Ghosting (2 page)

Emma, you were late last night. Past your curfew . . . ,
she says.

Not now, Mom.

Emma’s

voice is

sharp.

Coach is going to kill me.

She grabs

a protein bar,

her water bottle,

and she’s gone

with a flash of

dark-red ponytail.

Polly circles

the table

a few times,

then settles back

underneath,

at my feet,

with a gentle

disappointed

sigh.

Mom turns

on the

faucet again,

picks up a

Gatorade bottle,

only now

her shoulders

are slumped,

tired-looking.

Is Emma going to be grounded?
I ask.

Your dad and I are going to talk to her.

Which means

no.

Dad is soft

on Emma;

well, we all are,

because we love her

so much,

but especially

Dad.

Mom worries

about it.

I’ve heard

them argue.

I spoon

a Puffin

into my

mouth.

The crunch

is gone.

Polly sighs

against

my feet.

I swallow

the soggy

Puffin, past

the lump

in my

throat.

MAXIE

It wasn’t hot like this

in Colorado,

even though

we were a mile closer

to the sun.

I forgot about Midwest heat,

like a steamy-wet-hot washcloth

pressed against your mouth and nose.

And the air conditioner

is busted.

Maxine,
Mom says (she’s the only person who calls me that),
I’m going stark raving crazy in this heat.

The making-mom-crazy list is long,

and number one,

at the tip-top of the list is:

my dad.

His chewing too loud.

His interrupting when she’s on the phone.

His beer drinking.

I could go on.

But most crazy-making of all,

the fact that

he dragged us out to Colorado

for four years

for this fabulous job opportunity

that turned out to be a bust.

A big bust.

So here we are,

back in the house where I grew up,

the house that

was never sold

for four years,

which also drove my mom nuts.

Of course now it’s a nightmare turned

blessing in disguise.

My mom is little-miss-busy,

getting the house fixed up,

enrolling in nursing classes

to update her skills.

Someone’s got to have a steady income,
she says.

And she says it with all kinds of

righteousness.

Not meaning to hurt,

but wounding just the same.

My dad is still recognizable as my dad,

just a flat, joyless version.

Like a light has

gone out.

Except when he’s drinking his beers.

Then he gets jolly and sweet,

which almost

makes me

look forward

to that pop-squelch

of the flip-top on

the Miller can.

Almost.

Wednesday, August 25

ANIL

1.
Wednesday morning, 7:30 a.m.:

I am alone in the house,

eating leftover lentils and rice,

heated in the microwave.

I stand over the sink,

looking out the window at the back lawn,

perfectly mowed and trimmed

by my father last night before dinner.

2.
Father:

Dr. Sanjeev Sayanantham,

who left for Highland Park Hospital

at five this morning,

who was named

by
U.S. News & World Report

as one of the top ten best hand surgeons

in the country.

Dr. Sayanantham,

famous not only for his skill in the operating room,

but also for his charisma,

not stiff like a lot of Indian physicians.

And you’d never know he was born in Calcutta

the way he’s smoothed out his accent.

3.
Mother:

Dr. Rahel Sayanantham,

who also left early this morning

for her thriving practice as a pediatrician.

This Dr. Sayanantham does have a wisp of an accent,

even though she is only half Indian.

Her father was a handsome white dentist

who married Grandmother Rumma

against the wishes of her family.

Mom lived in Mumbai until she came

to the US for medical school,

where she met my dad.

According to family lore

he was swept away

from the very moment he saw her:

black-eyed, black-haired beauty

with a gentle voice.

Small, too, like a strong gust of wind

could blow her away.

4.
Brother:

Viraj Sayanantham

born when my mother

was doing her residency at the University of Michigan.

Viraj hasn’t lived at home for six years

and is himself a Neurology resident

at Mass General, in Boston.

Viraj is the golden son

who prefers Christmas to Diwali,

cheeseburgers to lentils and rice.

He will be Dr. Sayanantham number three.

5.
Me:

Son number two.

Expected to be

Dr. Sayanantham number four.

And even though, yes,

science and math come easy,

I love words, too.

And I don’t know if I wish to follow

in the footsteps of my

cheeseburger-loving brother.

The end result, these simple

but puzzling equations:

a ≤ b

or

a ≥ b

or

a ≠ b

a
being what is expected of me

b
being where my heart lies

x
being an unknown quantity

utilized to figure out the intersection

between them, assuming I ever

find out what
b
actually is.

EMMA

I down a tall glass of Cran-Apple

with crushed ice, too fast,

but I can’t help it.

It tastes so good, cold and tart,

filling what feels like

a bottomless thirst.

I am exhilarated, wrung out,

but keyed up,

from an amazing practice.

I love that feeling

after I’ve pushed my body

to its limit.

It’s nice to have the kitchen to myself.

No nagging from Mom.

No questions from Faith.

Sweet Faith, who watches me like a hawk,

which can get annoying, sometimes,

like she’s memorizing me.

I like the quiet, but I miss Polly

banging her tail against my sweaty legs,

drooling and panting love all over me.

