Chapter Sixteen
“Iktara”
by Amit Trivedi, Kavita Seth, and Amitabh Bhattacharya
Lucy
When I asked Meera to lead the second book club session, I did it because the desi young adult romance I picked out deserves to be shared with the club members with the support of an Indian voice.
And given our not-so-diverse small-town community, that meant either Sushant, who hasn’t read a book for fun in his life… or Meera.
Honestly, as I now claim my spot beside her in the circle at Café Kismat, holding a copy of the book, I half expect her to back out, hand me the reins, and resign herself to chiming in whenever I say something she agrees with.
But once everyone is seated, Meera starts talking right away about the author, the book, and the themes of belonging, acceptance, and culture that are so prevalent throughout the story.
“I thought our school is pretty welcoming for people of color,” Meera says, frowning, “but it was only after reading this book that I became aware of all the microaggressions I’ve faced from teachers and peers over the years. ”
Sushant, the only other Indian in the club, raises his hand, and Meera gestures for him to speak up.
“Full disclosure: I skimmed through the book,” he says, eliciting laughs from others, “and I’ve gotta say, I loved what I read.
And I still don’t believe in astrology or destiny.
” He shoots Mr. Rao an apologetic look, then slumps in his seat.
“But it made me think about how I’ve pushed away so much of my culture simply because it didn’t feel ‘cool’ to me. ”
I open my mouth to thank him for his perspective, but Meera gets there first. “Exactly!” She’s on the edge of her seat, fingers clasped together, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip. “Thanks for sharing, Sushant. What did everyone else think?”
Some people raise their hands, and Meera gives them a chance to discuss turn by turn.
Others make some valid points, and by the end of the hour, everyone manages to get a word in.
People get up, thanking Meera and me for sparking such an interesting conversation, and a couple Muslim students—sophomores, I think—come over to us to suggest a Muslim thriller for next time.
“Absolutely.” Meera smiles at the two girls. “We’ll announce the next book soon.”
“Thanks once again,” they say, before heading to the counter for more coffee.
Meera turns and nearly bumps into me. She shuffles behind, hands in her pockets, and mumbles a soft apology. Her face is still flushed from the excitement of the past hour. “Sorry. It was a good session, don’t you think?”
I nod. “You did a great job, Meera.”
She smirks, taking a tentative step forward, and folds her arms across her chest. Then she cocks an eyebrow. “Bet I surprised you.”
My face flushes. She did surprise me, but I’m not ready to admit that to her and bridge the distance I’ve so carefully built between us over the last year and a half.
An opportunity to get away from Meera presents itself when Mr. Rao calls out my name from his tarot corner. “Lucy, putta, get in here. Let me do a reading for you!”
But I grimace. Our usual weekly readings have halted since Mr. Rao pulled the Tower card for me. Natalie still gets her fortune told, but I’m wary. Who knows what other darkness lies before me? Living in denial seems safer than facing the inevitable truth.
“I’ll join you,” Meera says enthusiastically. She takes my hand in hers—a jolt shoots up my elbow—and starts leading me to Mr. Rao. Midway through, I spot movement across the street from behind the café’s glass windows, and I halt in my steps.
A man has just gotten out of his Range Rover and is walking toward the café. Toward me. It’s been years since I last saw him, but I would recognize that gray hoodie and the cowlick on his sparse head of hair any day.
Meera’s gaze follows, and she blinks twice. “Isn’t that your—”
“Run,” I say.
“Wait, what? Lucy—” Meera nearly screams as I yank her hand and drag her into the supply closet beside the kitchen. Seconds later, a man’s heavy footsteps thud inside the café.
I close the door behind us, lean against a large, hopefully clean broom, and take in gasps of stuffy air in the cramped space. “Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Even in the darkness, Meera’s brown eyes are visibly wide. “Lucy Hughson, did you just say the f-word your mother taught you never to say?”
If I weren’t having trouble breathing, I would have laughed. “Mom’s not here, and besides”—I inhale, trying to get oxygen into my lungs—“I think this situation warrants a string of expletives.”
There is hardly any room in the supply closet—empty buckets, mops, brooms, and rags litter the shelves—but Meera closes the gap between us anyway, concern etched in her sharp features. “Hey,” she says, ducking her head. “Are you okay?”
