Chapter 1 #2
She dances along for the kids who need guidance and by the time the final song, “Chaiyya Chaiyya,” is blasting out, the kids are singing at the top of their lungs, mispronouncing almost every word.
She pulled the moves directly from the movie, and, like her, the parents’ love for this iconic song runs deep—some of them even dance in their seats.
It’s all out of tune and out of step; Simran doesn’t sing, but her heart does.
As she does the signature hook step, she’s struck by a visceral memory—she and her cousin Kavitha doing this exact move years and years ago.
They’d practiced for weeks to put on a performance for the whole family, neighbors gathering too, right in the living room of Simran’s home in Chennai, the bifold doors of the verandah flung open so the music could be turned all the way up.
The memory is shiny and Technicolor, like the Simran in it.
There was no place she’d ever felt safer in than that house, no people she’d ever been more herself with than her parents and cousin, no doubt that her life would be happy and full and lived out with all of them.
Emphatic applause bursts her out of her thoughts as the performance reaches its grand finish, and the adults rush forward, sweeping their children into hugs. She walks over to Liv, who has watched the whole concert from the back wall and now gives her an exaggerated slow clap.
“Thanks for coming,” she says.
“These kids!” Liv says, purple streaks in her bobbed hair wiggling. “They’re so adorable. They’ve made me realize how much I want to be a cool aunt one day.”
Simran places a hand on her shoulder. “You were born to be a cool aunt.”
“Thank you.” Liv puts her hand over Simran’s, pretending to tear up. “You’re very sweet, and if I ever said sorry, I might say it for what’s about to happen.”
Simran’s face drops. “What’s about to happen?”
But she suddenly becomes aware that the crowd behind her is no longer noisy—extremely suspicious for a group of children. Liv twirls her finger and Simran turns to see the rest of the room looking at her expectantly.
“What’s going on?” she asks as giggles ripple through the kids.
One of the moms steps forward. “We heard that it’s your birthday today! So we all wanted to sing for you.”
Simran looks over her shoulder to narrow her eyes at Liv.
Her friend smirks back and holds up her index finger; this is her one birthday greeting.
Not that she actually listens; at least Leo pretends to try.
Liv moves up next to her, waving her arms like an orchestra conductor, and then sixty or so voices are singing “Happy Birthday” to her.
Simran’s forced smile relaxes into something more genuine.
She adores these kids, the ones who are trying to sing so loud they’re basically just shouting, adores finding out that Anju and Yami Suresh and their father all have identical, high-pitched voices, and even adores Liv, her pushy best friend who loves her too much to let this day pass without acknowledging it somehow.
It doesn’t change the fact that she hates her birthday, hates that it used to be so special to her, hates what it’s become.
By the time the last few families have filed out, Simran has gotten so many birthday wishes, she won’t need one for the next ten years.
She’s still got text and email inboxes full of messages that she’ll put off replying to until tomorrow.
Liv hangs around, helping her clean up the space after everyone has left.
Simran’s phone buzzes and she pulls it out of her pocket.
Kavitha Iyer [12:23 p.m.]: Happy birthday, Simran.
When they were growing up, Kavitha and Simran were forced by their parents to sleep in separate bedrooms because otherwise they’d never go to bed, yapping the night away.
And now, Kavitha and Simran text exactly twice a year—one wishes happy birthday, the other politely replies thank-you.
The last time they talked more than that was five years ago.
She stands stock-still. This year feels different, though. “Everything okay?” Liv asks.
Simran squeezes her hand around her phone as she says, “Yeah, no. Everything’s fine.”
“Let’s go home, then?” Somehow, even after all the years away and the places she’s lived since, the word “home” still conjures up the house in Chennai where she lived with her parents, though she hasn’t seen it in sixteen years.
It takes a couple of seconds for her to shift back to the here and now.
As they walk back to the apartment they share on the west side of Toronto, Liv prattles on about leaving for her Europe trip tomorrow, pulling Simran’s mind away from the message burning a hole in her pocket.
She has to come clean to her friend before she goes on her trip.
“I kissed your brother last night,” Simran blurts out as they walk down Queen Street. “And earlier, before the recital. And I’ll kiss him again. A lot, probably.”
Liv’s jaw drops and Simran takes a second to relish the rare reversal of shocking her.
“I guess all I have to say is …” Liv trails off and Simran’s pulse hammers in her throat.
Her best friend looks at her beadily, letting her squirm for a few long seconds before throwing her hands in the air.
“Thank fu—Frank!” Her glance swings to two toddlers walking a few feet in front of them with their parents.
“I was going to pickle my eyeballs and stick them in a martini if I had to spend one more second watching you two act all swirly and gooey around each other.”
Simran scoffs, even as she thinks of Leo’s full bottom lip. “We did not act swirly and gooey.”
Liv smirks. “You’re swirly and gooey right now!
It’s okay. He’s worse than you are. Thinking he was so smooth, all these years, always asking about you, as if we didn’t know that he’s had a crush on you since he was fifteen.
And then, when he moved back here, the way he’d make excuses to hang out with you!
” She affects a frat-boy baritone that sounds nothing like the gentle rumble of Leo’s voice.
“Should I get a ticket to the movie for Simran too? Heard Simran doesn’t know how to ice skate—does she want me to teach her?
Hey, I’m coming over—oh, what, Simran’s also home?
That’s cool, I guess. What a punk. I kept telling him you were out of his league.
Way to make me wrong for the first time in history.
To make up for it, I’d like lilac for the bridesmaid color scheme and a summer wedding and—oooh, would I get to wear a sari? ”
“Let’s move on or I will start sharing details,” Simran says, smiling when Liv looks the tiniest bit scared.
“I’m happy for the two of you, but I’m not sure I like this new power dynamic,” she says, crossing her arms. When they reach their apartment, Simran stops short.
On the dining table is a big red-and-gold envelope.
Liv follows her eyeline. “I saw this in the trash bin in your bedroom when I was taking out the garbage downstairs,” she says.
“I wasn’t sure if you meant to throw it away. ”
“Oh.” Simran looks at the New Jersey return address in the corner, where her aunt, uncle, and Kavitha live, and runs her fingers over her name, embossed in black on the front.
She had tossed the envelope in the garbage in a fit of emotion when she woke up this morning.
She’s not going to that wedding. But she does find it oddly comforting that the invite didn’t actually get thrown out. She picks it up. “I, um … thanks.”
Later, in her room, Simran sits on the edge of her bed, holding her phone with both hands.
Her glance flicks to the invitation, now reinstated in its place on the dresser, propped up against her mirror, like it has been for the three months since she received it.
It’s so bright. So red. She looks down at Kavitha’s birthday message again.
Simran Gopal [6:59 p.m.]: Thanks, Kavi.
And then:
Simran Gopal [6:59 p.m.]: I miss you.
The moment her thumb hits send, Simran flings her phone onto the other side of her bed. She stands and paces in small circuits, from her dresser to the reading chair in the corner. She feels exposed. She shouldn’t have sent it.
She forces herself to take a deep breath. Outside her window, the late evening sun is finally setting, turning everything golden, and she can hear mockingbirds calling from the nearby park, and—who cares? She picks her phone up again.
No reply.
As night stains the sky with indigo, her birthday almost over, Simran expects to feel better, but instead her mood sinks lower and lower.