Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

He tore it open, noting that the card inside looked like a poster Arjun had once owned, back before he’d put up the ones of Bob Dylan and the Beatles. It depicted a bikini-clad blonde atop a Ferrari, and she was coaxing invitees with a curled finger.

Ms. Farber snatched it out of his hands. “Bobby Meyers. . Marc, isn’t that Jocelyn Meyers’s boy?”

“Who?” said Marc.

“She’s an architect, I think. Her husband is definitely a podiatrist. This is good, if you ask me.”

“Good?” said Marc. “Dealing with other people’s nasty-ass foot fungus is good?”

Siddharth let out a laugh and slapped him five.

Later that week, Ms. Farber called Bobby’s mother, RSVPing for him and soliciting an invitation for Marc. She said she was letting Marc go despite his grounding since he’d been so positive lately. “If you keep it up, Marc,” she said, “you might just drive before the age of twenty-five.”

The party was at Amity Rec, an arcade on the Woodford — New Haven border. Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber drove the boys there the following Saturday. As the adults listened to a report about the Democratic presidential primaries, Siddharth grew nervous. He dreaded the idea of Marc seeing him among his classmates. If Luca were to say something, Marc might find out the truth about him. He might stop talking to him, and then Siddharth would go back to being alone. He’d been especially anxious about their friendship over the past couple of weeks. Marc had quit karate because he couldn’t juggle it with baseball. Without karate to link them, Siddharth worried that that their connection might start to dissolve.

Fortunately, they were still seeing a lot of each other, and they spoke on the phone as well. In fact, not much had changed at all. Siddharth had decided to take a break from karate too, but Ms. Farber was still picking him up from school, even when Marc had practice. Sometimes she brought him back to her house. Other times, she brought him straight to his own home, and together they waited for Mohan Lal to return from work. When Mohan Lal finally arrived, he cooked them delicious dinners — Indian food, but also his lasagnas and eggplant parmigiana.

Before reaching the arcade, they stopped at a record store to buy Bobby a birthday present. Mohan Lal insisted they get him a cassette and not a CD. He said, “I’m fifty-eight years old, and I’ve yet to indulge in such extravagances.” Marc picked out a tape by NWA, but Ms. Farber said she didn’t like the looks of it. “Those men on the front,” she said, “they look like criminals.”

Marc said, “Mom, I thought you used to be an artist.”

“I am an artist. But something tells me this doesn’t qualify as art.”

They ended up opting for Siddharth’s choice, an album by EMF, and then Ms. Farber used some newspaper and Marc’s new Swiss Army knife to wrap it. Her wrapping job failed to impress Siddharth, whose mother had been an expert at such chores. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the party had already started. Mohan Lal handed Siddharth a quarter and told him to call them at Ms. Farber’s twenty minutes before they were ready to come home.

“Marc, I’m trusting you,” said Ms. Farber. “Siddharth, make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Mom, I’m trusting you ,” replied Marc.

The boys strode past gaggles of smoking adolescents, Puerto Ricans with flattops and gang beads, and ponytailed white kids with jean jackets and pimples. They went straight to the food court and found the tables with the balloons. None of the other guests were around, but Bobby Meyers was there in a blue blazer and jeans. He was carrying a clipboard and had a leather fanny pack around his waist. “Welcome,” he said, jotting something down before holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks,” said Siddharth. “This is Marc. Your mom said he could come.”

“Oh, I know this guy.” Bobby grinned, revealing a dimple. “We go way back.”

Marc shook his hand and clapped him on the back. “What up? Happy birthday, Bobby.”

“Everyone’s having a great time.” Bobby pulled out two rolls of tokens from his fanny pack. “These are for you — spend ’em any way you want.” He winked, then handed them over. “Oh, and please keep an eye on the clock. Pizza will be served in precisely forty-three minutes.”

“Thanks,” said Siddharth.

“Wait,” said Marc, “should we synchronize our watches?”

Bobby’s face became stony for a second, but then he broke into a smile. “Guy, you’re hysterical. That’s funny stuff.”

* * *

After a few games of pinball, Marc led Siddharth toward a video game that simulated the experience of piloting a real military helicopter. Marc inserted five tokens into it, and the game rattled and shook as he gunned down enemy aircraft. He played so well that a group of ponytailers started hovering around. When he finally lost, the ponytailers clapped, and a screen prompted him to enter his initials into a top-scorers chart.

Siddharth patted him on the shoulder. “You should be a pilot someday.”

“My cousin Brian,” said Marc, “he’s in the Israeli air force — only twenty-two, and the kid flies an F-15.”

As they headed back to the food court, Siddharth felt someone flick him in the ear. He turned around and saw Luca Peroti. Shit, he thought. Siddharth had just seen him a day earlier, but Luca looked different. He’d pierced his left ear, and his hair had changed too. It was shaved on the sides and floppy on top, just like Marc’s.

“What up?” said Luca. “No hug, kid?”

“Hey, Luca.” Siddharth wanted to flee.

“Sid, who’s your friend here?” said Marc.

“Yo, Marc,” said Luca, “it’s Luca. Luca P.? From basketball? Holy Infant basketball?”

“Rings a bell,” said Marc.

Luca smiled, revealing his multicolored braces. “You’re a jokester, kid. We were in the same league for a whole freaking season.”

Squinting, Marc tilted his head to one side. “Wait, you were, like, fatter back then. Right?”

Luca’s face turned red, and he glanced down at his black Adidas. “Yo, Marc, why you hanging out with this tool?”

Siddharth swallowed. He wished Ms. Farber hadn’t made them come.

“You mean Sidney?” Marc placed a hand on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Are you calling him a tool? Because he’s, like, one of my best friends. So if you’re calling him a tool, you’re kind of calling me a tool too.”

“Yo, I was just kidding,” said Luca.

“You sure?” said Marc, puffing out his chest.

“Siddharth and I go way back,” said Luca. “We’ve been friends for, like, years.”

Marc smiled. “You know, Siddharth here just ran out of tokens. You got any left? I’m sure he’d appreciate a few.”

Luca stuffed his hands into the pockets of his acid-washed jeans. He pulled out some candy wrappers and two rust-colored tokens, which he offered to Siddharth.

“Thanks,” he said, suppressing a smile.

“That was extremely kind,” said Marc. “You know, it’s important to be respectful to this kid. He’s, like, royalty.”

“What?” said Luca.

Siddharth furrowed his brow. He had no idea where Marc was going with this.

A PA announcement interrupted them, requesting all members of the Meyers birthday party to proceed to the food court.

“His great-great-grandfather?” said Marc. “He was, like, an Indian prince — with a castle and elephants and shit. He even had people to wipe his ass for him.”

Siddharth figured it out: Marc was referring to something Mohan Lal had said to Ms. Farber ages ago, way back in the fall.

Marc’s eyes were gleaming. “I guess that means you should probably bow down — or kiss his hand or something.”