Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“That’s wonderful,” said Mr. Latella. “We should all be grateful to these men. Do you know that? Do you know why?”

Nobody raised a hand.

Mr. Latella scanned the room, then let out a sigh of exasperation. “You guys are really still babies. I’ll say it again — they’re gonna eat you for breakfast in junior high.”

Siddharth looked up at the clock. There were only fourteen minutes remaining in this crappy day, but even Mr. Latella was better than his stupid after-school program. Even though he had only stayed after school three times in the last six months, when he did so, it was like he was a pathetic little fifth grader again. He would wander around the playground alone, time passing like a broken clock.

Mr. Latella pointed up at the American flag. “Let me tell you,” he said, “if it wasn’t for guys like John’s grandfather, we might not have that anymore. To be frank, you and me might not even be here today. We might not be able to vote, and we probably wouldn’t be free.” Mr. Latella explained that the next day they were going to make cards for Samantha’s father and John’s grandfather, and also for a battalion of soldiers who had fought in the Gulf War.

Siddharth wished he could be teleported to his sofa, and if that weren’t possible, he would rather just disappear — just evaporate into nothing. If only Marc would be waiting for him by the pay phone like he used to. Siddharth started making promises to God. If Marc showed up today, he swore to watch less TV and be nicer to his father. He swore to stop watching pornos, touching his penis, and smoking cigars. And then it happened: the phone on the cinder-block wall began to buzz.

Mr. Latella took the call and then told Siddharth to gather his things and go to the office. Siddharth smiled. He wanted to take back all his negative thoughts about religion and God.

* * *

With his backpack over his shoulder and Marc’s old hoodie dangling over his wrist, he walked down the hallway feeling relieved but also anxious. Who would be there for him? Ms. Farber? Marc? Both of them? He paused before entering the office and caught a glimpse of black denim through the windowed wall. It must be her , he thought. When it comes down to it, she’s really not that bad. He opened the door. The school secretary was standing behind the counter that separated the office from the reception area. She had short silver hair and was smiling. “All set, hon?” She peered at Siddharth over her tiny rimless reading glasses. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

Siddharth couldn’t speak. All he could do was stare at the man standing a few feet away from him. This man was wearing black jeans and a rugby shirt with fat yellow stripes. The man smiled, and his capped teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light.

The secretary cocked her head to one side. “Hon, you know this gentleman, right?”

The man took a step toward Siddharth. “Of course he knows me.” He had a booming, raspy drawl. “Known me since the day he was born.”

Siddharth wanted to turn around and run. He glanced down at a gummy black stain on the worn blue carpet.

The secretary scowled. “What’s his name, honey? Can you tell me his name?”

“Hi, Barry Uncle,” said Siddharth. He knew something really bad must have happened. His father had had a heart attack. He’d been carjacked. Bloody bits of his brain were splattered all over Boston Post Road.

The secretary brushed her forehead and recommenced her smiling. “Well, go on then,” she said. “Don’t be shy, honey.”

Barry Uncle opened his arms widely. “Come on, squirt. Give your uncle a hug.”

But Siddharth just stood there and stared. Barry Uncle’s hair used to be gray, but now it was jet black. His face had always been mottled, but today it was looser. His chest seemed thick and strong, and so did his shoulders. Though his stomach bulged like a basketball, and it rested on a leather fanny pack that was strapped around his waist.

Barry Uncle stepped toward him. He engulfed Siddharth in his arms and gave his head a vigorous rub, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

Siddharth clicked his tongue and used Marc’s sweatshirt to dry his wet face.

* * *

As they walked through the jam-packed parking lot, Siddharth parted his hair with his fingers. He noticed a few blue fissures forming in the dark sky. Some light-blue eggshells were lying in a clump of pachysandra, and he guessed they’d belonged to a family of robins. He asked, “Where’s my father?” He didn’t understand how his father could have done this to him. First he had made up with Barry Uncle without even saying anything, and now he’d sent the man to his school unannounced. Mohan Lal could be a real dick when he wanted to. He could be a negligent father.

“Working,” said Barry Uncle. “He asked me to take you for a little ride.” He pressed his keychain, and a burgundy Integra flashed its lights.

Siddharth seated himself in the car’s passenger seat and whistled as the electronic seat belt clicked into place automatically.

“It’s an old car,” said Barry Uncle. He started the engine and revved it. “I’m looking at a Beamer now.”

But Siddharth wasn’t in the mood to talk about cars. He wanted to know what was going on with his father.

“Or what do you think about a Porsche?”

“Beats me,” said Siddharth. “Get a Porsche. Go for a 911.”

Barry Uncle chuckled. “Good taste, kiddo. The Germans, they know engineering. They know lots of things. I dunno why your dad insists on that American junk.”

Despite his discomfort, Siddharth found himself smiling.

“I’ll work on him for you.” Barry Uncle unzipped his fanny pack and pulled out a tiny blue sachet, emptying its contents into his mouth, and the car suddenly smelled like mint and pepper — like Delhi. “We’ll get him driving something more appropriate.”

Barry Uncle drove fast, taking a right turn where he should have gone left. They didn’t pass the old white church or town hall like they were supposed to. A nervy roller-coaster feeling churned in Siddharth’s stomach, but it was better than the unabating deadness of the past few days. He was too stunned to talk. He just sat there absorbing his surroundings. An actual car phone rested behind the gearshift. Did it work? Could he use it to call his father?

From the rearview mirror dangled a cardboard cutout of a blue Hindu god. It somehow looked different from the deities that had once rested on Arjun’s nightstand. This god had chiseled pecs and a six-pack, and it didn’t seem all tranquil and girly.

Barry Uncle, still masticating the contents of his blue sachet, touched the god and brought his fingers to his forehead. “You like him?”

“Huh?”

“Who’s that? Can you tell me his name?”

Siddharth shook his head. He could only identify the gods that resembled animals.

Barry Uncle pressed a button to lower his window and then hawked a glob of phlegm. “Ain’t your fault. Your father’s a busy man. Believe me, women take up a lot of energy.”

Siddharth clenched his jaw and stared out the window. They were paused at the intersection of Center Road and Route 1. To the right was a bank that could have been a suburban home. When he was six, Mohan Lal had taken him there to open his first savings account.

The light changed, and Barry Uncle made a left. “So what do you think of her?”

“Who?”

“Of what’s-her-name.”

“Ms. Farber?”

“That’s it.” Barry Uncle snapped his fingers. “She pretty?”

He shrugged. No, he wanted to say, she’s a fucking dog. He punched some of the buttons on the car phone.

“Easy,” said Barry Uncle. “Emergency use only.”