Bittersweet (14 page)

Even then, with her fury pounding blood through her veins, she hadn’t been able to say it. She’d never been able to fully form the thought without turning away from it, because she didn’t want to face what it meant. She knew that Ali and Rani’s marriage had been arranged, but she’d always assumed, always believed that love threaded throughout. She wouldn’t let herself think otherwise. Not when she could help it.

“Why haven’t you told Ali?” Edy said. “Why haven’t you told everyone? Isn’t that your easiest solution?”

Hassan’s mother pulled paperwork from her purse and slammed it on the desk. It had ‘Youth International Ballet Competition’ stamped all over it.

“College football programs call him already,” she said. “The best in the country, from what I’m told. He’s thrilled by each one, no matter the locale. He doesn’t mention you when he talks about where he wants to go.”

Edy wanted to say that it was early still, that they had time to get straight on the facts. She wanted to say that college was a long way off though it really wasn’t, and she wanted to say, more than anything, back off. But her mind blazed with one question, red hot, neon circuited, and pulsing: Hassan knew where he wanted to go for college? He’d said nothing since their fight in the Mustang.

~~~

“Sawn, be cool.”

Hassan whipped Lawrence a lethal look as he hooked a right on Columbus. “I am cool.”

“Then drive like it.”

He smashed the brakes, earning a flurry of irate honks and at least one shout about his mother. “You want to drive?”

“You need me to?” Lawrence shot back.

Hassan dragged his gaze away and peeled off again. Inhales were good, exhales even better. He could try one after the other and see how it went.

“Give me the address,” Lawrence said and held out his palm.

Hassan’s fist crumpled around a half torn sheet of paper. Already, it had dampened from the sweat on his palm.

“Why?” he said.

“Are you planning on using it? The phone number, the address? Her aunt’s invitation to visit?” Lawrence asked. He’d said it so carefully that it warranted a glance.

“Why?” Hassan said. “You want it?”

“Sawn.”

Sawn. Always so calm. Always together. Line the fork up. Set the plate down. Let’s think it through. Wait, Hassan, wait.

But what didn’t he get? What wouldn’t he grasp? That Hassan didn’t get the chance to think through life when it jumped down his throat? He was alone in this. Hassan stood, knelt, crumbled maybe, in a web of confusion, stumbling so hard he couldn’t see past his stupidly worthless and cocky grin. Had he really thought himself in control? Had he really allowed himself to believe, even for a moment, that football and college were the scope of his problems? How stupid.

“So, what about … Edy?” Lawrence said.

Edy. Yeah, good. Something else to sling at her. Their mismatched schedules and time apart, the weird relationship she kept up with his mom, the future hovering like a furious storm cloud—no, the strain of all that hadn’t been enough. To make things interesting, really interesting, Mala left India for Boston. No coincidence there, he’d bet.

“Edy,” Hassan said and blew a gust of wind. Edy what? Would deal? Maybe not. Maybe this time love had its limits. Maybe Mala at their rival school was love’s limit.  

Lawrence looked at him in silent agreement.

Yeah, even love had its limits.

Correction. Happy was Hassan until he discovered his fiancée living in Boston.

They drove. Drove until the bass ran out of rap, until the city became a blur, a breeze, a watercolor painting made to leak. They drove even faster, aimless.

Where did he head though? Maybe Lawrence was his hostage. They could rush to the edge where sand met sea. Splash. But no. He was too pissed for that. Too pissed to take a nosedive and he’d never hurt Lawrence.

He saw Edy, Edy in stark relief, Edy as she meant to be seen. Hadn’t he always been terrified of losing her? Wasn’t that what all the fights as a kid, all the needless protection, wasn’t that what it was always about? Even then, even then, he knew what he wasn’t without Edy. He feared that; he feared his worse self, his lesser self. Protecting her had never been about what she wouldn’t or couldn’t do; he had been least surprised of all to find Reggie Knight coming up short against her quickness, sharpness, and mental toughness. Edy persevered. Edy taught him how to preserve and how to love, again and again. Her smile was love. Her touch was love. Around him, the world collapsed without it.

