His Karma – By Khushi T. Saha #2
They all turned to look again as surreptitiously as possible. And he was pissed. But he looked like an angered Greek God with sharp features and high cheekbones, similar to his Greek heiress mom. His hair blew in the breeze, and … were those curls? The boy was perfection.
Then his gaze slid to Kareena again, and she ducked back around. She ran her fingers rhythmically through the thick strands of her hair until her pulse slowed down to an even beat. Then she braided it, catching the end with her ponytail holder.
“I’m going to go talk to him,” Rekha said. She squared her shoulders, straightening her top over her small frame.
Before Kareena’s eyes rolled, the familiar pops of soda cans cracked in the air.
The boys were at it again, attempting to sabotage the girls.
It was a ritual at every function and a dumb game Kareena didn’t want to be a part of.
Automatically, she darted back, grabbing Sheila before the soda spray got them.
Sticky foam exploded all over Rekha and Sarah (the main targets anyway), eliciting screams and laughs. They chased the culprits across the lawn and down the path leading to the beach; the new boy forgotten.
“Could they be any hornier?” Shelia asked, glaring after their friends, getting a guffaw out of Kareena. “Like, whatever happened to ‘save yourself for marriage,’ or whatever?”
Kareena snorted again. “Rude, Sheels. But, totally valid. Do we need to stage an intervention before Rekha does something she regrets?”
“Have you met Rekha? Biotch thinks she makes the rules and never has regrets.”
Kareena giggled but agreed as they headed to the buffet where Zayn and his mother had been, but were now gone.
Kareena grabbed a paper plate. The food was a familiar assortment of tandoori chicken, naan , rice, samosas , a mixed vegetable curry, and a paneer dish for the vegetarians.
Her mind was on the new kid while she filled her plate.
What was that look he’d given her? Had she imagined it?
Even now, goosebumps raced up her arms, though it was balmy out.
She reached for the naan when, from behind her, her mother’s voice made her jump. “ Beta , remember, don’t load up on carbs. You don’t want to get moti (fat). And don’t forget your hat and to put on sunscreen.”
When had her mother become so stealthy?
Kareena dropped the tongs and side-eyed Sheila in a you-could-have-warned-me glare. But her friend was too busy piling her own plate high with all the carbs.
Oh, to be skinny like her friend. She’d had these envious thoughts more than once about Sheila and knew it wasn’t a great look.
“I know, Amma (Mom),” she said, grabbing rice and mixed vegetables instead, keeping her portions small. She’d pick off Sheila’s plate when her mom wasn’t looking.
Kareena’s figure was the new buzzy topic in their household and with her friends. No one was exempt from it, not even her little sister, Reyana, an unlucky bystander.
It wasn’t that Kareena was overweight, but she’d never been super thin. To her mother’s chagrin, she took after her father’s side of the family, where the women had more “meat on their bones.”
Before the “summer of hot Kareena,” as her sister dubbed it, she always thought she was shapeless, resembling the giant sacks of uncooked rice her mom got from the Indian market.
But, her boobs had come in and she’d reached her final height of 5 foot 5 inches.
Now she had a distinct waistline and curves to get used to.
It sent her mom into a tizzy. She’d praise her one minute on how pretty she’d become, giving Kareena a distorted wave of cringe and pride.
But in the next breath, she’d scold her on how hard it’d be to take her Indian clothes and school uniforms out now that she wore a D-cup-size bra.
Meal times were the worst. Under her mother’s watchful eyes, Kareena worried she ate too much. But then she worried she ate too little if her father caught her placating her mom’s concerns. It drove her crazy.
“They’re both in my bag,” Kareena sing-songed through clenched teeth, about the hat and sunscreen.
“Ok. You’re my loki meh (good girl). You always listen,” her mother said soothingly, gliding her hand down the top of Kareena’s head; a gesture meant to calm both of them. It didn’t. “Go have fun.” She shooed them away and smiled.
Kareena wondered if you could love and hate your mother simultaneously.
If so, were you still a good daughter? She loved being the center of her parents’ attention, but lately, she needed them ( Amma especially) to leave her alone.
She’d always done as she was told, but sometimes, she wanted to be more like Reya, getting Bs on her report card or going to drama club instead of student council.
