Chapter Three
“Dadi.” Mia pouts as she pulls the slider to let the Connect Four pieces crash onto the table. “I want to play another.”
“I’m Dada,” Ravi reminds her. “‘Dadi’ is for girls; your dadi would be my wife.” He and Suresh hadn’t grown up using Trinidadian Hindustani words for their relatives, even though some of his other Indo-Trinidadian friends did.
But Suresh had wanted to try with Mia to connect her to something from back home.
He’d pulled out a chart he found, which told him that Ravi would be Mia’s chacha, being her father’s younger brother.
Ravi WhatsApped one of his friends who’d actually used the terms growing up to ask, and he’d said they just used “Dada” for every uncle on the father’s side. So, Dada he became.
“Girls are fake,” she says.
Ravi sighs, exasperated. It’s their third iteration of this argument. “Girls aren’t fake, Mia. It’s just that being a girl isn’t about what they said you were when you were a baby.”
“You’re the one who told a four-year-old that gender is a social construct,” Suresh says from the kitchen. Of course he’s listening in even over the running water. When it’s Ravi’s turn to clean while Suresh handles wind-down, Ravi opts for noise-canceling headphones.
“And they don’t understand gender permanence until age six. I know, I know. I read”—he cuts himself off when Suresh steps into view from the kitchen so that Ravi can see his eyes narrow—“okay, skimmed the coursework—”
“Childhood psychological development book,” Suresh interrupts.
“That you gave me.”
“Dada,” Mia says.
“Alright, yes, another. But then we have to take a bath and get ready for bed.”
She claps her hands together once and starts the painstaking process of separating the red pieces from the blue and sliding them across the coffee table. He plays as red now. Her “blue is for boys” comment last week is what got him into this mess.
“I’ll go first,” she tells him, and stands to drop a blue token into the third column from the left. She’s tall enough now that she can reach up from a seated position if she tries, but it’s probably still easier this way. Definitely more adorable.
“You always go first,” he pretends to grumble.
“That’s because youngest goes first,” she says matter-of-factly.
Ravi hums, dropping his red token dead center.
It’s an art, playing Connect Four with someone barely out of the toddler stage.
He can’t beat Mia every time—that would end up being upsetting for everyone involved—but she’s far too smart to buy it if he lets her win most of their games.
Even going every other might raise suspicions.
The mental tallying is a lot more effort than the gameplay itself.
Mia drops her token atop Ravi’s, obviously hoping for a diagonal.
Ravi bites, occasionally wasting a token to “block” Mia so she can build her way there.
She gets this furrow in her brow exactly like Suresh’s as she concentrates.
Four going on forty. It’s nice to see him in her, since it’s always felt like so much of her is Margot.
“I did it!” Mia announces as she drops the last token atop Ravi’s stack of three.
Ravi feigns devastation, sliding his legs out from under him and letting his body loll onto the floor. “Not again!” he cries, hands on head.
“I win more than you now.” Her expression is nothing short of gloating.
“I don’t know about that,” Ravi hedges. They’ve each won five of the last ten games; he’s ensured it.
“I’m pretty sure! Tonight you won”—that Suresh crease cuts between Mia’s brows—“twice, and I won three times,” she says.
“I’m pretty sure you need a bath,” Ravi counters.
“One more, Dada?”
“No. Too sad about losing. Up you go.”
She groans, and Suresh turns off the faucet, poking his head out once again. “Should I be in charge of bath time instead?”
Mia bounds up the stairs, shrieking out a string of noes.
“Don’t try to get the bubble bath out yourself—Dada can reach it for you!” Suresh calls after her retreating form.
Upstairs, they spend some time negotiating over toys and Ravi lets Mia “direct” him in pouring the bubbles (actual help has resulted in half the bottle gone and roughly the same volume of tears).
Mia settles into the bath, and Ravi pulls the curtain halfway.
It gives Mia some privacy but also allows Ravi to make sure she doesn’t drown.
Ravi, in turn, settles onto the toilet, props up his chin on his palm, and pulls out his phone.
He’s the preferred bath supervisor because he doesn’t rush playtime until it’s dire, but that also means he’ll be here for a while.