Mom and Faith must’ve taken

her with them on their

last-week-before-school-starts errands.

It’s Faith’s first year at the high school

and even though quiet is her style,

I can tell Faith is pumped.

I don’t remember feeling like that,

except for maybe the first time

I went to soccer camp.

It was the summer before 8th grade.

I remember making out with the

cute, blond assistant coach.

A total rush, until he got clingy

toward the end.

Which was awkward.

But high school, no.

I’m so done with high school.

Can’t wait to play soccer at Penn.

I wish I could wave a wand

and whoosh away

the next nine months.

My cell buzzes with a text

from Brendan. Damn, I still haven’t

told him about Saturday night.

About how we have to drag

Maxie Kalman along with us.

Thanks to my mom.

Saw Mrs. Kalman in the grocery store,
Mom said.
Poor thing, she looked miserable. I told her you’d include Maxie in your plans this weekend. She was so grateful.

Maybe I’ll see if I can get Felix

to join us, for old time’s sake.

Brendan doesn’t mind Felix.

Who could mind Felix?

Not the winner he used to be,

but still a good kid.

Maxie and I and Felix were tight

back when we were kids.

Lemonade stands, kickball, the whole bit.

But that was a long time ago.

I hope she isn’t too weird now.

She always was the artistic type.

Whatever.

As long as she doesn’t ruin

Saturday night.

CHLOE

“I Am/I Am Not”

My mom is big into personal inventories.

Back when Dad dumped her

and right before she became a realtor,

she stocked up on all these self-help books

and they all told her

to make a list of who she is

and who she hopes to be.

She’s always trying to get me

to do them, but I always refuse.

They remind me of those “I am” poems

we did back in 5th grade.

I am
cheerful and tan.

I wonder
if I will ever finish this poem.

I hear
the sound of one hand clapping.

I see
rainbows and unicorns.

I want
a boyfriend and a new smartphone.

I am
cheerful and tan.

Okay, I don’t think that’s really

what I wrote in 5th grade,

but close.

So here’s my up-to-date, honest,

anti
personal inventory.

What I’m
not
:

a cheerleader.

a soccer player, or a jock of any kind.

an art nerd.

a math and science nerd.

a Christian nerd.

a drama geek.

a
Harry Potter
freak.

Oh, and I’m
not
:

smart.

quick with a comeback.

careful.

What I
am
:

a klutz.

pretty.

cheerful, or at least decent at faking it.

What I am good at:

babysitting.

picking out clothes.

makeup.

blow-drying,

showering, and exfoliating.

cleaning my room.

sex.

What I’m not good at:

just about everything else.

MAXIE

Mom kept at me about Emma,

to call her just as soon

as we moved back.

You two were best friends,
Mom said.

That was a long time ago,
I answered.

I kept putting it off.

It’s not like we stayed in touch

while I was gone.

She’s the one who faded away,

stopped writing,

stopped calling.

She’s probably too busy with soccer,
Mom would say.

Yeah, right.

But I understood,

life goes on.

It’s not like we can

just pick up

where we left off.

But to get Mom

off my back

I sent Emma

an e-mail.

A few days later:

Jeez, sorry, I just saw this. Never look at e-mail,

what’s your cell? I’ll text :)

But she didn’t.

Then my mom ran into her mom

at the grocery store.

After that Emma texted me.

Sorry!! Crazy busy. Free Sat night?

Can’t wait to see you!

Yeah, right.

Thursday, August 26

ANIL

1.
Girlfriend:

Chloe Carney,

for the past month and a half.

At least I think she is.

The code for these things

mystifies me in a way that

math equations

never do.

Especially since I’ve never

had a girlfriend before.

And what kind of dumb luck is it

that Chloe Carney should be my first.

Chloe Carney, with her looks that stop traffic.

Literally.

(I saw a pickup truck

rear-end an SUV last week.

On account of Chloe Carney

and her blue sundress.)

2.
Let’s be honest:

I am not Chloe Carney’s usual type.

I’m

not
good-looking,

not a lacrosse player,

not white.

3.
How it began:

After teaching junior clinics all morning

Zander and I were goofing around on the

tennis courts.

Some kid from the community pool

next to the courts kept hollering “Marco Polo”

in this high-pitched pirate accent

that cracked Zander up.

So I kept hammering his backhand.

Beat him 6–0.

I didn’t even notice Chloe Carney

watching through the chain-link, but Zander did.

At the changeover he told me a hot blonde

was checking me out.

I didn’t believe him. Looked over,

but she was gone by then.

But later, when Zander and I were leaving,

this girl from my class, with honey-blonde hair,

was hanging out by the tennis shop.

Chloe Carney.

I knew her name because she’s one of those girls

whose name you just know, everyone knows.

She said something dumb like

Hey, Mr. Six-Pack.

I don’t usually play without a shirt,

but it was blistering hot that day

and I was soaked through

and I’d had this reckless so-what feeling,

so I stripped off my shirt after the first set.

Reckless.

Good word

when it comes to describing how

Chloe Carney makes me feel.

She said she’d seen me at the high school

and wasn’t I on the tennis team and what was

my name?