Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

Marc told Siddharth to wait with the bikes.

“This is Woodford,” said Siddharth. “No one’s gonna steal ’em.”

“Bro, you look like you’re ten. Just stay outside.”

Siddharth sat on a boulder at the parking lot’s edge, staring at the passing cars and thinking about his father. He hoped Mohan Lal was working on his book and not drinking or moping on the sofa. A disturbing image flashed in his mind. He saw his father lying in pain on the bathroom floor, and nobody was there to help him. Siddharth spotted a pay phone and wondered if he should call home — just to check on things — but by the time he decided this was a good idea, Marc emerged from the squat wooden shop brandishing a pack of five cigars. He lit one with a match, then handed it over. Siddharth had tried a cigarette before, in India, with his cousin, but he had never smoked a cigar. This one had a plastic tip. He brought it to his lips and sucked as hard as he could. The smoke singed his lungs, and he coughed until his eyes watered. Until his throat burned.

Smirking, Marc lit up his own cigar. “Dude, don’t inhale that shit. Just taste the smoke — savor it, then blow it out.”

Siddharth hunched forward, resting his hands on his thighs. He thought the cough was slowing down, and then it flared up again. He saw a cop drive by and felt a surge of panic. But the cop kept on going.

“Don’t waste that shit,” said Marc.

His throat still hurt, but he took another drag. This time, he made sure to keep the smoke confined to his mouth. It tasted kind of sweet. Another pull made him light and dizzy. He smiled.

Marc nodded. “That’s what I’m talking about. Shit, I needed that.”

The boys gave each other a high five. They kept on smoking in silence.

Eventually, Marc spit out a wad of phlegm and said, “That woman is a total maniac. Marc, I have a headache. Marc, I have a cold. Help me. Help, Marc. Make it all go away. ”

Siddharth giggled at this scratchy, high-pitched imitation of Ms. Farber.

Marc’s face suddenly became serious, and he looked Siddharth straight in the eye. “A cold my ass,” he said. “Why do you think they got divorced?”

He wasn’t sure, but it seemed like his friend wanted an actual answer. “I dunno. Communication problems?”

“Yeah, but why? Why didn’t they communicate, Sid?”

Siddharth shrugged and puffed on his stogie.

“I’ll tell you why: Rachel’s a greedy bitch. So my dad got with someone else.” Marc smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Honestly, I don’t blame him. I’d do the same thing if I were him.”

* * *

Ms. Farber didn’t emerge from her bedroom that evening. For dinner, Marc made them turkey sandwiches, slicing onions and tomatoes and teaching Siddharth how to correctly apply mustard. You had to use the red piece of the plastic container to dab it onto the bread, and whenever possible, the bread had to be rye. Siddharth had never tasted rye before, but these were the best sandwiches he had ever eaten.

Late at night, they went into the guest room, which had a sofa bed, cable TV, and a VCR. Marc put on a porno, and Siddharth couldn’t believe what appeared on the screen. People were having actual sex. There were close-ups of men fingering women, of women giving blow jobs. Gigantic penises were thrusting into hairy vaginas. In one scene, four people were having sex at the same time. At first, Siddharth was a little disgusted. Then he started worrying about the size of his own puny dick. Soon all these thoughts vanished, and a strong erection was pressing into the zipper of his jeans.

“Dude,” said Marc, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and take care of my boner.” When he got back, he was grasping a minibottle of whiskey, the kind of thing they handed out on airplanes. He cracked it open and held it out to Siddharth.

He shook his head. “Nah, I’m not in the mood.”

“Suit yourself,” said Marc, downing the whole thing in a long gulp. “Yo, the bathroom’s all yours.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t just sit there with a hard-on all night. Go and relieve yourself.”

He walked to Marc’s bathroom and turned on the light. He placed his hands on the granite counter and looked in the mirror. All the toothpaste stains on the mirror were nasty, but they reminded him of a sky full of stars. He spotted the beginnings of a pimple on his forehead. The pimple was pleasing; pimples meant he was normal. And his skin was light in tone, just a shade darker than Marc’s. He was Indian, but at least he wasn’t a dark one. The problem was that he would be twelve in a few weeks, and he barely had any hair on his balls. He put his hand down his pants and grasped his swollen penis. When he’d tried masturbating, it had never really happened — he had stroked and pulled, but nothing came out. He would die if anybody knew that his dick didn’t work. He would die if anybody knew that he was a freak who couldn’t jerk off.

He tucked his penis up into the waistband of his underwear and pulled his shirt over his crotch, then headed back to the guest room, holding up his hand for a high five.

“Dude,” said Marc, “get your cummy fingers away from me.”

Siddharth sat back down feeling contented. As far as Marc was concerned, he was normal. As far Marc was concerned, he worked just fine.

* * *

Upon waking up in the morning, Siddharth discovered that Ms. Farber was already in the kitchen. She was listening to classical music and flipping pancakes, and her face looked like it had gone back to normal.

“Morning, boys,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Of course we’re hungry,” said Marc. “I’ve been living on cold cuts for three days straight.”

Smiling, she stacked some pancakes on two plates, which she placed in front of the barstools. Siddharth relished his breakfast. The pancakes contained canned peaches and walnuts, two things he’d never tasted before as far as he could remember. While he shoveled food into his mouth, Ms. Farber asked him if he might want to be a professor like his father. He said no, because professors barely made any money. He wanted to be rich. He wanted to own a DeLorean, Marty McFly’s car in Back to the Future. He wanted to own more than one mansion, like Donald Trump.

Ms. Farber laughed. “Well, I hope some of your ambition rubs off on my Marc.”

“Whatever,” said Marc. “I’m gonna work for my father.”

“Sorry, Marc,” she countered, “I’m afraid you have greater things in store.”

“There ain’t nothing wrong with scrap metal, Mom. Last time I checked, it pays your bills just fine.”

Siddharth didn’t know where to look. He gripped the back of his neck and peered down at some leftover gobs of maple syrup. “I better call my dad,” he said. “He can come pick me up.”

“Pick you up?” said Ms. Farber. “Marc’s father’s away, and we’ve got no other plans. You should stay, Siddharth. You boys can have a little fun. And Mohan can get some bonus time with his book.” She pulled a packet of green cigarettes out of a drawer. She lit one with a lighter that was meant for the stove. Smoke streamed out of her nose.

* * *

Later in the day, while Ms. Farber was reading on the family room sofa, Siddharth and Marc were back on the kitchen barstools, eating one of her bland lentil soups and watching MTV. A video by Bell Biv DeVoe came on, and Siddharth told Marc to turn up the volume. He loved this group’s dance moves, and their women had long legs and enormous tits. Marc said, “Screw that. This song is gay.” He said that rap was cool, but real hip-hop — not pussies like Bell Biv DeVoe.

Siddharth heard his father’s signature honk, one short beep followed by two long ones. He was about to get up, but Ms. Farber rose from the sofa and told him to finish his food in peace. She needed to have a word with his father. Siddharth’s stomach tightened. He hoped that she hadn’t found the Playboys. He hoped there wasn’t another problem with Mr. Latella.