their names.