Chapter Three
“Look What You Made Me Do”
by Taylor Swift
Meera
I’m expecting Appa to bring up the Plan he spotted on my whiteboard sooner or later, given his nosiness. What I don’t expect is for him to ask me about it at the breakfast table the next morning with Dad right there.
“So, putta, do you want to tell your old men about this plan you’ve devised?”
I narrow my eyes at his betrayal and focus on feeding masala dosa to our Boston terrier, Raj, who we adopted four years ago. He laps up the food before scurrying over to his water bowl.
Dad is quiet but staring at me, waiting, which makes it clear they’ve already discussed this behind closed doors and have jointly decided to confront me about it. “Well?” He quirks a brow beneath his glasses.
Sighing, I relent. “I’m just trying to have a proper high school experience. This is my last chance to make some real memories.”
Dad studies me for a moment, then pops a piece of spicy yellow potato wrapped in the crispy dosa into his mouth.
Over the twenty-plus years my parents have been together, Dad’s spice tolerance has vastly improved, which is great because I love cooking spicy dishes.
“And plotting to take someone down is the way to do that?” he says quietly once he swallows.
When I don’t respond, they exchange helpless glances. “Look, putta.” Appa scratches the side of his receding hairline. “I understand you’re upset that the boy you like doesn’t feel the same way about you, but breaking two people up is not the right thing to—”
“She knows I love him, Appa.” I slam my fist on the table, ignoring the pain that shoots up my arm.
“She was my best friend. Sushant was all I talked about for, what, three years? And then she goes to camp the summer before junior year, barely texts me, and the next thing I know, she’s dating him, and we’re not even friends anymore.
She’s a bitch, but nobody’s willing to do anything about it but me. ”
Dad coughs, his eyes steely. “Language.”
Appa puts a hand on Dad’s wrist to pacify him, then turns to me. “If Sushant is meant for you, nothing can keep you apart. The Universe—”
I interject before he can get started with that useless speech about divine timing again. “I can’t sit around and wait for the Universe any longer.” I take my spoon out from my bowl of sambar and tap it on the plate to emphasize my point. “Sometimes you have to make. Stuff. Happen.”
My parents look at each other, presumably having one of their usual telepathic conversations: eyebrow movements, twitching lips, and short exhales. Then, finally, Dad nods. “You’re almost an adult. You get to make your own choices.”
“But don’t lose yourself in trying to win your love,” Appa finishes. “Then you’ll be left with nothing, and even your Angels won’t be able to help you.”
I stand, wipe my mouth with the back of my palm, and sling my backpack over one shoulder. “I already have nothing,” I declare furiously, “which means there’s nothing to lose.”
Dad audibly sighs as I leave my plate on the dining table and storm outside to catch my bus. Sushant is already waiting by the sidewalk for the bus and me, bouncing back and forth on his toes.
“Morning,” he says cheerfully, showcasing those deep-set dimples I’d love to stick my pinky finger into. “Breakfast?”
“Masala dosa, sambar, coconut chutney,” I list, going along with our daily pre–bus ride tradition. “You?”
“Aloo parathas with homemade butter and mango pickle, plus a tall glass of lassi.” He licks his full lips—my stomach flutters at the sight—and rubs his muscled abdomen. “Dadima went all out today.”
Sushant’s parents are usually busy with their electronics store and taking care of his seven-year-old brother, Dheeraj, so his grandmother is the one who takes over kitchen duty.
I love her food—no Punjabi restaurant can match her authentic home-cooked meals—but unfortunately, I barely ever get invited to Sushant’s because Dadima doesn’t like my family.
It might have to do with the fact that she’s seventy years old, narrow-minded, and silently judges my parents’ totally queer marriage.
And she probably doesn’t want to encourage a friendship or a potential relationship between Sushant and me.
The bus arrives, and we take our usual seats in the middle. Sushant gets out his French notes and starts going through them since midterms are coming up, so I put my Spotify mix on shuffle and stare out the window at the passing houses and people watering their plants or mowing their lawns.
We drive past Lucy’s house. The light-blue-and-gray paint is in desperate need of a fresh coat, and the grass on her front lawn is slightly overgrown.
Her mother, who goes by her family name, Ms. Miller, must be swamped with her coaching clients.
Lucy’s car isn’t in the garage, which means she’s on her way to school too.
I grind my teeth and think about Appa’s words, which are the opposite of wise: “Don’t lose yourself in trying to win your love.
” Ha! I’m a nobody. I have nothing at stake here, so I have to try.
I look up at the sky through the window, bright blue and not a cloud in sight, and say a silent prayer to my Angels, who I have a love-hate relationship with: If you’re done drinking your mai tais and chilling in heaven, I’d appreciate a little help here—maybe some sort of divine intervention.
