Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

She gave his neck a long smooch, and Siddharth had to look away.

Mohan Lal tapped his wristwatch. “We should be leaving.”

Siddharth stood up and removed the letter from the floor. “Would somebody please tell me where you guys are going tonight?” he asked sharply.

Ms. Farber winked at him. “Honey, we’re going to your school.”

“You’re joking.” Siddharth’s stomach tightened.

“I’m not.” She pulled out a brochure from her purse and used it to swat him on the head. “There’s an event in the gymnasium.”

He grabbed the pamphlet. Upon reading it, he felt relieved. They were going to some dumb-ass meeting about something called Dianetics, which could help people “unlock their true potential.” He threw the pamphlet onto the coffee table, which was neat and tidy for a change, then watched Ms. Farber apply lipstick to her contorted mouth. She pulled Mohan Lal toward the door and said, “Be good, boys. We’re trusting you.”

* * *

Once the adults had pulled out of the driveway, Siddharth followed Marc to the dining room and watched him kneel down on the orange carpet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?” said Marc. “I’m gonna get us happy.”

Siddharth watched Marc open a cabinet that contained stacks of china, teacups, and glasses. The next cabinet held piles of old Indian and Pakistani periodicals, and Christmas cards people had sent the Aroras in the eighties.

Marc asked, “Where the hell did the booze go?”

Siddharth pointed to a third cabinet door. Marc yanked it open, and the boys stared at Mohan Lal’s sizable stash of alcohol. Most of it consisted of unopened bottles of whiskey, a few of which looked fancy. Mohan Lal used to buy these from duty-free airport shops on his way back from India. Barry Uncle had given him a couple as birthday presents.

Marc reached into a corner and pulled out a bottle of brown liquid called Old Monk XXX, unscrewing its cap and sniffing it. “Shit looks Indian,” he said. “Smells good, but he might notice.” He pulled out a half-empty bottle of Gilbey’s Gin, then took a swig and sighed. “This’ll do just fine.” He gulped some more, and a few beads of sweat appeared on the bridge of his freckled nose. He wiped them away with the bottom of one of his shirts. He was wearing a red short-sleeve T-shirt, and a black full-sleeve shirt underneath it. “I could get used to this.” He took out a glass and poured some gin, then handed the drink to Siddharth. “Bottoms up,” he said. “Before they get back from their retard festival.”

Siddharth accepted the glass. It was crystal and had an intricate, heavy base. Holding it in his hands, he felt guilty. And a little sad. His father hadn’t touched these glasses since his mother had died, and even back then he would only use them on special occasions.

“Go for it,” said Marc. “I promise you’re not gonna die.”

Siddharth brought the vessel to his lips and sipped. The fiery liquid got stuck in his throat, and he sprayed it all over Marc’s shirt.

“Dumb-ass,” said Marc, but he was smiling. He took another swig from the bottle.

Siddharth wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. “You think it’s retarded?”

“You’re not retarded — just a little goofy sometimes.”

“Shut up. I mean this thing they went to — that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“You know: visualizing things, being born again— that stuff.”

Marc tucked his bangs behind his ear. “Yo, I think I can already feel it.”

Siddharth drank some gin and managed to get it down this time. “I’ve been in a plane hundreds of times, and there’s definitely no heaven up there. I mean, it kind of makes sense really.”

Marc squinted at him. “What makes sense? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know, reincarnation — that kind of shit.”

“Oh God, not you too.” Marc shook his head. “All this shit is getting on my freaking nerves. Listen, when you’re dead, you’re dead, and that’s it. Hell, they don’t even believe half of the crap they’re saying.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Believe me, it’s like a code language or something. They’d rather be screwing each other twenty-four seven, but they can’t do that — not with us around, anyway. All this philosophical mumbo-jumbo, it’s just bullshit they talk about to get their mind off fucking each other’s brains out.”

Siddharth forced another sip of liquor down his throat and winced.

Marc laughed. “There you go.” He poured more gin into Siddharth’s crystal glass.

Siddharth took another long swig. “What do you mean, fucking each other?” He had his suspicions about his father’s sex life. He knew that Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber had kissed, but maybe they had done a bit more.

“You know, sexual intercourse?” said Marc. “When a man inserts his penis into a vagina?”

“Yeah, thanks. You really think they’re doing it?”

“We’re sleeping over at your house tonight. They’re gonna sleep in the same freaking bed. What do you think they’re gonna do? Tickle each other?”

“What?” Siddharth felt his lip begin to tremble. “You’re sleeping over?”

“What do you think’s in my bag? Toys?”

Siddharth finished his drink and tried to tell himself that Marc was lying, but knew this wasn’t true. Mohan Lal had been acting strange. He had been acting strange because he was keeping something from him. How could his father have done this? Arjun had called him selfish, and their mother had said the same thing. Once, his parents had been fighting because her sister was supposed to visit for two whole months. Mohan Lal didn’t want her there for such a long time, and Siddharth’s mother called him egotistical. She said that his ego would get in the way of their family’s happiness, and Mohan Lal got into his shitty Dodge Omni and sped down the driveway.

Staring at Marc, Siddharth now saw his father for the selfish man he was. He liked to talk but not listen. He was only nice to people who were nice to him. Siddharth had always thought that Mohan Lal had become friends with Ms. Farber to make things easier for his son. But maybe he was only in it for himself — for the sex. This thought made him actually shudder.

Marc poured him some more booze. “I didn’t think you were that stupid, Sidney. Look, at least somebody’s getting some.”

Siddharth couldn’t calm his frenzied nerves. “Yo, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do. Our parents are doing it, Siddharth. They’re having sex. They’ve done it at my house, and tonight they’re gonna do it here — right in your father’s bed. Maybe they’ll even make us a little brother.”

Siddharth’s stomach began to lurch. He gave Marc a shove.

Marc laughed. “Are you serious? Try doing that again.”

Siddharth froze for a second. He wanted to kick his friend in the balls or bite his face off, but instead he ran toward the bathroom and locked himself inside. With his back against the door, he took some deep breaths. The breathing failed to settle his stomach; it failed to still his mind. He wondered if he was drunk — if he might puke. His body felt hot, so he cupped some water into his mouth. Doing so only exacerbated his nausea.

He wondered what they did together. Was it regular sex? Or the stuff he had seen in the movies? Had Ms. Farber sucked his father’s dick? Had Mohan Lal stuck his penis between her tits? Licked her pussy? The man suddenly seemed like a stranger, a sex addict who would do anything for a naked body. Betray his wife. Betray his kids. But it wasn’t his fault. Mohan Lal was sad and confused, and Ms. Farber was a slut. She was the one who had led him in this disgusting direction.