Chapter Three The One Direction Brunch
The restaurant my stepmother chose for Sunday brunch is playing an easy-listening cover of a One Direction song with an out-of-place country twang.
It doesn’t match the “Elevated Asian Fusion” the restaurant claims to aspire to, but I’ve come to expect that Noureen’s restaurant picks are always more about style than substance.
At least this place does have decent vegetarian choices, unlike last month’s Tex-Mex brunch.
Noureen… isn’t my favorite person. I didn’t meet her until about a year after my parents’ divorce, even though I know Dad was seeing her long before then.
Maybe he didn’t want to introduce me to Noureen because he knew she wouldn’t like me.
Or maybe he’d filed me in the “old life” category in his mind, and Noureen and Sarina were “current life,” and he didn’t see a need to combine them until necessary.
It hurt—especially since Dad and I had a pretty close relationship before Noureen.
Noureen is different from my mother. She doesn’t work; her life goals seem to be to have a husband and children.
That’s it. Like, I’m not sure if she has—or had—any career aspirations of her own.
She does adore my father—or at least she adores being married to a successful man with his own company—and I think my father likes the way Noureen fawns over him because my mother’s not the type to put anyone on a pedestal, not even her husband.
I don’t know if Noureen actively dislikes me, but she does seem frustrated that her attempts to fix me haven’t worked yet.
Noureen is a fixer. You can’t mention anything to her, even things that aren’t problems at all, without her giving her opinion on how to fix them.
And I apparently have a lot that needs fixing.
Today she has already suggested I fix my wardrobe ( I assume that dress is used again?
You would have a much better chance of finding clothes that fit if you bought them new.
), fix my hair ( You must try this new flat iron I bought Sarina!
It would even smooth out your hair! ), and my grades.
Well, she didn’t specifically try to fix my grades because I know she sees me as a lost cause there.
But she did say that I should look into transferring from the art school I’m going to in September to a proper university (her phrasing) after a few semesters.
And she found a way to squeeze in the fact that Sarina got to choose between scholarships when she was deciding on her university options.
In my opinion, Noureen doesn’t have the right to try to influence me or my life. She’s done enough damage already.
“Sana, you should come home with us after brunch,” my dad says after Noureen finally seems to accept that I’m not switching schools. “We can at least go over your course selections for next year.”
“Can’t,” I say. “I have to help Mom at the flower shop.” I sip my watery green tea. Thank goodness Mom gave me that excuse.
“I thought you stopped working at the flower shop when you started at the thrift store?” Dad asks.
“It’s a vintage store, not a thrift store.” Not that there’s anything wrong with thrift stores, but Jenn spends a lot of time and energy curating and merchandising her stock, which thrift stores don’t do. “And I help Mom out when she needs me.”
“You can’t have enough time for studying if you’re working in two places,” Noureen says.
“She’s my mother,” I snap. “I am always there for my family.” I don’t normally talk back, but ugh…
These brunches bring out the worst in me.
And anyway, I’m planning to study while I’m at the flower shop, but of course I can’t mention that because I don’t want Dad and Noureen to know that the flower shop will probably have no customers.
If they knew Mom’s business was struggling, they’d use it against her.
I also don’t intend to tell them about the Love Street rebranding project because I know they would do nothing but poke holes in my idea.
Now that I think about it, Dad and Noureen would totally get along great with that Pink Chai Guy.
Everyone is silent for a moment. “Well, maybe another time,” Dad finally says.
I don’t say anything. Brunch every two weeks is enough daddy-daughter time—I don’t think we need more.
Dad and I used to be close… before the divorce.
As a florist, Mom always worked weekends, and Dad used to take me out while Mom worked.
He would keep track of all the festivals in Toronto: Taste of the Danforth, Taste of Lawrence, the Jazz Festival, the Festival of South Asia, even Comicon.
Almost every weekend we’d be in a different part of the city, eating twirly tornado potatoes and cinnamon churros and riding cheap carnival rides.
I’m pretty sure the tradition started because he had no idea what to do with a girl who didn’t like sports, but we did have a lot of fun.
I still kind of miss eating expensive food, people-watching, and getting to know all the different pockets of the city with my dad.
But then he married Noureen, who’d been divorced for years.
And with Noureen came Sarina—a girl only a year older than me.
Whenever I went to Dad and Noureen’s, it was assumed I would hang out with Sarina, so no one planned anything special for me.
No more fairs or festivals. Dad was probably relieved that he didn’t have to find things to entertain me anymore.
Dad also became more judgmental after marrying Noureen. Probably because her kid is exactly the high-achieving, perfect and quiet child that Indian parents want, and it made Dad feel insecure about his own academically mediocre offspring.
“I like Cosmic Vintage,” Sarina says suddenly.
I look at her. I wasn’t aware that my stepsister had ever been in the store before.
I don’t actually dislike Sarina, but we have pretty much nothing in common, and I admit, it’s super annoying that Sarina is perfect in all the ways I’m not.
“A really nice girl helped me there once,” Sarina continues. “Short black hair… She was so great.”
“That’s Cara,” I say. “She’s one of my closest friends.”
Sarina nods. “I’ve seen her around. I think she goes to my school. Fast fashion is so harmful to the environment. We should all be buying more secondhand.”