“Jeez. Your mom … yeesh,” Sheila remarked, taking a bite of bread as they walked the path leading to the beach. “Girl, you know you look good. Don’t let her get to you.”
She bumped her friend's shoulder with her own, but sighed heavily. “Don’t get me started, Sheels. I can’t with her right now. As if wearing a hat and sunscreen will fix my darker skin.”
Her mom was obsessed with the South Asian “fair is beautiful” ideal. Kareena thought it was gross, antiquated, and just made her feel bad.
She snagged a piece of naan from Sheila’s plate, munching on it while they carefully made their way down the rocky path.
As they arrived at the bottom, sinewy bare skin, namely the new tall hot guy by the volleyball net, made her stop short. She averted her gaze, trying not to stare.
“Now that’s yummy,” Sheila murmured, stating the obvious, as Zayn practiced volleyball serves. She led them to a patch of sand a few meters away, kicking her sandals off and folding herself gracefully into a cross-legged sitting position.
“Uh, sketch much?” Kareena asked skeptically.
“Sketchy is in the eye of the beholder. They’re out there prancing. So we might as well take advantage of the show.” She made bug eyes and bounced her head around like the adults did when they wanted to make a point.
“Whatever,” she conceded, putting her plate on top of Sheila’s and pulling her towel from her bag.
After positioning it the way she liked, she sat down carefully. She made sure her legs weren’t too exposed under her white baby-doll bathing suit cover-up.
Shielding her gaze from the sun, she murmured agreeably, “You couldn’t pay me to not binge on eye candy like this.”
Zayn knew he was being watched, but he didn’t mind. The eyes on him were ones he’d already noticed, particularly the girl in white. He decided to flex his muscles (literally) and play along, spiking, diving, and digging whenever he got the chance, giving her something to watch.
He’d seen her earlier when he and his parents first arrived. She stood out in a simple white dress, which contrasted with the bright colors of her friends. Her hair was a sheet of shiny black that swung down her back while the others had short or dyed hair and funky trinkets throughout.
Admittedly, and a little embarrassingly, he’d acted childish due to his mother’s comments, stomping through the guests, and she must have witnessed it—everyone had.
EARLIER
“Zayn, this behavior is childish,” his mother said under her breath, hot on his heels as he stormed to the buffet table. They’d lost his father upon arrival when he recognized familiar faces and left to catch up. “I know you're upset, but this is neither the time nor the place.”
“And how, Mama, should I act after you decided my future for me? I’m eighteen now.”
The breeze picked up the end of Sofia Stavros-Roy’s long navy silk scarf tied around her usually wild red curls. She grasped at it, like a cat with its tail, and chuckled. He scowled.
“I’m sorry, Moro Mou (“my baby” in Greek).” She leaned up to kiss him on his clenched cheek. “I didn’t mean to upset you further. But considering your failure to graduate secondary school in Kolkata, Papa and I have to be firm.”
He grunted. He’d just found out that instead of bumming around the Stavros estate on Naxos Island for the next year, he’d be going to some private school in Connecticut, redoing his last year of high school.
“You know I’m not great with school. Are you surprised I didn’t graduate?”
She shook her head. “I let you have too much freedom. I wanted you to enjoy your childhood. My parents pushed me, and I rebelled because I hated it.” She dropped the scarf and put a hand on his arm. “But in doing so, I didn’t pay attention to your struggles.”
She referred to his inability to concentrate in school. It wasn’t that he was distracted by outside forces (though he’d seek out distractions when he got frustrated), but more so the disruptions in his head that prevented him from focusing on one topic.
He crossed his arms over his chest and looked around, silently seething. His eyes met large, curious ones before she turned back around to her friends. But he’d registered a direct gaze under thick, shapely black brows.
“I’m your son, though. Aren’t I a shoo-in for the family business? Why does a piece of paper with academic achievements even matter?”
He’d always figured the family business would be there for him. That’s what happened when you grew up in a Greek shipping dynasty that had been around since Napoleon’s tyranny.
Heck, they could send him to the docks to manage the loading and unloading of container ships for all he cared. He didn’t need the cushy office jobs all his cousins vied for. He preferred being outdoors anyway.
His mother scoffed. “Zayn, first of all, finishing high school matters. And second, that kind of nepotism isn’t how we do things in the Stavros family, nor how your papa and I raised you.”