Lawrence suffered in silence. He suffered through the windows down and the air in, beating them into submission and deafness. There was Hassan’s Batman driving with the New Hampshire border on the horizon, he said nothing, hanging back like it was all normal. When Hassan turned back, his best friend smiled as if he’d glimpsed the future and come back to tell him good news.

“Ready?” Lawrence said and skated the windows up once Hassan had re-entered the highway, this time toward home.

“Yeah.” Hassan bit down on his thumb.

His cell phone rang and he glanced at it. The number belonged to a recruiter from Ohio. No sooner did he send him to voicemail did one from West Virginia ring. He’d spoken to both of them before.

“Do they call you like this?” Hassan demanded and turned the phone off. “Like you’re supposed to have a receptionist or something?”

Lawrence looked at him and frowned. “Not quite.”

Hassan chucked his cell into the backseat.

“From what I can see,” Lawrence said as if his best friend hadn’t just thrown a tantrum, “there are two ways to approach this.”

He’d come up with that much? All Hassan had figured out was that he didn’t want to pitch himself into sea and take his boy with him.

“Okay,” Hassan said.

“There’s Edy,” Lawrence said, always keen on blazing to the point. “Who won’t take this too well.”

“Yeah.”

But Lawrence looked at him like he was the stupid one. “Well, the answer to it all’s in front of you. If you’re serious about not marrying her—”

Hassan jerked a look at him.

“Yeah, I know,” Lawrence said. “So, never planning to marry her means never planning to marry her. So end this charade and get on with your life.”

“End this.” The words tasted wild and metallic, like blood in the mouth and adrenaline in the veins. He could do this. He could run this thing down and end it. For him, for him and Edy.

“And Edy?” Hassan said. “What about her?” How do I not lose her in the interim?

“From what I can see,” Lawrence said. “There are two ways to approach this.”

This guy over here. Hassan couldn’t even bury the smile.

“Tell her or not.” And there was no judgment in his voice.

But yeah. Realistically, Mala Bathlar wasn’t like coming to practice fifteen minutes late; she wasn’t the sort of event a guy glossed over when talking about his day—not without consequences, that is. She meant no more or less to him than any other person; yet, she signified a hold on his life. He hated that and he hated her; he hated the girl without knowing her.

Lawrence had said something that hitched onto Hassan’s thoughts during their quiet ride home. The way he saw things, every decision began with the same basic premise: action or inaction; both came with consequences. Hassan understood why Lawrence thought like that though, because it ferreted out the white noise and brought solutions into the forefront.

Hassan wouldn’t shove Mala in Edy’s face, yet again. He wouldn’t do that ever if he could help it. His days of hungering for Edy’s closeness and seeing her with Wyatt weren’t that far behind. He’d become friends with torment; recklessness had not been far behind. That had been for a made up foe in a contrived competition. What would he have done if Wyatt and Edy had been engaged?

“You okay? Whoa there.” Lawrence reached for the steering wheel without touching it, eyes steady on the pavement as the car righted. They hadn’t touched off much, but Hassan’s high speed swerve for the middle lane, combined with it being occupied by a pickup, hadn’t gone over easy with his friend.

So, the solution to it all came in a blaze of 18 wheeler headlights, passing on the opposite side of the highway. Two vehicles, destined for two destinations, one never touching the other.

Mala Bathlar was his mess. The arranged marriage was his disaster, not Edy’s. He’d get rid of it and tell her about Mala living in Boston afterward, but emphasize how it didn’t matter because he was free of her. Then they’d get on with their lives. Their lives.

Two vehicles, one never touching the other.

Every so often, life works in nasty ironies like the one before Edy, like the one that had Chloe dangling a spoon of marshmallow ice cream before her open mouth and stealing little glances across the Phelps couch.

“Are you okay?” Chloe said.

“Sure.”

