Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“His son?” said Siddharth. “Uh, he’s my brother.” Several students laughed. He wasn’t sure if they were laughing at him or with him. He recalled Arjun’s observation: The funniest kids are the coolest ones . “If he was my father,” Siddharth continued, “he would have had me when he was, like, seven. They’d probably put him in The Guinness Book of World Records or something.”

The class erupted with laughter.

“Well, he was a beautiful writer,” said Mrs. Wadsworth. “I’ll be expecting great things from you, Mr. Arora. And no funny business, because I know your mother too. My husband was a veteran of the Second World War — God rest his soul — so I had the privilege of making her acquaintance.”

Siddharth stared down at his desk, telling himself that most of the other kids didn’t know a thing about him or his family. And the ones who had known probably didn’t remember. But he felt a pair of eyes on him and turned to find Sharon looking in his direction. Her hair was much shorter, and a little darker, and pimples now marred her cheeks. She offered him a faint smile, but he ignored it, returning his attention to the front of the classroom.

Later that week, they were going over their first reading assignment in English class, Jack London’s “To Build a Fire,” which Siddharth hadn’t liked as much as Call of the Wild. He stared out the window during the classroom discussion, and Mrs. Wadsworth slammed her book on her table to get his attention. She demanded that he tell her about the story’s principle theme. Siddharth said, “The theme? I dunno — like, winter sucks.” Various students snickered, which made him feel good, but when he saw Sharon covering her mouth and grinning, he felt a real rush. He didn’t know why, but he liked making her laugh. He wanted to make her laugh even harder.

Another time, they were reading a short story by Kipling, and Mrs. Wadsworth singled him out to ask if the story rang true. He said, “Ring true? I don’t even know what that means.”

“What I mean is, does this story’s description of India seem authentic to you?”

“Authentic? How am I supposed to know?”

“I’m quite certain you’ve been to India before. At least your brother was a well-traveled young man.”

He turned to Sharon, who was smirking, which made his chest tingle. Sharon’s smile made him feel gutsy. Strong. “If this was really India,” he said, “then the characters would be complaining about how bad it smells. They’d probably say something about their stomach hurting, because if you eat anything there, you get really bad diarrhea.” He turned to Sharon, who was laughing so hard that she snorted. He felt like he had won some sort of victory.

The pair also had fifth-period science together, and during the second week of school, when their teacher, Mr. Polanski, told the students to pick a permanent lab partner, Sharon asked him to work with her. He didn’t really know anybody else in the class and said yes. By the end of the month, they were speaking on the phone at least once a week to complete their lab reports.

At first he dreaded these phone conversations, fearing that she would bring up what had happened between them. But Sharon never mentioned their fight. She didn’t mention Luca Peroti, and talking on the phone with her — an actual girl — began to make him feel good, even if she was still a pariah who had lugged around that stupid trumpet case. In some ways, Sharon had changed a lot since sixth grade. The most noticeable thing was that she was quieter now — more serious. She never wore skirts or dresses anymore, just black jeans or black tights, and baggy sweatshirts that fell below her waist. But he could tell that her breasts had gotten bigger, and he liked the way she decorated her eyes. They were always outlined in black, and her eyelashes seemed longer. They seemed wetter than everyone else’s. He occasionally wondered if she’d be more game to put out for him than the popular girls, but he always repented this line of thinking. Luca wouldn’t let him live it down if he hooked up with a freak like Sharon Nagorski.

During their phone conversations, he and Sharon soon began talking about topics unrelated to English or earth science. At first, he preferred to keep focused on simple things, like their teachers, music, or the latest season of Beverly Hills 90210, a program Arjun said was indicative of America’s postwar decline. But Sharon, just as before, liked to get more personal. She told him about her weekends, which were surprisingly exciting. He had imagined that she sat in her bedroom alone on weekends playing trumpet and reading, but she usually hung out with her older brother’s friends, some of whom had dropped out of high school. These kids were often at Sharon’s house, drinking beer and playing bumper pool while her mother was at work. Sharon said she didn’t like booze, but she smoked cigarettes, one a day and more on weekends. She said, “Drinking’s lame. It turns people into jerks. Cigarettes are different though. They help you think more. They make all the annoying shit in life a little bit better.”

He told her about his weekends, though he was careful to censor these conversations and leave out any details involving Luca. He also avoided mentioning Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber. But as the weeks passed, he found himself opening up about other parts of his life; Sharon was the only person he told about Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s the big deal?”

He tried to explain that Pakistanis were bad people.

“But why?” she asked. “What did they ever do to you ?”

“It’s complicated. They’ve just always been cruel to Indians, for like thousands of years. And if my dad finds out, he’ll go ape shit.”

“I think it’s romantic,” said Sharon. “Very Romeo and Juliet. ”

“That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

“Duh.”

“Shakespeare fucking sucks.”

“Siddharth, you sound stupid when you say things like that. You sound like such a typical guy.”

“What’s wrong with that? I am a typical guy.”

“No you’re not.”

Sharon told him about her parents’ legal battles over alimony and their fight over their large collection of LPs. Her father now lived on a lake in North Carolina and sometimes played harmonica in a band. She hadn’t yet visited his new house, as he was usually driving his truck, moving freight between Florida and Kentucky. Her mother worked the night shift at the phone company, and on Fridays as a waitress at a Tex-Mex restaurant; she spent Saturday evenings with her new boyfriend, who Sharon said was dopey but fine. On the phone one night, Siddharth asked her if her mother was going to marry him.

“I hope not,” she said. “What about your dad?”

“What about my dad?”

“Him and Ms. Farber — are they gonna tie the knot?”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Come on, Sid. Don’t be so immature.”

“I’m not being immature.”

“So answer my question. How serious are they?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“You’re not stupid,” said Sharon. “I mean, they’re sleeping together — right?”

“Gross. No way.” He needed to change the subject. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you ever done it?”

“I just turned thirteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, how far have you gotten?”

“Siddharth, what I do with my boyfriend is none of your business.”

“Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?”

“It’s no big deal. He’s just a friend of my brother’s.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying. He’s from East Haven.”