Love, Hate and Other Filters(7)

Since then, he occasionally sidles up to me for a lunch-line chat while he chomps on a basket of cafeteria fries. The conversations aren’t deep or anything and only last five or six fries, but still, they leave me a little breathless and focusing a little too keenly on that dimple. I know better than to read into it. Phil is taken. Extremely. Or is he? Regardless, we inhabit separate planets.

I take AP classes and blast Florence + the Machine in my earbuds.

Phil is the quarterback and homecoming king. (Seriously. That’s what he is.)

And at Batavia High School, never the twain shall meet.

“I plead the Fifth,” I say finally. I look out the window. If I don’t change the subject, Violet’s enthusiasm will feed my tiny hopes, and I will implode from possibilities. And Phil is impossible. Beautiful and impossible. Through middle school he was this gawky and goofy kid with a cute smile. But every year since, he’s grown into himself. And grown on me. Especially since our health class project first semester.

“So who was this wedding guy you texted me about? Any actual details?”



By the time we reach school, I’ve shared all the flirty memories—about Kareem, not Phil—that I know will thrill Violet. Kareem’s whispers and innuendo, his hand on my back, the PG-13 suggestive texts we exchanged after the wedding.

She jerks to an abrupt halt in the parking lot and turns to face me. “He’s Indian, goes to Princeton, and took your number. And you’re not jumping out of your seat why?”

“And he’s Muslim,” I add for full effect.

“He sounds like your parents’ wet dream,” Violet says. Noting my disgust, she adds, “It’s a metaphor. All I’m saying is, he sounds perfect on paper. And he’s older, which is hot.”

I allow myself a smile. “Well, he’s definitely more available,” I admit. “And, suitable.”

“Suitable?” She laughs. “You sound like your mom.”

“I know. But all my iconoclastic eggs are in the NYU basket. I can’t fight my mom on every front.”

Violet shrugs and takes the keys out of the ignition. “One battle at a time. I get it.”

After filing in with the other kids, we drop our bags at our lockers and grab our books for first period.

I pause to look in my locker mirror and run a comb through my long hair. I don’t need to, since my hair is generally tangle free, but combing my hair has this calming effect on me. It’s a morning ritual.

My locker is decorated with a postcard of Edward from Twilight, circa 2008, courtesy of Phil, actually. Last semester, he heard me tell a friend in health class that I refused to see Twilight even though she considered it a classic. Phil jumped into the conversation to give me a hard time about it—he claimed that he liked it, after all—and the next morning, I found this postcard taped to my locker. On the back he wrote, Sparkly vampires rule. He didn’t sign his name, but when I looked around, he was at his locker watching, grinning.

It’s embarrassing to keep a public display of affection for … Edward, but I can never bring myself to get rid of it. So my answer to this unwarranted Team Edward affiliation was to identify with Team Kubrick. Specifically, the famous, terrifying scene from The Shining where Jack Nicholson’s demonic smile and bulging eyes appear through a splintered door. I positioned it so it looks like he is leering at Edward. Plausible deniability.

Below that is a Wilco concert poster. Of course, I’ve never been to a concert because I’m not allowed, but when I dream about going to a show, Jeff Tweedy is crooning his song, “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.”

“Hey, Maya.”

I spy Phil’s reflection in my mirror. Hair artfully disheveled, grin adorably rakish, dimple bared.

I try to embody Aishwarya, hoping her elegance and nonchalance will rub off. “Oh, hey, Phil.” It works. I utter three perfect syllables. Total grace under pressure.

“Listen, uh, I, want to ask you a favor,” Phil says while tapping a pencil against his left cheek. “I’m wondering if you might …”

I wonder if he’s looking for Lisa, worried she’ll see us talking.

“Lay on, Macduff,” I say. I’m a bit terse. And I’m quoting Macbeth. I’m in high school. I have to stop quoting Shakespeare. At this rate, what will I have to look forward to in college?

“Can you help me with my independent study paper for Ms. Jensen’s class? I have to read The Namesake, and I thought—”

“You thought I’d know everything about it because I’m Indian?” His request catches me by surprise. A good surprise. But also totally annoying.

“No. I mean, maybe? Sorry … I didn’t mean … I know you like to read,” Phil stammers. It’s actually a little endearing to catch him off guard.

“I do love that book. The movie, too. But it’s not only because I’m Indian, you know? Like, do you like every movie that’s about football?”

“Every single one,” he says, without missing a beat, back to form. “Including documentaries.”

I start to laugh. “Okay.”

Phil grins. The dimple appears. “As in, okay, you’ll help me?”

I nod, looking down. I don’t want to stare. On the other hand, he’s staring at me.

“Hiya, Phil.” Violet materializes at my elbow. Loudly.