His Karma – By Khushi T. Saha #3
He saw his grand plans for Greece slowly spiraling down the drain.
This summer, he wouldn’t explore the underwater caves off the estate’s black beaches, nor hang with the local guys, whom he’d always felt more comfortable with than the other Greek elite offspring.
And there’d be no getting any “action” with the local girls who swooned over his lineage.
In truth, he just wanted to be home, and that was Greece for him.
He wanted to soak it up without any tethers to disappointed parents.
Instead, he’d be at another private school, struggling with studies again, while thrown into a new group of kids.
He’d already bounced around UK boarding schools until attending secondary school in Kolkata, where he seemed to settle.
It did help that he was reunited with a childhood pal, and they’d become best friends again.
But now, he needed to start from scratch, living in a new country with his parents.
His father would be entrenched in closing negotiations for the Indian big pharma company he worked for, while his mom would work from the Stavros Shipping New York offices.
He had no choice in the matter, and there was nothing he could do but go along with it.
He couldn’t brush off their concerns about his future either.
They knew he had trouble with school and couldn’t concentrate on one thing for too long.
But not graduating high school was a turning point.
They believed a prestigious academic institution like this new school could help him.
But, nothing could help him. School wasn’t his thing.
The sooner they figured that out, the better.
“Please try to have fun,” his mother continued, as if she hadn’t crushed his dreams under her heel. “Make new friends. You’re good at that—and there are plenty of kids here who’ll attend the same school as you in the fall.”
“Whoop dee doo,” he grumbled as she left to go find his father.
He looked around and noticed that girl again, the pretty one in white with her back facing him.
She stood with her friends, no doubt talking about him, as each one kept throwing glances his way.
She threaded her fingers through her gleaming bluish-black hair before effortlessly braiding the thick strands together.
Her short white dress hung loosely around her, but when the wind blew, it tugged against her, clinging to a shapelier form than he expected.
He made up his mind; he’d talk to her sometime that day.
A wayward volleyball landed near him, rolling to a stop at his feet.
He picked it up, searching the perimeter for the owner.
A few guys nearby shouted at him to toss it to them.
Instead of chucking it back, he took a deep breath, jogged over, and introduced himself.
Quickly, they got to talking and two of them, Nikhil and Ravi, invited him down to the beach to play volleyball.
His mom was right; he was good at making new friends, but that was about it.
LATER
“Duck!” he shouted at the girl in white.
Her head instinctively tucked, but the volleyball flew at her anyway, hitting her thigh with a loud, “Thwack.”
“Wait to go, Nicky,” he yelled at Nikhil, who’d lobbed a shitty serve from the opposing team.
“Hey, not my fault. I basically handed it to you …” he taunted, high-fiving his teammates.
Zayn shook his head and ran over to the injured party, embarrassed that it was the girl from before, who was now sitting alone.
“What the …” she spluttered, putting the book she’d been reading down, as the sand he kicked up flew into her face.
“Crap. Sorry.” He stood over her, rubbing the back of his neck as he saw a large red splotch blooming along her thigh.
“Did we get you pretty bad?”
She shaded her eyes to look up at him. He couldn’t help but feel her interested scrutiny move over his sweaty hair, down his sweaty face, and along his sweaty, sandy torso. Had he passed her inspection?
Her eyes were dark brown and there was something in them before she looked away to inspect her leg. What was it his dad said about his favorite Bollywood actress—that her eyes told a story or something? That’s what this girl’s almond-shaped eyes reminded him of.
She picked up the ball and tossed it at him, mumbling a “whatever;” her cheeks turning bright red. She opened her book and promptly ignored him. He took that moment to study her more closely, as he tossed the ball back and forth between his hands.
Her skin glowed under the sun—a shade of medium brown that reminded him of his favorite gulab jamon (Indian dessert).
Her dress was around her thighs, and her legs were well-toned and muscular.
He saw a hint of red bathing suit straps beneath the dress’s thicker ones, making him wonder what she looked like under that dress.
Her forehead puckered in thought, but her eyes weren’t moving across the pages.
“I’m Zayn,” he said, deciding to ignore her ignoring him. The ball flew between his palms and one of the guys from the game asked if he was coming back or had he finally come to terms with how much he sucked.
He rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“ They think you suck?” she asked incredulously. She snorted. “Those guys blew chunks until you showed up.”