Give me a sign that you have my back. Please, you lazy fucks.
Then I bite my lip. Sorry for calling you lazy. Thanks in advance for your help! I turn back to the front of my seat and smile at Sushant, still busy with his notes. Something tells me the Universe is on my side. I just need to keep my eyes peeled for the signs.
Lucy
Today has already been insufferable, and it’s barely eight in the morning. I tap my heel against the marble-tiled floor of the waiting room outside the vice principal’s office, trying to yawn discreetly.
I was up late last night, working on the routine for today’s cheerleading practice, studying for midterms, and going through the two job listings in town that seem like a good fit for me. And now, after a meager four hours of sleep, I’m supposed to show some new kid around for the entire day.
Vice Principal Montgomery didn’t tell me much about him, except that he’s an exchange student from Paris and it’s his first time in America.
I have no idea what he looks like or whether he speaks any English.
All I know is this: He clearly doesn’t care about my schedule, since he’s ten minutes late.
I’m about to give up and head to class when the door opens and Meera walks in.
Her worn-out sneakers screech to a halt as she spots me, her gaze hardening.
Behind her is an athletic boy who I’m guessing is the exchange student.
He’s around medium height, with dark brown skin and curly black hair styled with gel.
He’s wearing a mandarin-collared shirt and well-fitting jeans, and, damn, it’s true what they say about the French being attractive as hell.
This boy is beautiful. “So, this is the vice principal’s office?
” he asks Meera, who’s still looking at me.
I force myself to stifle another yawn and walk over to them.
I nod politely at Meera, who only folds her arms and stares me down, and then I turn to the exchange student.
“Julien, right?” I attempt to say his name the way our French teacher would: Zhoo-lien.
Hopefully I didn’t butcher the pronunciation too much.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes lighting up as he leans forward and kisses me on each cheek. I jerk back a moment too late and grin embarrassedly, my face coloring. His cologne smells divine.
Julien mumbles out an apology. “Sorry, it’s a force of habit,” he says in a French accent. “You must be Lucy.”
“So, you’re the one showing him around, then?” Meera’s got one eyebrow quirked, a soft smile playing on her lips. “For the entire day?”
I nod again, and she beams at me, which is jarring because she hasn’t done that since before the first day of junior year, when I told her, in front of the whole school, that I’d outgrown our friendship.
My insides churn at the memory, my throat catching as I recall the way tears streamed down her face.
And Meera never cries. I shove my anxiety down.
“You’re in good hands, Julien,” she says, the grin now spreading fully across her face. “I’ll leave you both to it.”
She turns around and walks out, closing the door softly behind her.
Julien heads to the administrative assistant’s desk to get his class schedule while I rack my brain, wondering why Meera’s being nice. I’m still staring at the door when Julien taps me on the shoulder. I jump. “Shall we?” he asks.
“Sure.” I bite the inside of my cheek, dazed, and lead the way to English class.
As we walk, Julien hands me his schedule and chatters on about this town and how welcoming our people are, the bright, sunshiny warm weather, the places he wants to see, the American family he’s staying with—God, the guy just won’t shut up.
I mumble out “hmm”s and “uh-huh”s as I look at his class schedule. They’ve put him in almost all the same classes as me, which means I’m going to have to be his “friend” for a lot longer than just today.
Great.
Natalie sits upright at her desk when she sees us walk into class. No, it’s not just her, because the noise of twenty restless teenagers dies down at the sight of Julien Perrin. Heads turn. Whispers echo. Someone even wolf-whistles.
“Who’s this?” Natalie asks, eyeing Julien curiously.
Julien starts to move toward her, presumably to greet her in the French way, then bites his lip and simply holds out his hand. Hmm. Character growth. “Julien Perrin, from Paris.”
“This is my best friend, Natalie,” I say, because she looks too transfixed by his accent to speak or return his handshake.
“Enchanté.” Julien smiles, and I swear to God, his teeth sparkle like diamonds.
I settle into my seat and take out my books while Natalie asks him about Paris and if it really is like how it’s depicted on that superpopular Netflix show.
“That show is bullshit.” Julien’s all riled up now, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes narrowed. “You should never trust foreign cities shown from the American gaze.”
“Absolutely. You’re so right,” Natalie mumbles. She plays with a lock of her hair. “Do you have a girlfriend back home?”
Well, that escalated quickly. I try not to snort with laughter.
Julien tells Natalie about his recent breakup with his girlfriend—I catch her holding back a smile—and proceeds to chat her ear off throughout class, something she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. The English teacher has to shush him twice.
If only Natalie and I had more classes together. But, no, I have to bear the brunt of Julien Perrin’s loquacious ass for two more hours, until we can break for lunch and he’ll get to bother someone else in the cafeteria.
Until then, God help me.