Read The Rearranged Life Online
Authors: Annika Sharma
The Rearranged Life
A Division of
Whampa, LLC
P.O. Box 2160
Reston, VA 20195
Tel/Fax: 800-998-2509
http://curiosityquills.com
© 2015
Annika Sharma
http://www.annikasharma.com
Cover Art by
Eugene Teplitsky
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information about Subsidiary Rights, Bulk Purchases, Live Events, or any other questions - please contact Curiosity Quills Press at
[email protected]
, or visit
http://curiosityquills.com
ISBN 978-1-62007-876-1 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-877-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-878-5 (hardcover)
To every kind of love that exists…
and with the hope there will be more of it.
’ve been drugged.
The thought crosses my mind so briefly, it hardly registers. But it’s there. Like a virus or a poisoned bite, it’s only a matter of time before it takes over.
The dancing couldn’t have done this to me. I don’t drink, so it’s not alcohol. My mind, fuzzy as a scrambled satellite television, begins to shut down. The room spins, and the voices around me blend together, buzzing loudly. Even my–supposed–Pepsi has lost its taste. My vision clouds over.
Four of my five senses dull. Only touch remains as the hand on the small of my back guides me toward a quieter part of the house. I feel the shove as I’m pushed onto the bed. I don’t feel anything else afterward. I only see a shadow–
One that stands over me when everything fades to black.
Fifteen Hours Earlier
My senior year has been in session for a month now, and the beginning of the year excitement has worn off. The endless lines at the bookstore have turned into a trickle of students returning books for classes they’ve dropped. The “I’ll meet you at Starbucks!” and constant chatter has quieted. Running into old friends holds less novelty now, and the loud shouts of reunions after a long summer have settled down to simple nods of acknowledgement.
I too, have fallen into a routine. My mornings are often spent on a run, followed by breakfast and the walk to class; a practice I started on the very first day of freshman year and haven’t stopped since. Sejal tells me I’m OCD about these things. I want to tell her, “You’re one to talk,” but she has a point. Routines are soothing to me, like tea when someone is upset, or rain breaking a heat wave.
Except this morning, because I am late.
Unfortunately for the general public, I’m not looking my best today, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I coil my unruly hair into a sloppy bird’s nest on top of my head and grab a Pop-Tart off the kitchen counter as I slam the door behind me.
How long has this been sitting there?
The stale sweetness fills my mouth. Nope, no time to think about it. By some divine providence and a kind twist of fate, I plop myself down at my desk seven short minutes later.
When I sit at the long table, the same seat I take every class, it’s like a switch is flicked. I turn from ‘Hot Mess Express’ to ‘Game Face On.’ Classrooms are where I am on top of my game, because with goals like medical school, there isn’t room for error. More importantly, this is who I am.
I’m not sure when I decided to become a doctor. My family always tells me it’s the Indian way, and anything less would mean I wasn’t taking advantage of all the resources they came here for. My parents, relatives, friends’ parents, and the uncle (not actually related, just an Indian elder who gets the title out of respect) who owns the 7-11 down the street all had to make a choice in ninth grade: business or science. I guess geography doesn’t change old habits. Every Indian I know has stuck to those fields, whether they grew up here or in India. I like to think I chose medicine because I’m a good person, not out of cultural obligation… but then again, I never knew anything else.
When the professor speaks, I’m ready to turn my day around and take the bull by the horns like I always do.
You’ve got this, Nithya.
“Hey everybody, happy Friday. I will be collecting your assignments at the end of class for your homework grade. Remember, if you have any questions, talk to the TA or email him so you have the material down pat before the exam next week.”
And with his reminder, the air leaves my body in one long swoosh.
You don’t have this, idiot, you forgot.
I’m about to hyperventilate. My heart thumps as the carbon dioxide filters out of my blood too fast. Considering these four homework assignments combined with four exams make up my grade, my 3.96 GPA (damn you, introductory physics) teeters on the verge of a quickie thrill ride off a cliff. When I flip to my planner, hoping to call the professor out on a mistake, the red ink pops like a 3D horror show: Chemistry homework due. I groan inwardly as I remember seeing these words three days ago and thinking,
I’ll do it now
, before
Amma
called, Sophia needed help with an essay, and I had to run out to pick up some milk. Combined with my sleeping in this morning, today never stood a chance.
I rest my head in my hands and take deep, calming breaths.
Think, Nithya.
A litany of excuses runs through my mind.
My dog ate my homework, I lost my planner, I submitted it but you lost it, my backpack was stolen…
Maybe just ask for an extension. Of course, I’d have to make up reasons for why, and now my dad’s voice intrudes, reminding me if I always tell the truth, I have no lies to keep straight.
“Do you want to copy my assignment?” The boy next to me mutters.
When I turn to him, taken aback, I’m met with expectant brilliant green eyes.
Tempting. My parents’ distraught faces come to mind as I picture telling them I won’t be graduating because I violated the academic integrity policy.
Would you like fries with that?
I can’t even work in fast food because I can’t touch meat–a Hindu custom drilled into me since I was old enough to walk. Green Eyes senses my hesitation. “Take it. Or you could just fail the assignment. You’ll handle
that
well.”
This kid thinks sarcasm is going to help me.
I nod numbly and mutter a half-relieved, half-humiliated, “Thanks!”
Oh, fuck it. A bad grade is better than nothing.
I grab the paper and scribble away. Fifty minutes later, as class is dismissed, I am one of the last to clinch my homework and turn it in. In my haste, I don’t take a second look at the boy with the green eyes.
The rest of the day passes quickly but poorly. A freak rainstorm leaves me sitting in soaked silence in my reproductive biology class, attempting to concentrate though my socks squish and my legs chafe where my jeans rub together. I am so thrown off by this morning’s haphazard start that I keep spacing out.
“Nithya, do you know the answer?” my professor asks, his tenth attempt at getting a response out of me since no one else seems like they’re paying attention either.
“Uh…” The pause is endless. “Freemartinism,” I mumble, piecing together a question about twin cows fusing their placentas.