18. Queenie
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘ROZ ROZ’ BY THE YELLOW DIARY
“So, let me get this straight,” my younger sister, Jyotsana, ‘Jo’ begins in a dangerously low tone, on Friday. She holds a miter saw in her large, gloved hands while she talks to me on video chat. “On top of taking a six-month break in your senior year and ruining the image of the perfect elder daughter, you don’t call, or text or freaking email me… for two weeks.”
She brings the saw closer. “And when you finally do it’s to inform me, you’re living with three guys, one of whom is your boyfriend. Who you got caught in a porn video with. Filmed by Moronica Pissington. Did I get everything?”
“When you list all the events together it makes me look like I’m –” I protest immediately.
“Crazy?” Jo rolls her finger over her temple. “Insane? Out of that brilliant mind Amma-Appa so generously gave you? What in the fuck are you thinking, Queenie?”
I clench the shirt I hold tight. It’s a flannel thing which hangs loosely on my curves, not accentuating them but not hiding them either. “I’m not crazy, Jo. I’m…” Desperate. Spiraling. Lost . “Making the best of a bad situation.” I give her a mournful look. “The dorm kicked me out officially.”
“Why?” Jo asks blankly. “You’re still on the student roster. You’re doing a special intensive course, right?” She saws the wooden block in front of her. “Advanced Bone-breaking or whatever.”
“It’s Advanced Bone Identifying Studies with an anthropological aspect,” I correct her.
Jo snorts. “Whatever that means.”
“We study bones from ancient civilizations and examine them for past bone diseases and how modern medicine has evolved since then.”
“Snooze,” she mutters. “Anyway, since you’re doing the course, they have no reason to kick you out. Especially since you’re going back in the fall, after your break’s over.”
I flamed out of the course six weeks ago, after I sat in on two classes. Because everyone, including the professor, just kept staring at me, like I had a giant neon ‘L for Liar’ tattooed on my forehead.
It was horrible and I cried in the ladies’ room for twenty minutes before walking out. Vowing to never return.
I don’t tell her any of it. She’ll call Amma-Appa on me in a heartbeat.
I hold the shirt up and check myself in the bathroom mirror. “Does this make me look fat?”
“Not if you tie it at the waist. It’ll highlight your waist and draw attention from the ladies like you always want.” Jo points at my ample chest. “Which, I don’t understand.”
I growl. “We’re not discussing my anatomy, Jo.”
My sister’s a free-spirited artist. Genius and brilliant. But she has no brain-mouth filter. Her fashion sense is on-point, though. She’s in stylish coveralls that work on her lithe frame. My sister takes after my dad in the height department. I am more like my Amma, a chubby dumpling. With curves and curls to match.
“We should be discussing that fine man you somehow managed to snag.” My sister snickers. “You can’t see it through the protective glasses but I’m winking at you.”
I shake my head. Tie the shirt at my waist in a giant knot. And damn if it doesn’t instantly make my curves pop. How weird is that.
“I googled him, by the way. Noah Dumaine. He knows how to play cricket. Too bad he’s Australian.” Jo cuts the wood along with her words. “How does your crush, Virat, feel about this development?”
I shake my head, amused. “Virat doesn’t know I exist. And he’s not my crush. He’s just…the best.” I sigh and think about the GOAT Indian batter. His panache, his style, his aggression, and his skills. “He just makes cricket memorable for me, you know. Personal.”
“Does the Aussie make it personal?”
“I—” I lick my lips. “When I watch him play, I don’t remember who he is, Jo,” I say finally. “He’s just incredible to watch. Besides, he plays for the Barrons Bay Challengers,” I add firmly. “This town. So, your point is pointless.”
“Ooh! You’re literally sleeping with the enemy,” Jo teases me.
I throw tissues at her. “I’m sleeping under the enemy’s roof. There’s a big difference there. Huge,” I stress. Although my body warms at the remembered body-to-body contact with Noah last night. His long arms were sure and confident around me, drawing circles around my back and melting my spine, vertebra by vertebra.
He’d been sexy and ghost-like and dammit… hot. Even if he is the devil, irritating me for kicks.
“Semantics.” Jo waves sawdust all around the screen. “So, you’re choosing an outfit for what?”
“The victory party for the game the Challengers won,” I say proudly. “Noah invited me —” More like commanded me, but that is semantics. “And I want to wear something appropriate and not…”
“All black?” Jo asks dryly.
“Yeah. Not all black.”
“So, does this mean I can report back to our parents your goth babe phase is over, and we are back to regularly scheduled programming?” She sounds so hopeful. She even removes her glasses and eyes me square over the screen. Her eyes are like mine, golden brown and almond-shaped, but her face is lean with no cheek fat. So, everything just looks sexier on her.
I don’t envy my sister, I’ve loved her since she was born…but genetics are a bitch, sometimes.
My heart breaks from the heft of her words. At the pleading look on her face.
Jo touches the screen. “Amma cried to me the other day. She thinks you’re purposely throwing your future away because they were too hard on you growing up.”
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s not like that. It’s not about Amma or Appa or anybody else.”
But it is. Because, as an Indian, even if I moved to America before I turned one, I am my parents’ symbol. Of hope. And pride. And success.
The full weight of my parents’ love, pressure, and expectations settles on my shoulders, an iron ball I’m forced to carry. Because I can’t tell them the truth – I’m broken now and the things I wanted before no longer mean anything to me.
I’m lost.
And this new Queenie…she’s distracted by a golden boy Aussie cricketer who looks damn fine in batter pads and basketball shorts. And what she wants is nothing like her parents want for her.
“I know that,” my little sister says fiercely. “If it was up to me, I’d take out a full-page ad and tell everyone the fucking truth about what happened on Halloween. But you swore me to secrecy and?—”
“Jyotsna, no !” I gasp, shocked. “You cannot. You absolutely cannot do that.”
“I won’t but you should,” she grumbles.
“I wouldn’t have done any of this if you were in town and keeping me from making terrible choices,” I tease her to distract her.
“I’d have pushed you into Noah Dumaine’s arms if he makes you want to wear color,” Jo says softly.
“I’m not doing this for him,” I say indignantly. “It’s just time for a change. Black is so last season.”
The truth is, I don’t want to be Queenie Winehouse and stand out at another party. I did it last time and it ended with me making out with a stranger who turned into my fake boyfriend and off-limits roommate.
No. Thank you.
“If you say so, sis,” Jo murmurs. She shoves her glasses back on. “And wear those flared shorts I got you before I left for my internship. They’ll go perfectly with this shirt.”
I give her a mock salute. “Aye, aye captain.” Then I sigh and blow her a kiss. “I miss you, kuttils .” It’s her childhood pet name, meaning little girl. “Ditch your art and come back home.”
Jo snorts. “Our parents rented our home to that nice boho couple from Vermont. We don’t have a childhood home anymore, Queenie.”
“For an artist, you’re way too practical.”
“For a scientist, you’re way too not,” she shoots back. “Sorry.” She shrugs. “Doctor. I meant doctor. Future doctor.”
I blink as ‘scientist’ pings in my chest. Sparking a little light. “Practical is my middle name. Shut up.”
Jo laughs. “Sure, I will!”
We talk for a few more minutes, then I end the call. But Jo’s words circle in my head as I shower and get ready for yet another summer party. This time to celebrate my fake boyfriend’s team victory.
And I don’t dread it as much as I should.