Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“Let’s go to Wendy’s,” said Marc. “Call your dad from there, Sid. It’ll be safer.”

“Screw that,” said Luca. “My moms’ll be here in, like, ten. She can take you home. Wait, there she is right now.” He pointed to the busy road. “That’s her shitter, right there at the traffic light.”

* * *

Mrs. Peroti’s station wagon had wooden paneling on its exterior and smelled like an ashtray inside. Luca sat shotgun, and Siddharth sat next to Luca’s little brother, who was sucking on his fingers.

“What the heck’s going on here?” asked Mrs. Peroti.

“Just step on it,” said Luca. “Get the hell out of here, Ma.”

Mrs. Peroti pulled out of the parking lot. “And who are they?”

“My friends,” said Luca. “We gotta take ’em home.”

“Hi, friends.” She had a strawberry-blond perm. “Something’s wrong here, and I’m gonna find out what. You I know,” she said to Siddharth. “But who are you?”

“I’m Marc. Nice to meet you.”

“Marc who?”

“Marc Kaufman.”

“Never heard of you.”

“My mother’s Rachel Farber.”

“You mean the psychologist?”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

Siddharth detected some sort of secret meaning in her tone — like she looked down upon Ms. Farber or something.

As Marc gave Mrs. Peroti directions, Siddharth’s whole body continued to throb. But he didn’t feel entirely rotten. A part of him was exhilarated. A part of him was numb. He noticed that Luca’s little brother was staring at him; the kid’s eyes were bright blue and strangely large.

“Hello,” said Siddharth.

The kid just giggled. He started making a buzzing sound with his lips, and little drops of spittle landed on Siddharth.

“Danny,” yelled Luca, “quit it or I’ll knock you out!”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” said Mrs. Peroti.

“Just ignore my brother,” said Luca. “He’s a ’tard.”

Mrs. Peroti gave Luca a hard slap on the back of the head, and he stuck his hand out the window and flashed his middle finger at the passing cars.

When they pulled into Marc’s driveway, Siddharth saw his father’s minivan parked underneath the hoop. He and Marc said thanks and headed to the front door.

“Yo, what’s up with your friend?” Marc asked.

“Luca? He’s okay sometimes.”

“Okay? He’s a total lunatic.”

“Yeah, he’s freaking nuts.”

The door wouldn’t open, so Marc rang the bell.

Mrs. Peroti rolled down her window. “You can come home with us if nobody’s home.”

“Oh, they’re definitely home,” Marc called back to her. “Thanks though.” He pounded on the door.

The Perotis reversed out of the driveway. A few moments later, Siddharth heard the sound of footsteps. When the door swung open, he couldn’t help but frown. His father was standing there, but he didn’t look right. His hair was out of place, and his face was sweaty.

“I told you to call,” said Mohan Lal.

Marc walked inside and tugged at Mohan Lal’s checkered shirt, which was untucked in the back. “I love the look, Dr. A. Very gangsta.”

Mohan Lal smiled and patted Marc’s arm.

Siddharth clenched his jaw and squeezed his temples. “Jesus, Dad, tuck in your damn shirt.”

Ms. Farber emerged from her bedroom with her hair wrapped in a towel. “Oh, boys,” she said. “How was the party?”

“A real blast,” replied Marc.

Siddharth wanted to say something. He wanted to say, The party was fine, but what the fuck were you two doing? Yet he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. He sat down on the sofa, took several deep breaths, and forced himself to think positive thoughts. It only looked like something weird was going on, but everything was actually fine. Mohan Lal had probably forgotten to tuck in his shirt after taking a shit. He’d probably gotten all sweaty because they’d taken a long walk.

Ms. Farber walked up to Mohan Lal and kissed him on the shoulder. “Marc, what did we say about sarcasm?” She removed a carton of milk from the fridge. “Boys, we could do a movie tonight. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Mom,” said Marc, “Dad’s gonna be here in an hour.”

She served the boys milk. “What about you two? What do you think, Mohan?”

Siddharth glared at his father.

Mohan Lal said, “We should go home, Rachel.”

“Home?” she said. “Why home?”

Siddharth needed to do something. “Dad, what about the epilogue? I thought you wanted to get started on your epilogue.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Mohan Lal. “This book won’t write itself. And then there’s piles and piles of grading.”

After the Pledge of Allegiance two days later, Mr. Latella said that the class would be reading Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper , passing out a copy of the book to each student. “These books stay here,” he instructed. “Bring ’em home at your own peril.”

Siddharth wrote his name inside the cover, where ten years of students had done the same thing. One of them was Brad Horowitz, who Arjun had been friends with in high school. Leafing through the novel, he realized that it was an illustrated and abridged edition. He was sick of this kiddie crap. He began drawing a caricature of his teacher on a loose sheet of paper.

Mr. Latella asked the kids to define the words in the novel’s title. Megan S. raised her hand, explaining that a pauper was someone who experienced hardship. The teacher gave her a high five, then said, “But what about prince , guys?”

“Duh,” said Luca. “We’re not, like, five.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants,” said Mr. Latella. “Tell us what it means then.”

“A prince?” Luca snorted. “He’s, like, the son of a queen.”

“But what’s a queen? Words that seem easy can actually be pretty tough.”

Siddharth focused on his drawing, penciling in the man’s hefty torso. He drew the little horse that was stitched into the breast of his short-sleeve shirt. It wasn’t a real Polo horse, but one with wings, which reinforced the fact that Mr. Latella was lame.

The teacher clicked his tongue. “Come on, guys, what’s a prince? This is baby stuff.”

“Yo,” said Luca, “why don’t you ask Siddharth?”

“Luca, let’s quit while we’re ahead,” said Mr. Latella.

“I’m serious,” said Luca. “He should know.”

“And you shouldn’t?”

“Well, I’m not, like, royalty.”

A few sets of eyes turned to Siddharth. He put down his yellow pencil and turned to Luca, who separated his lips and flicked out his tongue. Siddharth had no idea where this was going, though he knew it wouldn’t end well. He had hoped that things would change between him and Luca after Bobby’s party, but the kid had barely glanced in his direction since Sunday.

Mr. Latella slammed his chalk down on the ledge of the blackboard, generating a tiny cloud of dust. “Can you keep your mouth shut, Mr. Peroti?”

“I didn’t even do anything,” said Luca, throwing his hands in the air.

Mr. Latella’s forehead went red. “You’re a real wise guy, Luca. You know that?”

“But I’m not kidding. Just ask him. Ask Siddharth.”

“You’re gonna be sorry, Luca.”

“Hit me,” said Luca. “I’ll sue.”

Mr. Latella walked over to Siddharth and thumped his hand down on his desk.

Siddharth winced. He placed his wrists over his drawing and stared at them in anticipation of what would follow.

“So, Siddharth,” said Mr. Latella, “your new friend back there is making some claims about you. He’s saying something about your family. Are you gonna sit there and let him do that? Isn’t there something you wanna say to him?”