“I shouldn’t have stopped on the news,” Chloe said for the thousandth time. “I didn’t expect to see your mom. If I’d have known—”

“If you’d have known that my mother’s cutthroat,” Edy said, “you would have what? Stopped watching television?”

Instantly, she plunged in shame. For all the grief she used to give Chloe, she’d yet to find a reason for it. “I’m sorry,” Edy mumbled.

Chloe’s ice cream plopped off her spoon to land in her lap. She cursed.

“Let me get you something,” Edy said. As she rushed off, her on screen mother reiterated all the ways her opponent was unfit for office since it had come out that he was having an affair.

Edy rolled her eyes. Her mom brought shame to the shameless standing out there with Cam by her side. Edy wondered if anyone knew how easily the woman would’ve swapped sides and rode the other party’s ticket to victory if they’d had the best chance. No, they packed in for her rallies and stood behind her on podiums and waved ‘Phelps’ signs like they were churning out energy for a windmill. And the energy never died with these people. Her mom hadn’t conquered her first U.S. Senate seat yet and there was already talk of where it could lead.   

 Chloe found her in the kitchen glaring at dish towels. Edy fisted one in each hand and wondered if her dad would ever find his voice, or if it had been permanently buried under academic rubble.

“We don’t have to go to the game tonight,” Chloe said and placed a hand on her back. “We could hang around here, eat ice cream, listen to Counting Crows and sway in the dark.”

Edy almost committed to a smile. “You’d miss Lawrence’s game for me?”

Chloe drew back and Edy turned to face her.

“You would miss Lawrence’s game for me,” Edy said. That time she did smile.

“So, what’ll it be? Counting Crows or game day?”

“Uh, game day. No way I’m missing the chance to war paint you up.”

Chloe cringed. “Go delicate on me, okay? Warrior that you are. Anyway, you and I both know Lawrence may not care much for this.”

Edy already headed for her bedroom, where she kept all the game day supplies. As for Chloe’s squeamishness about Lawrence, well, she might not be far off base. They’d discussed it before and Chloe ultimately decided it was something she wanted to do. So, Edy said she’d help her. The idea of Chloe coming out of her sparkly shell to encourage Lawrence had love written all over it, even if she wouldn’t admit it yet.

Edy went for the black thermal she’d spray painted with Hassan’s “twenty seven”, and paired it with last year’s scarf, gloves, and skull cap, also decorated donned with his jersey number. Chloe, for her part, pulled out a ball cap, baby tee, a `packet of number tattoos she’d found at the mall, and pink glitter spray paint that she pulled out with a triumphant grin.

Edy shook her head. “He won’t see pink flurries from the field.” She liked to think that Hassan saw her. Sometimes. At the very least he heard her. Either way, the pink spray was out. Edy replaced it with her standard white fare. It looked hardcore against black. Not so much against Chloe’s rah rah red. But they went heavy with the white and soon Lawrence’s girl had a spunky look sporting his jersey number, eighty-five.

The old tradition of Phelps and Pradhans storming South End games together had been dismantled. Edy’s dad apologized for his absence, but said that work absolutely couldn’t wait. Which was fine because she’d gone to one game with him that season and the awkwardness had been ratcheted way up; classmates kept saying hello, pausing at the sight of her dad, and mumbling greetings to him in embarrassment. The worst suck ups, the ones who had Ivy League stars in their dreams, called him ‘Dr. Phelps’ and blocked walkways trying to figure out something to talk to him about.

Ali and Rani had sat alone, in the old seats both families used to claim. After Edy’s dad backed out of the earlier game, Ali had pressed her to join them, face clouded with confusion and a dash of hurt when she refused. Then Rani had suggested in that harsh tone she was getting so much practice out of, that Edy was older and had her own friends to sit with now, so it was ridiculous for her to be with them. She’d made a point of asking about Wyatt before they parted.

“Ready?” Chloe said, yanking Edy back from pensiveness.

Edy took a deep breath. They were off to see her boy play. Of course she was ready. Ready for anything.

