Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

After the song was over, the whole gym seemed to be cheering and shouting, as if they were at a rock concert, not inside a school gymnasium. He clapped his hands more frenetically with each passing moment. The musicians bowed, and Sharon’s face turned bright red. As he looked on, his father’s words popped into his mind: There is no greater virtue than loyalty. He decided he was going to do it. When the commotion died down, he would get up and give her a hug.

The principal rose and made some announcements, and the students started mingling in little circles. David Marcus charged toward the stage, and Keith grabbed his hand and pulled him onto it. Siddharth remained seated, watching the two cousins exchange enthusiastic greetings. His heart thumped loudly when he saw Sharon wipe down her instrument. She placed it in its case and then hugged some girl, another band loser.

As he was finally about to offer congratulations, he paused upon seeing Eddie out of the corner of his eye. Eddie was miming that he was playing an instrument, a clarinet or a saxophone. Luca punched him on the shoulder and broke into laughter. Siddharth got up and rushed to the exit. He headed toward his next class, stopping on a concrete bench in the breezeway. The frigid air cooled his fevered face, and he felt calmer. He told himself that he had been loyal — to Luca, not Sharon.

It was New Year’s Eve. Siddharth was on the love seat, sipping a mixture of pink wine and Coca-Cola. Stand By Me was on cable as he flipped through an old issue of Playboy from the late seventies. The centerfold was a brunette who was smiling and wearing sunglasses on a beach chair. She was totally naked, but the picture failed to arouse him.

Marc was still in Florida, and Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber were out to dinner with some of her friends and Barry Uncle, who had just gotten back from Delhi. Siddharth was relieved to be alone after the past couple of weeks. Christmas break had been a haze of microwave french fries, snow shoveling, and general boredom. Ms. Farber had been up to her usual crap, rearranging the furniture and putting up pictures of the four of them. One evening a few days earlier, she had really pissed him off.

He had been in the middle of a Facts of Life episode when his father emerged from his office for the first time in hours. Mohan Lal was wearing stupid kurta pajamas, which he had always refused to wear until one day Ms. Farber said they were handsome. He seated himself on the sofa and asked what was happening in the show. Siddharth explained that a character named Natalie had almost been sexually assaulted.

“Natalie?” said Mohan Lal. “You mean the black?”

“No, the fat one.”

Ms. Farber clicked her tongue from the armchair, where she was reading. “What did you just call her?”

“Call who?” he said.

“Natalie.”

“Natalie? You mean fat? ”

Ms. Farber’s lips pursed with indignation, and she peered at him over the rims of her reading glasses.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just thought you would have a little more empathy — you’d be a little more sensitive after all you’ve been through.”

“All I’ve been through? What’s your freaking problem?”

“Siddharth!” said Mohan Lal, his voice stern and menacing. “Don’t you dare speak that way to Rachel.”

“Are you kidding me?” said Siddharth. “What ever happened to loyalty, Dad? I thought loyalty was the greatest virtue.”

Now Siddharth put down his Playboy and picked up his glass. As he finished off his purple concoction, he recalled the strange thing his father had said a couple of days after the Natalie incident. Mohan Lal had needed some salt for the driveway and rechargeable batteries for Marc’s old Walkman, which Mohan Lal had begun using, and he’d made Siddharth accompany him to the store. On the way home, Mohan Lal grasped Siddharth’s knee and told him he wanted to say something. Siddharth said, “I’m listening,” feeling hopeful. Maybe his father wanted to apologize. Maybe he would finally admit the truth about Ms. Farber — that she was a bossy bitch who talked too much.

Mohan Lal paused to let out a sigh. “Son, I want you to know something.”

“What is it?”

“Son, I want you to know that not once — not a single time — was I unfaithful to your mother.”

Siddharth groaned, then grabbed his head and stared out the window.

“And it’s not that there weren’t opportunities,” said Mohan Lal. “But I couldn’t hurt you. I couldn’t hurt my family.”

Siddharth went to the kitchen with his empty glass and dirty dinner plate, which he loaded into the dishwasher. He needed to talk to someone, but Arjun was in the middle of nowhere building fucking houses with his stupid Pakistani girlfriend. When Siddharth felt angry, he thought about telling Mohan Lal the truth about this girlfriend, but he never ended up going through with it. He suddenly felt a strong urge to speak with Luca, but Luca was still in Maryland. At least he had called a few days earlier, telling Siddharth that he had cheated on Jeanette with his hot second cousin. Siddharth was relieved to hear that Luca’s voice was back to normal — that he seemed to have forgotten about what had happened on the day before vacation. Luca had walked into his science class to deliver a note to the teacher, and that same night he phoned to say that Siddharth and Sharon had looked pretty cozy together.

“Gimme a break,” said Siddharth. “She’s my freaking lab partner.”

“Face it,” said Luca. “You’re best friends with a freaking dyke.”

“Well, you’re an asshole. Anyway, she has a boyfriend.”

“Sure, and I’m banging Kim Basinger,” said Luca.

“It’s true. I think they’re even screwing.”

At the time, saying this about Sharon had felt like the right thing to do — a way of actually protecting her — but now he felt guilty for having lied. He decided he would make up for it by being especially nice to her. He decided he would call her right now. He picked up the phone and dialed her number, and she picked up after five rings.

“Hello?”

“You’re back,” he said.

“Siddharth?”

“No, Ronald Reagan.”

“I never left,” she said. “My dad — he had to work.”

“Fucking blows.”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I can tell when something’s up,” she said.

“Sorry for calling. I just wanted to say Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Siddharth — but I really can’t talk right now.”

“Oh, let me guess: you’re with your boyfriend.”

“Siddharth, I have to go.”

When he put down the phone, he realized he was a little tipsy. Fuck Sharon , he thought. He told himself that she had a wild imagination — that her boyfriend probably wasn’t even real. He picked up his Playboy and examined a cigarette ad with a weather-beaten cowboy. On the following page was a photo that awakened his crotch. It depicted a brunette dancing in a smoky room, possibly a nightclub. She had on leather pants, but nothing on top except for a string of pearls. Her hands were running through her head of wild curls. He brought the magazine to the bathroom and locked himself inside. He had just turned thirteen, and his “cock curse” had been over for several months now. He could now get his penis to perform whenever he wanted. He imagined standing behind this woman and dancing. He imagined wrapping his arms around her waist, then moving them up to her nipples. But as he got closer to coming, images of Sharon invaded his mind. A scruffy older kid was kissing her neck, and she seemed to be really enjoying it. This was the picture he focused on as he ejaculated into the bathtub.