The Exact Opposite of Okay(66)
I arrive at her house on my rickety old bike, and it takes me a good ten minutes to pluck up the courage to walk up the drive and ring the bell. [What a boring sentence. Where has my sense of humor gone in these blog posts? Maybe Ajita was my sense of humor, like that Samson dude who cut off his hair and lost his super strength. Maybe I’m just not funny without her. I certainly don’t feel it. Here, have an Izzy O’Neill original joke: Did you hear about the time Shakespeare used IEDs against his literary rivals? They were completely bomb-Barded. Ha. Ha ha. No, Ajita was definitely my comedic lifeblood.]
Her mom answers the door, dressed for celebration in a red sari. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me sternly. She is absolutely terrifying. She’s short, as short as Ajita, and incredibly round. Knowing how intelligent she is just adds to the stress. I’m intimidated both physically and mentally.
“Hi, Mrs Dutta,” I choke out, through the driest of throats.
“Izzy. What do you want?” The house is weirdly silent behind her. Usually there’s so much going on, with Ajita’s brother playing super-loud video games and their five cats running around and knocking things over and generally wreaking havoc on the Dutta household. But today it’s like a cemetery.
“Is Ajita home?”
“No. She’s not.”
I don’t buy this for a second. “Okay. Do you know where I might find her?”
Mrs Dutta sighs and takes off her glasses, rubbing her eyes wearily. She looks tired as hell. “I’m not sure my daughter wants to see you, Izzy. Not after the lies you’ve been spreading about her.”
Lies. So Ajita denied it to her parents, whether or not it’s true – which I still don’t know for sure. It makes sense. They’re hugely traditional, hugely conservative Hindus. I doubt her coming out at the age of seventeen would go down all that well. [Look, I even managed to resist a joke about people who do go down well. I am a reformed human. Sort of.]
“Please. I just want to explain. To apologize. Please, Mrs Dutta.”
“What is there to explain? Was it just an attempt to shift the attention off yourself for a minute? Is that it?” A heavy sigh. “Do you really think our community has been blind to your antics, Izzy? Do you really think . . .” She trails off. Her words are harsh but her tone is soft as she holds up her palms. “But it’s not my place to judge. You can do what you like. It’s your life to ruin. Just don’t involve my daughter, okay?”
My heart is shattering into a thousand pieces. “Please,” I whisper, more desperate by the second. “Let me talk to her. Five minutes is all I ask.”
A strange expression flits across her face. I think it’s pity, and I hate it.
“My heart goes out to you, Izzy. It does. You’re just a kid, and you’ve been through a lot. Losing your parents at such a young age . . . I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But it only excuses so much. And this? This is inexcusable.”
I’m about to get down on my hands and knees and beg when I hear babbling voices behind me. A millisecond of fear flashes on Mrs Dutta’s face before a giant fake smile emerges, I’m guessing for the benefit of whoever’s behind me on the driveway.
Turning to see who she’s smiling at, I see a group of Hindu women, around Ajita’s mom’s age, dressed in beautiful saris of turquoise and violet and peach. I wrack my brain for the date. Is it Navratri? Diwali? They’re both in the autumn, but I’m not sure which days the festivals fall on this year.
God, I’m such a shit friend. I should know this, but I’ve been so self-involved lately I’ve barely been able to look past my own reflection. No wonder Ajita hates me.
Hissing through her teeth, Mrs Dutta mutters, “Go. Now.”
I bite my lip to prevent a heaving sob from escaping, and I back away toward the women. They all stare right at me, silence falling on the small group. One of them, wearing a gorgeous sari of cerulean and seafoam, shakes her head and tsks.
Pushing past them with my head tucked to my chest, I can’t look them in the eye.
As I’m mounting my bike, limbs trembling as I clamber over the seat, I hear snatches of their conversation from the doorway.
“. . . sorry we didn’t come by sooner, but what with all the rumors . . .”
“. . . it’s been such a scandal in the community . . .”
“. . . we didn’t know if you’d want to see us, that’s all,” says the woman who tsked at me.
Mrs Dutta’s airy voice dismisses them. “All hearsay, I can assure you. Nothing but spiteful lies.”
The magnitude of what I’ve done hits me all over again. One careless text has shaken Ajita’s entire world – her family, her community, her life.
Whether it was true or not, this was not something she was ready for. This should’ve been on her terms. I stole that from her. And I will never forgive myself.
5.36 p.m.
I don’t go straight home. Instead I pedal slowly around town in a strange sort of haze, completely immune to what’s going on around me. I move on autopilot, only aware of my surroundings in some kind of subconscious way.
I must cycle carefully because I don’t get hit by a truck or anything [which I suppose would’ve been nice in a poetic way, being killed in the same manner as my parents, just as I’m a hundred percent sure I’ve disappointed them as much as I possibly can in the short time I’ve spent on this planet], but there’s no active thought process behind the cars I swerve to miss, or the pedestrians in the cycle lane I ding my bell at.