Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

Eric tells Timmy to raise his leg in the air. Says he wants to shoot Timmy on the sole of his sneaker.

Siddharth can already picture the blood dripping onto the grass. Says, You sure that’s a good idea?

Eric says, Don’t be a pussy. You’ll see — I’m gonna shoot you next. It hurts less than a bee sting.

Timmy raises his foot in the air. Siddharth swallows.

And then the bell rings.

It’s Mrs. Connor’s bell, calling them in for lunch.

Eric says, Dangit!

Timmy laughs.

The three boys run toward the Connors’ white two-story home. Naomi, the Connors’ black mutt, trots alongside them. Mr. and Mrs. Connor are on the back deck, which is adjacent to their inground swimming pool. Siddharth has swum in this pool many times, but he will never swim in it again. The wooden picnic table is set for lunch. Mrs. Connor has made Hamburger Helper and boiled vegetables. He hates his parents’ Indian food, but it tastes better than this putrid stuff. It even smells better than Mrs. Connor’s cooking.

Everyone sits down. It’s late May, but already very hot. Siddharth wipes the sweat from his brow with his T-shirt. Asks, Did my dad call? He’s starting to get a little worried. Wonders why they are taking so long. Thinks, They must have gone out to lunch after dropping the car at the garage. He feels a surge of irritation. Of envy. Why do they always do things like that without him?

Mr. Connor adjusts his big steel glasses. Wipes his hands on his fraying jean shorts and takes a bite out of his sandwich. Says, Sit tight — your brother will be here soon. And don’t worry. If he’s late, we’ll take you to church today.

Mrs. Connor bounces a hand off her red curly hair. Shoots her husband a look.

Siddharth definitely doesn’t want to go with them to church today. Wonders what that look was all about. Wonders if they’re acting weird. Yes, they’ve been strange all day. Quiet. And nice. They haven’t yelled at Eric and Timmy even once. Usually they’re always hollering at them. About their chores. About making their beds and not drinking too much Coke. Siddharth gets to drink as much Coke as he wants at his own home. He wishes he could be on one of his new leather sofas right now, drinking a cold glass of Coke.

Mr. Connor shrugs his shoulders. Says, with his mouth full, What? It might do some good, Rita. Relax.

Mrs. Connor says, Siddharth, honey, how about some ice cream for dessert?

Ice cream? says Siddharth. He puts down his sandwich. Something is definitely awry. The Connor boys are only allowed ice cream on very special occasions. He wonders what has happened. Has something happened to his mother? No, that isn’t possible. It isn’t possible, because he has just considered the possibility of it happening. When he imagines something bad occurring, he knows he is negating the possibility of it ever actually taking place. He tells himself that the Connor boys must be in trouble. Maybe they’ve found out that Eric has a girlfriend and has gotten really far with her. The Connors go to church a lot, and they probably wouldn’t like that. Siddharth’s mother doesn’t go to church, but she wouldn’t like that either. When Arjun said he wanted to start dating, she was the one who got angry. The one who said he was way too young.

His train of thought is disrupted by the sound of the doorbell. It rings three times, in the way that Arjun rings doorbells. He is relieved. Wishes he hadn’t eaten so much Hamburger Helper. He could have waited and had lunch with his own family.

* * *

He and Arjun walk silently down the Connors’ driveway, which they get repaved every year, so it’s always smooth and shiny. Unlike the Aroras’ cracked driveway, which, as Timmy Connor frequently points out, hasn’t been repaved in ages. Since before the Aroras moved into the house.

He says, Arjun, we’re taking the long way home.

So? says Arjun.

So, why? Why are we taking the long way home?

Arjun doesn’t respond, just places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. At first this squeeze feels nice. A love squeeze. But Arjun presses down harder. Much harder.

Ow, he says. Quit it.

Mr. Iverson is in front of his mud-colored raised ranch home, washing down the fanged wheels of his yellow bulldozer with a garden hose. Mr. Iverson drives a Harley-Davidson on weekends. He used to have a ponytail and a beard, but he chopped off his hair and now just has a mustache. He waves. Says, Kiddo, tell your dad I got his part for him. I’ll bring it over in the morning. Arjun waves back. Says, Sure, no problem. Siddharth tells himself that everything is okay. Mr. Iverson will bring over a part tomorrow morning, so everything must be fine.

They pass the ever-present puddle in front of his bus stop, which he and the Connors use as a skating rink in winter. Pass Mr. Hines’s Mercedes, which is parked on the street for some reason, with a green cloth draped over it. Siddharth loves that car, the only nice car in the neighborhood. Wishes his father would spend less money on books — and that his mother wouldn’t make them go to India — so that the family could be seen in such a car. The sight of the cream-colored vehicle peeking from under a corner of the cover makes him forget about Arjun’s heavy hand.

There are way too many cars parked in front of his own driveway. There’s a car he doesn’t recognize, a long Lincoln, and there’s Barry Uncle’s Accord, even though he’s supposed to be in New Jersey on business. But his mother’s LeBaron isn’t there. Maybe’s she’s sick, he thinks. Maybe her shitty boss made her work again, even though she’s supposed to have the day off after being on call.

When they get to their mailbox, Arjun pauses. Siddharth doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to hear whatever Arjun is about to explain. He stares at the daffodils and crocuses sprouting at the base of the mailbox. His mother planted these bulbs several weeks ago, and he’d grudgingly agreed to help her. The flowers look pretty now, and he might like to paint them. He wants to charge toward the house, break into a run, like he always does upon reaching the mailbox. But Arjun’s hand squeezes him again. Hard.

What the hell! says Siddharth.

I need to talk to you, says Arjun.

He stares at their single-story home. Thinks, Eric Connor is right. The wooden exterior looks shitty, and they should get aluminum siding. Arjun kneels down, so that he is eye level with him. Siddharth notices that his brother’s glasses are smudged and stained. That his brother’s eyes are red. That his brother’s breath reeks like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in several days. Siddharth wants to cover his ears. To place his hand over Arjun’s mouth. To run back to the Connors’. But he stands frozen. And Arjun tells him.

Upon hearing the news, he feels like spitting at his brother for playing such a cruel joke. But knows that Arjun will hit him hard, so hard that he’d cry. And he doesn’t want to cry. The last thing he wants to do right now is cry. He says, Fuck you, Arjun. He has never said fuck in front of his brother before, let alone to him. It makes him feel better.

Arjun’s face scrunches up. He begins to sob. Pulls him into his chest. Siddharth stays there for a minute, breathing in his brother’s sweat and tears. Then can’t take it anymore. He pushes Arjun away and charges toward the house. So that he can tell on Arjun. So that he can find out what’s really going on. So that he can tell his brother that he’s an asshole. A baby.

He sees Barry Uncle on the sofa, and as soon as he walks in, Barry Uncle looks away. There’s an Indian woman there, and he knows her, and there’s a white man with a big belly, and he knows him too. But he can’t locate their names anywhere inside his brain. He sees his father in the kitchen, pouring hot water from a kettle into mugs. Mohan Lal, who wears sweatpants and the same collared polo all summer, has on a thick gray suit. He’s wearing a thick, gray suit even though he doesn’t have to go back to work until September.