Chapter Twenty-Eight
As we screech down Massachusetts Avenue, wind whipping our faces, I shout in Khoi’s ear, “Do you really think we can get there before the Chadhas?”
“It’s difficult to find parking around Harvard Square. And maybe they won’t be able to locate the exact building? It’s not that easy if you’re unfamiliar with the campus.” Sounds like he’s huffing hopium, but I say nothing.
He’s unbelievable with the motorcycle. Unbelievably atrocious.
He makes sharp turns and sudden swerves that send my heart into overdrive.
Weaves past other cars, which should be a violation of traffic law.
It’s like he hasn’t improved at all since he was ten years old.
And we’re not even wearing helmets, so that’s just brain damage waiting to happen.
A horrible thought occurs to me. “Khoi, do you have a license for this?”
“Nope,” he chirps cheerfully.
I cling to him tight and squeeze my eyes shut. On the bright side, if I’m going to die, at least I’ll die doing what I love: holding on to a cute boy.
Ten terrifying minutes and several near-death experiences later, we’re in front of the brick building where Aisha rehearses. As we dash up the stairs, I glance over my shoulder to see an older South Asian man and woman across the grass, marching in our direction.
“Khoi, hurry. The Chadhas are right there.”
He follows my gaze. “We better make this count, then.” His mouth is a grim slash.
We run.
The dance studio is on the second floor. When we burst in, the dancers are on a water break. There are clusters of girls standing around. Aisha is chatting with someone with pink hair. Trinity.
My roommate’s face is flushed and happy until she sees us. “Khoi? Char? What—?”
“Your parents,” I pant. By the way, running? Still the worst thing ever invented, thanks for asking. “They—they’re here.”
“Here where?”
“Here here. They caught Char and me,” Khoi says. “They found out about the dance program. They’re going to be here any minute.”
Horror floods Aisha’s expression.
Trinity immediately understands. “Probably best if I make myself scarce, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
Trinity pecks her on the cheek and melts away into a separate conversation.
Aisha’s face slams shut. “Okay. I don’t want them coming in here.” She steels her shoulders and slips out into the hallway. We follow.
At the other end of the corridor, her parents are walking toward us. Their anger is this black, poisonous fog. They see Aisha, and Aisha sees them. It feels like I’m about to witness an execution.
“You guys should go,” Aisha mumbles out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”
Khoi folds his arms. “We can’t ditch you.”
“It’ll be worse if you stick around.” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Take the back stairwell.”
“But…”
I touch his arm. “Khoi, we should leave.” If Aisha wants us gone, then we should respect that.
We turn away. When we’re picking our way down the stairs, Mr. Chadha starts shouting in Punjabi. As his voice echoes, we exchange worried looks.
“Should we stick around to make sure she’s okay?” Khoi asks.
“I don’t know if she wants us to hear this,” I say. Whenever Michael was being terrible, I never wanted an audience. There is something uniquely humiliating about being powerless against an adult authority figure.
“We can’t do nothing.”
I grit my teeth, irked. Khoi freakin’ Astor. In his world, everything can be fixed. Everything is possible, like it’s Narnia or something. Why can’t he understand that there are certain heartbreaks that can’t be mended with a hug?
No, I’m not being fair. It isn’t like he’s lived such a cutesy, wholesome life either. I know that. It’s just easy to forget sometimes.
We’re both silent as we exit the building. It’s a muggy, overcast day, like the clouds are on the verge of bursting. Like the sky is about to cry.
“Suggestion,” I say. “Let’s walk the motorcycle instead of riding it.”
We trudge back to the dorms and return the keys to Haru.
Khoi seems sad, and he excuses himself to crash before dinner.
So I try to work on Hello World, but my thoughts keep floating back to Aisha.
Her parents had major control freak energy.
No wonder she was trying to hide her dance stuff from them.
What’s it like to have parents who are total opps?
I hate how conflict-allergic my mother is, but I can’t imagine her getting pressed with me for doing something I love.
I can’t imagine her trying to make me into someone I’m not.
Even when I ran away for Alpha Fellows, she never gave me shit.
She just wanted to know I was okay. I never realized that other parents might’ve been absolutely unhinged about it.
Aisha limps into the dorm room around dinnertime, followed by her father. My roommate’s eyes are red and puffy, ringed with smudged makeup.
“Where’s your luggage?” Mr. Chadha asks.
“Under my bed.”
Aisha drags out her suitcase and silently starts packing—stacking books, pulling clothes out of the dresser, tossing loose papers into the wastebasket. Watching her sweep her life into a suitcase makes me feel awful. It’s like she’s deleting her entire presence from this room.
“Do you need help?” I offer, because I don’t know what else to do. “I’m pretty good at rolling socks.”
“We’re fine, thanks,” Mr. Chadha says curtly.
Once Aisha’s things are packed, Mr. Chadha moves to leave, but she says, “I still have stuff in the bathroom.”
“Go get it, then.”
She leaves, and then it’s me and her father standing in awkward silence.
I shouldn’t say anything. This situation is above my pay grade.
But Khoi would speak up. Khoi would want to try. And even though his naive optimism can be so extra, it also makes me feel like I should do more.
It’s now or never. I can’t sit this one out. I can’t just let her leave like this.
“Have you ever seen Aisha dance?” I blurt.
He turns to me. “What?”
“She’s incredible onstage. It’s like the music reshapes itself around her.” He doesn’t respond, so I keep yammering. “She works so hard for something she truly loves. It’s super inspiring. Please don’t make her leave.”
Mr. Chadha considers me. “Are your parents immigrants too?”
“Yes…” Where’s he going with this? I don’t want to get into my family lore.
“Perhaps you’ll understand. It isn’t that I don’t want Aisha to dance. But our family doesn’t have the resources to support her in such an unstable career. And when is the last time you saw an Indian American dancer?”
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“It doesn’t happen for people like her.” His eyes size me up. “People like you too, maybe. This country wasn’t built for us. There are many games we cannot even participate in. The best we can hope for is to win at the ones they will let us play.”
I want to argue back, but he’s sort of spitting facts.
Even in tech, there are plenty of Asian women who are software engineers, but how many of them get to be actual CEOs or company presidents?
Diversity only happens when the gatekeepers—overwhelmingly white and male—decide to care.
It’s almost impossible to climb to the top rung of America without a ladder built by a white person.
Aisha returns holding a shower caddy.
“Ready?” her father asks. Without waiting for a response, he steps outside into the hallway.
She wraps me in a bear hug. “Thanks for being the best roomie, Char.”
And then she’s gone, leaving nothing but a lingering whiff of vanilla-and-cinnamon perfume.