After catching the bus over to the South End stadium across the street from school, they waited as a steady stream of guests filed in. When Kori Landhouse and Gwendolyn Jakes appeared, it was Chloe who went with the enthusiastic wave. Gwendolyn returned it. Edy smiled and put up a hand, the resistant part of her brain still whispering “it” girls once and awhile. The only problem was, when she looked in the mirror, it said the same thing just as insistently.

When had that happened?

Though they’d sat at the lunchroom table together plenty of times, Edy’s first real conversation with Kori and Gwen happened when Chloe invited them over after the Rani hair debacle. When Rani abandoned Edy after their argument about Youth Grand Prix and Hassan, she’d left her with half a head of straightened hair and no idea what to do. A little melted skin later had Edy calling Chloe for help. Chloe, in turn, called Kori who was black and obsessed with marrying the Art noveau movement to hair styling. Since her best friend Gwen happened to be with her when Chloe called, they both made a beeline to Edy’s room, which they took a whole bunch of interest in once they realized it was a peek away from Hassan’s. They had even more fun strolling through the house to see all the pictures of him, all the pictures of them. When Hassan did show up, he promptly excused himself, as if he hadn’t meant to use a key and enter. The girls found all this adorable, of course.

“Hmph. Ready for the game, Cake?” Kori grunted, voice deep and gravelly in her impression of Hassan.

“Ready for the game, Ice Cream,” came Gwendolyn’s neurotically shrill reply. She tucked an arm through Kori’s and the two skipped off, ready for a brick road, Edy guessed.   

Edy laughed and her hand shot out, shoving Kori as she wound by. Kori pitched and two pairs of hands saved her, Gwen’s and Edy’s. When Edy helped her up, it was with a cringe and expectation of some shout. Why had she pushed? What was she thinking? That she was with the guys?

“I’m sorry, I …” Edy realized she’d mess up an honest attempt at friendship. And why not? She’d never had to make one before. Now she looked like an inappropriate toddler who’d dumped a load in his pants as the filet mignon was being served.

Kori thrust her tongue out, paused, and waved her fist for good measure. Gwyn came up beside her, rearranged a few tufts of Kori’s hair, and straightened the strap on her best friend’s sequined sweater tank.

“If I were really Hassan, that would’ve been domestic violence, you know,” Kori said.

“Can we go in now?” Chloe demanded and shoved her cell phone in her purse.

Kori gestured for her to go first, only to run her fingers through Edy’s hair. “I do fabulous work,” she said.

“You do,” Gwyn reiterated.

Kori put an arm around them both and together they strode into the lights.

They found their seats halfway up and near the fifty yard line, where, to Edy’s surprise, a handful of the “it” gang held space for them. And the view was prime, good enough that she imagined reaching forward and touching the turf if she wanted.

Edy and Chloe squeezed in between Gwyn and Gwyn’s cousin, TJ, from Brookline High, who sat on the wrong side that night. Hunched over and surrounded by a cloud of smoke, he sat up, dropped a tiny wad and ran a hand through his hair.

“Hello, gorgeous. I knew I sat on this side for a reason.” He jutted his hand out for Edy and she fanned the smoke back his way.

She flicked her gaze down to the bit of marijuana he’d tossed and stuck her hand out tentatively to shake. “Edy.”

Gwyn squeezed both of Edy’s arms and looked over her shoulder. “Get lost, TJ. She’s taken by the guy who’s going to mop your ass tonight. And before you ask about Chloe, she’s taken by the guy who’s going to help him.”

TJ jerked a blond brow. “It’s like she doesn’t want us to be friends.” He rolled outrageously glacial eyes at them. Edy imagined that girls at Brookline wanted to dive deep in that cool gaze and work out the wonders beneath. Or probably just work him out.

TJ grinned as if he’d read her thoughts. Edy snorted and faced forward.

Unlike Madison, Brookline didn’t have much of a squad to work with. TJ leapt to his feet though, cheering, the second they plowed downfield with the kickoff return, obnoxious as if they had a chance.