He chuckled, and he didn’t think her cheeks could get any redder than they already were.
“Oh, crap! My mom is gonna kill me,” she cried, her hands on her hot cheeks. She threw her book aside and dove for her bag, pulling out a crumpled bucket hat and smashing it onto her head. She reached inside it again, pulling out a tube of sunscreen.
He continued chuckling. He threw the ball back to the other guys and ignored their catcalls as he sat down on the sand beside her.
“Why would your mom commit … filicide?” he asked curiously, resting his elbows on his bent knees.
She stopped rubbing thick layers of white cream on her arms and stared at him, eyes squinting.
“You really are Greek,” she said in wonder, the brim from her hat shadowing half her face now.
“Half-Greek,” he corrected. “And it’s a Latin word. It was on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire last night. The dude had to phone a friend and still lost. But I guess it’s a hard one. I’d never heard of it before.” Though it wasn’t far from how he felt about his own folks right now.
She nodded, rubbing the cream until it disappeared, leaving her skin even shinier. And she smelled like yummy coconut with a hint of something flowery.
“Kareena,” she finally said. “Kareena Sharma.”
“Karma,” he blurted out, tilting his head to the side and looking away.
Man, he must seem like a freak show. But he couldn’t help it. Sometimes his brain did things like that … remembered odd facts and rambled made-up words. It was like his mind hopped around from topic to topic on its own, without asking permission.
“Excuse me?”
“Kareena and Sharma make ‘Karma,’” he said, sifting his feet under the hot sand, finding the cool grains beneath.
“Did you get a 1600 on your SATs?” she asked suspiciously.
“What are SATs?”
At her alarmed expression, complete with mouth cutely hanging open, he followed up with, “Gotcha ya.” He bumped her shoulder with his.
“Oh my God. You had me going there.” She shuddered. “Like, what teenager, especially around here, hasn’t taken the SATs?”
He shrugged. He hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. She’d probably faint in shock.
“That’s a ‘portmanteau,’” she said, tossing the sunscreen into her bag and leaning back on her hands. “Wait, did you already know that?”
Now it was his turn to be confused. “A port man what?”
“Combining two words—in this instance my two names—to make a new one.”
“Hmm, and here I thought I was making up an awesome nickname for you.”
She laughed; a throaty sound that came from deep in her belly. “Well, I didn’t say it wasn’t awesome. Beat’s ‘No Drama Sharma.’”
Kareena wondered if he noticed how her eyes were glued to him, even from under her hat. He was by far the hottest guy she’d ever seen. When Sheila left, she’d pulled her book out, so she didn’t look like a stalker. But it was just a masquerade. She’d definitely been stalking.
And when he’d jogged toward her, panic set in. He was shirtless and coming over, obviously to grab the wayward ball, but still.
All she saw when he approached and stood over her was a glisteningly tan, slim but muscular torso, and wide shoulders. Seriously, what teen looked like that? It was wrong, but oh so right on so many levels. Her mouth got all cottony and words left her brain.
Changing the subject from her lame nickname (like, why had she even mentioned that?), she said, “So I think my dad knows your dad through a … second cousin, twice removed…?”
A low chuckle rumbled out of him. She’d never heard a teen with such a deep voice. It made her light-headed.
“Right?” He shook his head, and damp auburn curls fell over his forehead. “The Greeks are like Indians, too. Everyone knows everyone’s business.”
“And if they don’t, what’s wrong with them?” She rolled her eyes, shaking and bobbing her head like her parents did when they were concerned, unconcerned, happy, or sad.
She relaxed a little, warmth radiating throughout her. “But really, your dad does know my dad through some distant relation. I can’t remember.” She shifted her feet in the sand beside his, feeling a sense of camaraderie blossoming. “You’re coming to Greenwich Prep in the fall, right?”
His easy smile disappeared. His eyes, she noticed, were not hazel or true brown, but a warm cinnamon, like what her nani ground up to add to her famous curry.
“Word travels extra fast around here,” he said woodenly.
She sat up, a little taken aback by his demeanor shift.
“Well, yeah … I heard it today on the way here. My parents said to be nice to you—” She stopped herself. She sounded like a goodie-two-shoes.
“Yeah, well, I found out today, too. Sucks when your parents make all your decisions for you.”