Love, Hate and Other Filters(28)
So why am I still here? I pull my arm away and slam the car door. I hurry down the block while my held-back torrent of tears splashes down my face. I’m glad Phil can’t see me. I race home, hoping no one notices the bawling brown girl with a tangled mess of wet hair. I rush inside and run to my room. Thankfully, I’m alone.
I throw myself onto the bed and cry into my pillow. Huge, heaving sobs.
The camera in my brain lets me run all the scenes of my life in slow motion. I freeze-frame every time Phil touched me. The perfect afternoon when he held my hand. The impossible instant when his face hovered inches above mine. He could have kissed me, but didn’t. He couldn’t even bring himself to say any words, express a single emotion.
And there’s Lisa.
How I envy her. I’m angry with Lisa even though none of this is her fault. She’s out of town with her family, blissfully unaware of all the time Phil and I have spent together. Completely ignorant of the split second when time froze, when I was sure we were going to kiss. I try to squeeze Lisa’s face out of my mind, but it’s impossible. On Monday, Lisa and Phil will be holding hands, walking down senior hall, the inevitable king and queen of prom. And I’ll be spending prom night watching old movies with my aunt. I’m an idiot for believing my fantasy could be real. I should know better; I’m a documentarian. It’s not a John Hughes movie. It’s my so-called life.
Officer Evans drives his squad car up Sixth Street and takes a left turn on Adams.
His partner called in sick, so he’s out solo today. His patrol started at 5 A.M. The morning was quiet. He got an early lunch, stayed a bit longer than usual at the counter of Kelly’s Diner. A cheeseburger, medium well with the works, a side of fries, and a cup of black coffee. Same thing every time.
It was a ritual (one of the few) he was going to miss in retirement.
Six more months. Kelly jokes she might have to make his usual the Creature-of-Habit special and send it to him long distance. Because in six months and one day, he and Anne will head to a Florida fifty-five-plus retirement community for their “active adult years.” Their two-bedroom condo is all picked out, halfway between Orlando and Tampa, perfect for a visit from the grandkids. But the best part will be the end of Illinois winters.
When he was a younger man, the freezing temperatures and piles of snow hadn’t bothered him so much, but last winter was too brutal. He decided it was the last winter they would spend in Springfield. Cruising down Adams, he reminds himself to circle around the old state capitol.
He wants to check on a white truck that was parked at Fifth Street in a thirty-minute zone.
Can’t wait to see you, babe.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at Kareem’s text. I want to crawl back under the covers; I’m about to break it off with a sweet, romantic guy I’ve kissed because I’m stitching my heart back together over a taken guy who has no desire to kiss me. Maybe this will become the pattern of my life: every story ends before it has a chance to begin. Not exactly riveting material for a documentary.
My mom yells up from the kitchen, crashing my self-pity party. “Maya, Kareem and his parents will be here in half an hour. Get up.”
“Down in a minute.” At least the day won’t be a total loss because I can smell the parathas that my mother is making for Indian brunch. The layered, flaky flatbread is my absolute favorite. I love plucking them from the tawa, the cast-iron pan my mom reserves for this specialty, with a little pat of butter. Total food heaven. Making them also takes effort, so I know she’s trying to impress Kareem’s family, even though I overheard her assuring Salma Auntie that she was only preparing a “simple home meal.”
I smell onions caramelizing, too.
“Mom, are you making kheema parathas?” I call down, hungry. My mouth waters for parathas stuffed with spicy ground beef. This is one of the great ironies of my life. I love Indian food, but not the days-old lingering smell of onions and garlic on my clothes. But when you love something, you have to be prepared to make sacrifices.
“If you get up, you can see for yourself,” my mom calls.
With a groan, I pull myself off the bed. I shower and change, swipe on a little blush and mascara. I take care to dress appropriately. Modest, but with a little flair. Skinny jeans and an emerald-green silk Indian tunic that hangs, untucked, covering my ass, with simple yellow embroidery around the neckline. Small gold hoops in my ears and a thin chain with a delicate gold hamsa—the hand of Fatima—resting in the notch above my collarbone. This outfit so wins the Indian-mom seal of approval.
“You look so pretty, beta,” Mom proclaims as I walk into the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove making kheema parathas as I’d hoped. The table is covered with steaming bowls of food. “Look, Asif—she’s wearing makeup, too.”
“Oho. Smashing.” My dad nods in approval.
“You’re supposed to say I don’t need makeup.”
“Aaray, can’t I simply compliment my daughter without it becoming a federal case?” My mom turns to my dad and nods toward the cabinets—her silent way of asking him to set the dining table with the good china.
“I thought this was supposed to be no big deal,” I say.
“Who’s saying it’s a big deal?” my mother asks with a shrug.
“Umm, you’re wearing one of your favorite shalwar kameez and the necklace you wore to Ayesha’s wedding.”