Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

Arjun was now a freshman at the University of Michigan. He claimed he had chosen Michigan because they were offering him a huge scholarship. He said he couldn’t turn down all that money now that the family had only one income to rely on. Siddharth believed this on most days, but sometimes he had the feeling that Arjun was lying. In some moments, he thought Arjun had chosen Michigan because he needed to get away from them. Two days before leaving for college, Arjun had said, “I need to move forward, Siddharth. But Dad — he doesn’t want to. What about you? What do you want? I’m not convinced you’re committed to your own happiness.”

Some withering yellow leaves wafted by his feet. They crackled when he stepped on them. Sharon kept on telling her story, but he wasn’t paying her much attention. He tried thinking more positive thoughts, just as Arjun had instructed. He thought about his father, who had seemed a little happier lately. Mohan Lal was waking up earlier. He had begun cooking decent things once or twice a week — lasagnas and his famous tacos — just as he had promised while Siddharth was sobbing on the endless car ride home from Michigan. A few weeks earlier, Mohan Lal had signed a book contract with Walton Publishers. They had read one of his articles on ethics in marketing and commissioned him to write a textbook. Since then, he was still drinking Scotch every night, but a pale yellow glass, not two amber ones. Since then, he had even resumed calling old friends in California and Oklahoma. He complained to them about the bastards in the Congress Party, about the idiocy of the Gulf War. The only person he wouldn’t speak to was Barry Uncle. Siddharth still couldn’t decide whether this boycott of Barry Uncle was a good thing or a bad one.

Eddie Benson started hollering on the kickball field, which snapped Siddharth out of his trance. “We gotta live one!” Eddie motioned for his fielders to back up. “Dave’s a shrimp, but he can kick like a beast!” Eddie rolled the ruby-red kickball toward home plate, where David Marcus was standing poised. David swung his leg back and made contact, and the ball soared toward third base, where Luca Peroti was standing. It flew over Luca’s head and bounced in the outfield. Then it rolled by Siddharth and Sharon.

“Great,” said Sharon.

Luca charged toward the ball, right in their direction. “Yo, you blind?” he yelled. “Grab that shit!”

Siddharth’s heart was thumping, and his mouth was suddenly parched. He sprang up and jogged toward the ball, then bent down to scoop it up. By the time he got back to Sharon, Luca’s large frame was casting a shadow over their spot.

“What’s up, ladies?” said Luca. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and nylon soccer shorts, his boxers sticking out from underneath them. “Planning the wedding, are we?”

“You’re hilarious, Luca,” said Sharon.

Luca smiled, bouncing a hand off his spiky hair. “A nerd and a loser — it’s a match made in heaven.” He peered at Siddharth. “Kid, you’re giving me that look again. You wanna bang me or something?”

Siddharth tossed him the ball, hoping Mr. Latella would blow the whistle and end recess early.

“Nice throw,” said Luca.

He wasn’t sure if Luca was being sarcastic or actually paying him a compliment.

The kids on the baseball diamond emitted a series of shouts and whoops, but Luca just stood there smiling.

“They’re waiting for you,” said Sharon.

Luca started shaking his head, then reached down and lunged for Siddharth’s sketchpad.

Sharon leaped to her feet. “Put it down, Luca. Give it back.”

Siddharth tried to move, but his legs were frozen. Luca held the sketchpad over his head. Sharon jumped for it but couldn’t reach. She kept on hopping, and Luca dodged her hands.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” said Luca. “You’re gonna wanna stay back.” He started thumbing through the pages, and his smile reappeared. Siddharth caught a glimpse of his multicolored braces.

Luca said, “Damn, shit isn’t bad.”

“That doesn’t belong to you,” said Sharon.

Luca held one of Siddharth’s sketches close to his face. “Nagorski, I always knew you had it in you. I mean, this stuff is kinda kinky. This is kinda hot!”

Siddharth glanced down at his beat-up Nikes, unsure of what to do. Thankfully, Mr. Latella blew his whistle. Luca chucked the sketchpad to the ground and ran toward the baseball diamond, where he was greeted with shrieks and high fives. Siddharth and Sharon lined up by the brick wall in preparation to return to class.

“Jesus Christ, Siddharth,” said Sharon.

“What?” he said defensively.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He scoffed. “What was I supposed to say?”

“You could’ve stood up for us. You could’ve told him they were yours.”

* * *

As Siddharth rode the bus home, it started pouring again. That’s the way September had been — days of rain with only glimpses of sunshine. The shouting and laughter of the other kids ricocheted against the vehicle’s metal walls, but he was happy to be alone. He hugged his arms and pressed his knees into the veins of the vinyl seat in front of him. He was worried about what would happen if Luca told everybody about the drawings. Being a nobody was one thing; being a freak was an entirely different story. At least it was a Monday, and his father would be home. At least he didn’t have to stay at his stupid after-school program, where he had too much time to think bad thoughts.

Soon he was the last one left on the bus, which was barreling toward the blooming cornfields of Miller Farm, with its dilapidated barns and rickety farmhouses. Sharon had lived in one of these houses before her parents’ divorce. Siddharth’s mother used to say that Miller Farm milk was overpriced, but she’d gone there with an easel and canvas a couple of times. He wondered if Sharon’s mother had ever talked with her while she was painting. The bus driver took a left from Miller Avenue onto New England Lane, and Siddharth looked forward to hugging his father and watching some television.

Now they were back in his own neighborhood, where he had lived ever since he was a baby. He knew almost everyone here — the D’Angelos, who lived in a gray Cape Cod and owned a used-car lot, and Mr. Iverson, who rode a Harley and had fought in Vietnam. Mr. Roderick Connor, Timmy and Eric’s dad, was a Korean War vet. He lived in the neocolonial right behind the Aroras. Arjun had forced Siddharth to hang out with the Connor boys last fall, but they always ended up doing something that made him feel bad. Timmy once said, “I’m hungry. Maybe we could have those pizza bagels that your mom — I mean your parents — used to make.” Siddharth didn’t mind this slip-up; it was the way Timmy acted afterward that bothered him. He got all awkward and sweet, and even let him win at checkers.

The bus squeaked to a stop at the top of his street. He hoped his father would be waiting for him so that he wouldn’t get drenched on the walk home. The bus driver grunted goodbye, and he stepped out onto the road. All he encountered was a soup of mud and leaves by the sewer grate. A drenched squirrel was cowering on the horizontal branch of a dogwood. Siddharth pulled his hooded Michigan sweatshirt over his head. He loved this sweatshirt. Though he loathed sports, he obsessed over anything involving his brother’s Michigan Wolverines. He’d started watching Michigan football games on Sunday, just so that he could discuss Desmond Howard’s performance on the phone with Arjun. He plodded down the hill, weaving through an obstacle course of earthworms. He was relieved to see Mohan Lal’s vehicle parked in front of the house, the new Dodge minivan that they had bought to deliver Arjun to college.