Two messages in his inbox from Elle. He finished listening through the Fahrenheit 451 rough cut on his commute home from Kennedy High School last night—Ray Bradbury turned into one of those “PC culture is the REAL censorship” guys in his old age; how disappointing—and typed out his response at an hour entirely inappropriate for someone who’d given him deadlines in EST. At least he’d belatedly thought better of it and scheduled his newfound appreciation for the tagline, alongside a few options for cover art and a link to the draft website homepage, for a respectable 9:30 AM Eastern, 6:30 Pacific.
To: Kevin Kissoon
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
RIGHT????? Like, you’d think that if you could trust any of these guys (lol) it would be Bradbury.
I mean, as I read it, this seems like someone who might’ve spent their youth spray-painting “ACAB” or whatever the equivalent was in the late ’30s.
But no. The allure of crotchetiness and deeply ingrained racism and homophobia persevered.
Anyway, the website and all the covers look fabulous. I’m not even sure which is best, but I think my heart is telling me the second one. I’ll have to cede to Sanaa that she was entirely right about the rebrand, which will be somewhat painful but definitely worth it. Thank you.
To: Kevin Kissoon
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
To clarify, the “(lol)” was because of Guy Montag, the main character. I wasn’t sure if that came through over email.
Also, did you know that ACAB originated in the UK in the ’20s?
“All coppers are bastards.” Didn’t make it over to the US until later, though.
Also also, spray paint wasn’t invented until 1949!
My points about crotchetiness, etc. still stands.
Also also also, Sanaa is my best friend, not a random work contact.
What I said was meant with an immense amount of love and appreciation.
“Also also also.” Ravi chuckles into his hand.
The first was time-stamped 4:16 PM, but the second came in at 6:37, only a few minutes ago.
He looks up, finds that Mia is carefully observing and mouthing along to an imagined conversation between a rubber duckie and a bath-safe T. rex, and then types out his reply.
To: Elle Rex
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
I’m glad you like the website. I was also secretly hoping you’d choose #2. I’ll update the rest of the website by EOD Friday. It can go live as soon as you approve, assuming you also like the final of the cover art—there are still some tweaks I’d like to make.
I got the Guy Montag reference. I’ll confess, it made me crack a smile. Sanaa said you were close; don’t worry. And I’m glad they shortened it. “All coppers are bastards” would require a fiscally irresponsible amount of spray paint.
As he sends it, Mia lets out a yelp. Ravi jumps to his feet, his phone clattering to the floor.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
She open-mouth laughs, eyes sparkling. “Just checking.”
“Mia,” Ravi says.
She brings a finger to her lips. “I’m trying to hear Duckie!” Another bit of Suresh, just like his response when one of them interrupts his Sunday-afternoon podcast time for anything short of an emergency.
“Please only do that if something is really wrong,” Ravi says. “Otherwise, I’m calling in the bath fascist to supervise.”
“What’s a fascist?”
“Uhh.” Ravi pauses. “In this case, I only mean ‘a strict person.’ Maybe ask your dad.”
Mia grins. “You weren’t supposed to say that, huh?”
Ravi mimes zipping his lips, dropping the key into the toilet, and flushing it, which makes Mia laugh. “Don’t do that again, okay?”
She hums, and he returns to his perch on the toilet. There’s already not one but two responses from Elle.
To: Kevin Kissoon
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
Honestly, you can probably just finish as you see fit and have it go live. I trust you.
Also, I genuinely laughed out loud at “fiscally irresponsible amount of spray paint.”
To: Kevin Kissoon
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
Oh my God, I’m now realizing how late it is and that I didn’t make it clear there was no rush to respond! I did not mean to make you work after business hours. I am so sorry. Please do not ever feel the need to read or respond until the next workday.
To: Elle Rex
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
I don’t think you should trust me.
And no need to worry about sending emails after hours. I assumed it was because this is a hobby and you have a day job. If I don’t want to read or respond, I don’t. And same goes for you—I sometimes work in the evenings since my schedule’s flexible.
To: Kevin Kissoon
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
Why, are you an FBI informant? Embedded foreign spy? Mob ties???
(Point taken. I will review your next draft.)
To: Elle Rex
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda
Yeah, I realized how that sounded as soon as I hit send. Sorry to disappoint, but I have spent my evening intentionally losing Connect Four and then half listening to a rubber duckie and a T. rex argue because the parenting books say it’s too early for unsupervised bath time. Superspy, I am not.
To: Kevin Kissoon
RE: Editor—The Sophomore English Agenda