Authors: Edith Pattou
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?