I raise an eyebrow at my stepsister. I’ve never heard Sarina say something that conflicted with her mother’s stance on anything, so this is pleasantly out of character.
Then again, I really don’t know her that well.
When we were kids, Sarina used to complain to her mother if I touched one of her toys, and she would make comments about me not being as smart as her, but it’s been a long time since she said anything like that to my face.
But even when we grew up and stopped the petty fights, we never managed to get close, despite all those weekends I awkwardly sat with her while she did her homework, practiced her cello, or did another Noureen-approved extracurricular.
“What are your plans for the summer, Sana?” Noureen asks, not acknowledging her daughter’s comments.
“You could work at your father’s real estate office.
Sarina works there part-time, you know. But there should be enough for you to do too.
It would look much better on your résumé than the used store. ”
I shake my head. “I’m fine at Cosmic.”
Noureen gives my father a glance like it’s his turn to say something.
He clears his throat. “Sana, this is a good opportunity for you to make some changes in your life,” he says.
“You’ll be finished high school soon; you can’t keep living this hippie-dippie artist life like your mother.
It’s time you looked and acted like an adult. ”
Hippie-dippie?
My jaw clenches as I glance down at my outfit.
I’m wearing vintage, of course. A yellow blouse with pearl buttons and a rust-colored skirt, along with boots and a pale beige cardigan.
My outfit is perfectly brunch-with-Dad appropriate.
No hearts or rainbows to be seen, except for the heart locket, which still has that fortune in it.
No tie-dye, either, so I don’t know what about me looks childish or hippie-like.
“I have a job, Dad. And I was accepted to the best art school in the country.”
“Why an art school, though?” Noureen asks, apparently not satisfied with how our discussion on this topic a few minutes ago ended. “It doesn’t seem practical. Also, why not apply to schools outside the city? It could be a great learning experience to live on campus!”
Cost, mostly, but I don’t say that. Also, OCAD, the Ontario College of Art and Design, is super hard to get into.
They should be proud of me. “Dad’s the one who pushed me to apply for digital arts!
” I say. I wanted to major in drawing and painting, but Dad lectured me for so long about studying something with viable career options.
I kind of saw his point, so the digital arts major was my compromise.
But apparently Noureen still isn’t happy.
To her, I may as well be studying basket weaving.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not Sarina—I’m not going to study business. ”
I look at my stepsister, but Sarina says nothing. I can’t read her expression.
Dad sighs. He takes a deep breath before talking again.
Seems I’m going to get another Dad lecture today.
“Sana, I wanted to speak to you at home about this, but you never come home anymore.” He glances at Sarina for a moment, then back at me.
Clearly Sarina knows what this is about.
Which is weird. It’s so odd to think my own father has a closer relationship with his stepdaughter than with me.
“We would love to help you more with your education, so in September, when you start university, we would all be happy if you would come live with us instead of living with your mother.”
What…? He wants me to live with him? In Noureen’s house? “In Vaughan?”
“Yes. We’re not far from the subway. Sarina takes it to school every day. We could cover all your living expenses easily this way. Even give you a bit of an allowance.”
I’m speechless. Why would I want to move in with the man who replaced his family with this better model? Why would I ever agree to live under Noureen’s judgment and passive-aggressiveness? My jaw clenches.
“There’s plenty of space in the house,” Noureen says. “This is a good opportunity for change.”
I can’t stop myself from cringing. “I can’t leave Mom.”
“Your mother is an adult,” Noureen says. “She doesn’t need you babysitting her.”
I squeeze my lips together. Of course, my mother is an adult… She freaking owns her own business and the building it’s in. Alone. And she’s loyal, supportive, and honest. Noureen can only dream of being like my mother.
“Why don’t you think about it,” Dad says.
I’m not going to. Ever. Mostly because I don’t want to live with Dad and Noureen, but also because I can’t imagine leaving Love Street.
Cosmic Vintage. The flower shop. Jenn, Cara, Julie, and the whole Love Street crew.
But telling Dad and Noureen off now for suggesting I move in with them isn’t going to help.
They would be even more disappointed in me, which would only make these brunches harder.
“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I say, before downing the rest of my green tea.
On the subway back into the city, I do think about Dad and Noureen’s proposal.
There’s no way I would live with them, but the fact is, Love Street is struggling.
Mom’s worried about sales and interest rates and is even thinking of selling the building.
If she sells, where would I go? Maybe Mom would want to live closer to her parents up north, but that would be way too far of a commute for me.
And I can’t afford to live in my college’s residence next year, not without taking out massive student loans, which I really don’t want to do.
I’m a positive person, and I pride myself on finding the best in any situation, but an hour and a half with Noureen at brunch every two weeks is bad enough; there’s no way I could live with Noureen and Sarina full-time without tearing all my hair out.
And I like my hair. It’s like Noureen is a vampire, sucking all the optimism out of me whenever I’m in the room with her.
I have to make this Love Street rebranding project work.
If we can get more people to come to the street and Mom’s sales go up, then she won’t have any trouble paying her mortgage and she won’t sell the building.
And I could stay right where I am, living on Love Street, and working at Cosmic Vintage when I start university in the fall. Exactly where I’m supposed to be.