Ten seconds ago, the answer was I’m not sure.
But now that the sparse air around me smells like coconut and jasmine, not to mention Meera’s sweet breath, I think I might actually collapse.
All I want to do is stay here with her, feel the overwhelming familiarity her presence always brings, but I can’t do that.
I could never do that. Not just for Sushant’s sake, but for mine too. So instead, I shake my head.
Thankfully, Meera backs up to the wall behind her. She looks around, then lifts a hand to open the door. “We should get out of here,” she says. “I think you’re having a panic attack. Lucy? Lucy, say something.”
I’m down on my knees now, my breaths erratic, my palms over my eyes.
It’s like someone’s lodged something in my windpipe, making it impossible for any air to escape or enter.
My eyes sting with tears. He’s back in town after all these years.
To see me? Isn’t it clear I want nothing to do with him?
Does Mom know? Does he know I got wait-listed at NYU?
Did Mom tell him? Have they talked since the night of Seth’s party?
Something plasticky clatters to the floor, and I feel Meera pushing it away and crouching down beside me. “Lucy.” She doesn’t peel my hands from my face. She just puts both her hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Hey. Just try to breathe, okay? Can I count with you?”
Slowly, I nod.
“Inhale…two…three…four. Exhale…two…three…four.” Meera guides me through a series of deep breaths, her fingers drawing soft circles on my skin.
Her scent is all over me now in this tiny room, tantalizing and heady, but I breathe it all in.
I soak in her touch, my eyes shut, my chest rising and falling, and focus on her words and the numbers she’s counting.
A minute later, when my senses can register nothing but oxygen and coconut and Meera’s skin on mine, my eyes fly open, and I pull my hands away from my face.
Standing up, I exhale loudly. “We shouldn’t be in the closet together,” I say.
The irony hits me. There’s no “together” when it comes to Meera and me. Least of all in the closet.
“Yeah, you need fresh air.” Meera pries the door open, and we step out into the bright lighting of the café. Her scent dissipates, and I take in a huge gulp of caffeinated air.
The man in the gray hoodie catches my eye from the table he’s seated at.
He stiffens, perhaps trying to reconcile my face with the face of the daughter he deserted eight years ago.
Then he stands up and rushes to me, his arms outstretched.
When I don’t move, his hands drop, and he clears his throat. “Lucy. It’s—it’s good to see you.”
I wipe my shaky palms on my dress and hold my chin up. “Hi, Dad.”
Meera
I stand back as Lucy and her father greet each other awkwardly.
A barrage of questions hurtles through my mind.
She hasn’t seen him in, what, eight years—since her parents got divorced?
Why is he back now? Have they been in touch at all since she and I stopped being friends?
We grew close shortly after her dad left, when Appa and Dad quit their jobs to open Café Kismat, and she never talked about him much…
Wait, why do I even care? Lucy’s not my best friend anymore. I don’t need to be worried on her behalf.
So I push my unwarranted concern down and smile politely when Mr. Hughson turns to me. “And who is this? One of your friends, Lucy?”
“This is Meera,” Lucy says, grabbing my hand with a jerk.
“We were just about to head out for, um, Froyo. Weren’t we?
” She turns to me with an eyebrow raised, and I nod hastily.
Her hand is cold but so…soft, sending a flurry of memories through me of Bollywood dance parties and running through sprinklers in the hot summers of our friendship.
I blink them away. What magic lotion does she use?
Mr. Hughson hangs his head. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time, but I was really hoping we could talk. You weren’t picking up your phone, so I thought I’d show up in person.”
Her eyes narrow. “Does Mom know?”
Mr. Hughson nods. “I went by the house earlier, but she wouldn’t tell me where you’d be. I looked all over for you, and finally, some kid from your school said I could find you here.”
Lucy blinks back tears at that. I open my mouth, wondering if I should make up an excuse and get the hell out of here, but then Mr. Hughson speaks. “Hey, why don’t I take you both to the Froyo place?”
The last thing I want to do is spend time with my sworn enemy and her estranged dad, but knowing Lucy’s complete inability to fight back in the face of confrontation, I reluctantly accept that I’m going to have to play along without any choice in the matter.