Love, Hate & Other Filters(17)

I slip out of my shoes, tiptoe quietly into the guest bathroom to strip off my wet clothes, and hang them over the shower rod. Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I examine myself in the mirror. I run an index finger over my lips and notice a few flower petals in my hair. After brushing out the long, wet strands, I wash off what little makeup is left on my face.

I savor the memory of the moment under the trees.

But when I relive it in my mind, the lips I’m kissing are Phil’s.

As she opens the door, the young teacher shields her eyes from the bright sun. It’s been an unusually warm spring, especially for Springfield, she thinks. She’s overdressed for a day spent with toddlers, maybe a bit too professional-looking in her pale yellow skirt and white cotton blouse, her thick, dark brown hair twisted into a low bun. But the day-care center, mostly for the children of employees, isn’t what she wants to do permanently. She plans on getting certified to teach kindergarten by the next school year.

She dresses for the future.

And the springtime.

Good morning, she singsongs to a little boy in tears. It’s his first day, and it has not started well. His mother is reluctant to leave him.

The young teacher has seen this a hundred times before.

She kneels down beside the boy and tenderly strokes the back of his head. It’s going to be okay, she says. She takes his small hand in hers, a chubby star against her broad palm. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together. Do you like fire trucks?





Sunday night. I’m uploading shots from the weekend onto my Instagram: the crabapple trees where I kissed Kareem (nearly stripped bare after the rain), a cat tucked behind a bush, Hina’s collection of silk patchwork pillows. I check Violet’s account and see she’s taken France by storm: religieuse pastries, macarons, rainy cobblestone streets, angled Eiffel Tower shots, and a selfie with a mystery guy kissing her cheek. For once, I feel unfettered happiness for her without a touch of envy. There will be stories. But this time, I might have one or two of my own to add.

A chat bubble pops up on my screen. Phil.

Phil: Hey. How was your weekend?

Me: Rainy, but I loved hanging with my aunt.

Phil: Tomorrow is going to be warm and sunny. Perfect for swimming.

Me: Is it wrong that I’m hoping for a freak snowstorm?

Phil: Bwahahaha. You’ll love it. We’re still a go, right?

Guilt washes away any excitement.

I gave my mom a G-rated report on my date with Kareem. I wonder what Hina told her. She has not stopped talking about Kareem and his proper Indian manners since I got home. To my relief—and at my insistence—he promised not to ask my parents’ permission for any future dates. Best to take my mother out of the equation. But that’s also the trouble: The Future. I committed to seeing Kareem again. And I do want to see him. But I also wonder if I’ll be picturing Phil while Kareem kisses me again. It’s pretty crappy, especially for Kareem. Maybe not so much for me.

Phil: Are you ghosting me?

Me: Sorry. I spaced for a second.

Phil: No worries. So yes or no?

Me: Where will these swimming miracles occur?

Phil: It’s a secret.

Me: A secret?? Nooooo. Tell me.

Phil: Trust me.

I pull my hands away from my keyboard. Take the leap of faith, Maya. Suck the marrow out of life.

Me: Fine.

Phil: I’ll pick you up at 11. Swimsuit optional.

Me: Haha.

I should be thrilled, but I imagine I’ll either sink like a stone or flail like a clown. In front of Phil. It’s impossible to be cute or aloof while thrashing around in abject fear of drowning. But I don’t need to be cute or aloof, do I? Phil still has a girlfriend. There is no doubt about this. I wanted there to be doubt; I admit it. But Violet and I literally ran into the depressing, irrefutable PG-rated evidence of Phil and Lisa’s still-kissing coupledom.

I can’t imagine how Lisa will feel about these secret swimming lessons. Phil would be an idiot to tell her, even if all our interactions are G-rated. Another wave of guilt crashes into me, but it doesn’t knock me over.

I walk over to my dresser and dig out the red bikini Violet compelled me to buy. She sees these swimming lessons as my opportunity to nudge Lisa out of the way and assume my rightful place on Phil’s arm. She also knows about Kareem, of course. She is thrilled at how romantically frazzled this situation makes me. She lives for this stuff.

Damm it. I need to wax. Fortunately, almost any household with an Indian woman is well stocked with depilation products.

Big surprise: My mom’s never once spoken to me about sex. She’s never even uttered the word, but she’s covered all the bases regarding ablution, hair removal, and the power of kajal—the black sooty eyeliner favored by generations of South Asian women. During our first kajal demonstration, I poked myself in the eye. Mom heaved the dramatic sigh of a mother from an Indian movie whose daughter desires to marry a simple peasant instead of the rich, suitable suitor. You cannot mess with her kajal.

It’s only 9 P.M., but I’m exhausted.

As I climb into bed, my mom knocks on the door. Naturally, she barges in before I can respond. “See, I knocked,” she says.

“But you didn’t wait for me to—”

“Why are you always making things difficult, Maya?” she interrupts. “I’m your mother. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”