“We’re going to have a problem,” Edy said when he sat, though she couldn’t stop the smile on her face. Anyone who rallied around a bruised and wilting team was A-okay with her every day.

“A problem? That’s really not what I would call it. You and I would never have a problem if I could help it.” TJ went for the buttery smile coupled with the undress me-eyes this time.

“Uh yikes,” Edy said. “Make sure that statement extends to my boyfriend, too.”

She faced forward again and cheered when South End picked up a quick sack. From Edy’s other side, Chloe nudged her hard.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m in the TJ Armstrong’s a Hottie Club, believe me, but—”

“Well, I’m not,” Edy said. “So delete the rest of that statement.”

A large couple side saddled past them, with the woman’s pear shaped behind waddling near the danger zone of Edy’s nose. By the time they’d mashed enough toes, sloshed soda, and swore without apology, it was time for Hassan and Lawrence to hit the field.

Edy jumped up and screamed herself wild at the first sight of her boys. With her fists pumping and arms waving, she thought back to so many days shared and gone. To Harvard-Yale games that couldn’t be missed growing up, to crisscrossing the country for bowl matches. They’d seen the Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox earn championship rings. How had their families gone from that to being unable to assemble for a high school home game Hassan was in?

All around Edy, the stomping began, jarring the bleachers, gaining momentum. The second she sat, Chloe grabbed her hand so they could stomp together, feet wild and pandemonium soaring. Offense was South End’s game and everyone knew it. It was time to claim another win.

On his first attempt, Hassan picked up five yards. Edy whistled and waved her gloved palms. Next to her, Chloe pumped a fist. 

“Now you see,” TJ said. “We could have stopped Pradhan with another man in the box.”

“Yeah,” Edy mocked. “Because that’s never been done before. Anyway, your linebackers move like mud. He slips right past them. They’re hopeless.”

That launched them into a play-by-play debate that no one else wanted in on. When Brookline began to go up in smoke, TJ took it in with a laugh. There was always basketball season, he pointed out. Or lacrosse. They were good at that.

Caught up in the downstream exit of the crowd, Edy and her friends weaved their way out as they belted the latest and most obnoxious of South End chants. Unfortunately for TJ, it included mentions of his school getting screwed in all sorts of ways.

They made it only as far as the stadium before Edy stopped, eyes narrowing at a girl who glided past.

She’d had a silly thought, of course. A silly, impossible thought, as a girl with thick, dark hair and graceful curves eased past with another of her age.

“Mala?” Edy said uncertainly. “Mala Bathlar?” Not possible.

The girl stopped and turned, gaze sweeping wildly.

Edy’s first instinct was to bolt. She wanted to run, bury herself beneath covers, and remain there for all eternity. Because this couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. Mala here and not in India.

“Do I know you?” Mala said in clipped British English.

“I’m … Edy. Edy Phelps. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Mala’s features tugged together in confusion. Awkward seconds passed. Then she laughed. Laughed as if Edy was no one at all.

“Right. You are Hassan’s friend. The little girl that runs with him.”

She wasn’t there. She wasn’t talking. She wasn’t real, not at all. Perhaps Mala Bathlar disappeared if Edy closed her eyes long enough.

“Well,” Chloe said. “We’ll see you around. Or not.” She took a firm grip on Edy, which snapped her out her spell. Edy stumbled away with her, blinking, disoriented.

“Excuse me,” Kori said. “But who the hell was that?”

“And why did she call you Hassan’s ‘friend’? Or a ‘little girl’? We should go back and find out,” Gwyn said.

TJ brought up the rear with the sound of a match striking.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Chloe said quietly to Edy. “That was pretty weird. And Gwyn’s right; you need answers.”

Answers. They assumed she didn’t have those. What she needed was some time to get her head around Mala being in Boston and whatever it did or didn’t mean.

Hassan must not have known, otherwise he would have been ballistic. Which meant that his mother must have been arranging and rearranging his life again. But what would be the point of Mala’s there without Hassan knowing it? Once Edy and Chloe gained a little distance from the other girls, she asked the question aloud.