Mira Jacob - The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing

“I told you why Mandela, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just such a crime, what they’ve done to him. I mean, if you really think about—”

“You told me. I have.”

Contrary to Amina’s belief that he would buy all the paints and pass out from sheer exertion, Akhil had woken up with a bang, rejoining the Mathletes, rephrasing his political convictions, and stalking from one end of the campus to the other with newly hewn limbs. He was big now, man-sized, a fact that was not lost on Mindy Lujan, of all people.

“Hey, Amina, is that your brother?” she asked one afternoon as they sat on neighboring benches in the quad. Amina, startled by being personally addressed for the first time all year, almost didn’t understand the question. She looked where Mindy pointed. Akhil was striding out of the science building in the first pair of jeans that had fit him since November and a leather bomber jacket, recent gifts from an overjoyed Kamala.

“Yeah.”

“He’s fucking sexy . Like, the Indian James Dean or something.”

Akhil dug his hands deeper into his pockets, appearing to mutter to himself.

“Gross,” Dimple said.

“What?”

“He’s my cousin .”

Mindy crossed her legs. “So you can introduce us.”

“No way.”

“What, you want him for yourself?”

Dimple snorted. “Dis. Gus. Ting.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I’m not doing it.”

“Fine.”

Three days later Amina found them sitting on the hood of the station wagon, Dimple with legs and arms crossed, Mindy with bare legs in front of her, as though it were not February and barely warm in the direct sunlight. She waved as Amina approached.

“Hey! Where’ve you been?”

Amina scowled at Dimple. “Getting my prints from the darkroom.”

“Oh yeah, Dimple said you’re totally into your photography class or something.” Mindy eyed her notebook. “Can I see?”

“Amina is sort of private about her work,” Dimple said, flashing Amina a look. “I haven’t even seen them, right, Ami?”

“Here.” Amina handed Mindy the notebook.

“Cool.” Mindy thumped the small space between her and Dimple, who looked visibly uncomfortable. “Come on up. Let’s see.”

The hood of the car was warmer than Amina thought it would be, pressing into the backs of her thighs with the promise of spring and soft grass. She opened the notebook. The first photo was all hands and feet: her mother’s gnarled fingers clutching the B — Bi volume; Akhil’s feet oddly flexed forward and backward, like he was performing a ballet in another world; Akhil sleeping with a pillow over his head; Akhil eating dinner with his head in his hands. The last picture was Akhil in what Kamala had called the “Our Lord and Savior” position, head hanging over the edge of the couch, mouth open, back arched over the armrest, arms flung apart as though to embrace the ceiling. The hollow of his stomach disappeared into jeans that Amina now realized were unzipped.

“Shhhhhhhit,” Mindy breathed.

“He’s got a breath issue,” Dimple said. Mindy flipped the picture over. “So, I can have it?”

Amina felt herself warm, though she wasn’t sure if it was because she was pleased to be asked for the picture or because she didn’t want to give it away. Mindy leaned closer, her eyes reflecting the burgundy hood of the car, the shadow of Amina’s head. Her glossy lips parted to reveal rows of curiously small teeth, and Amina felt an astounding urge to rub noses with her, or purr, or roll over.

“Fucking finally ,” Dimple said. Amina turned to see Akhil walking across the parking lot, head ducked to his chest, one hand dug deep into his jeans pocket. He looked up suddenly and came to a halt.

“What are you doing here?” It wasn’t exactly clear whom he was asking, as he looked from Amina to Mindy to Dimple and back to Amina.

“Looking at pictures of you naked,” Mindy said.

“Not naked,” Amina said quickly. “Just sleeping. I have ones of Mom, too. And Dad,” she lied.

“Pictures?”

Before Amina could protest, Mindy grabbed the photo from her lap, thrusting it at Akhil. Amina watched her brother take it in, her gut sinking as his brow furrowed. He looked up at her again but didn’t say anything. He unlocked the car door, threw his books into the back.

“I told you he’s a freak,” Dimple said. “He flips out all the time for no reason.”

Mindy slid off the hood as the engine started. She opened the passenger door and leaned down. “Can I get a ride?”

“To Corrales?” Dimple asked.

“Yeah.” Mindy swayed slightly. Akhil’s gaze, trapped in the crease between her breasts, swayed with her. Mindy smiled, drawing his eyes to her face.

“Do whatever you want,” he said, and Mindy eased into the passenger seat. She unlocked the back door for Amina, who got into the car, feeling a little sick and thrilled with the oddness of it all. Dimple’s mouth was a hard slash through the window as they drove away.

Amina wasn’t totally sure where one should be when one’s brother was being seduced, but she was pretty sure the backseat was not the right place. She stared into the rearview mirror, trying to catch Akhil’s eye, but her brother wasn’t looking back or even at Mindy. He was slouching behind the wheel, his right knee at an odd angle, as though it were being magnetically drawn to the passenger’s seat.

They weren’t two minutes into the drive when Mindy reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. She turned to Akhil. “Do you mind?”

Akhil glanced down. “Is that a joint?”

“Yeah. Do you smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“No you don’t,” Amina said, but if they heard her, they didn’t answer. Mindy pulled out a lighter and sucked in, pinching the tip before handing it to Akhil. He took it.

“So, fucking Corrales, huh?” Mindy exhaled. The car filled with a rich, funky odor, and Amina coughed.

Akhil took a tiny puff and held it in, nodding. He handed it back to her.

“You want some?” Mindy turned around.

“No!” Akhil said. “She’s a fucking kid.”

“Oops! Sorry.”

“It stinks,” Amina said.

“It’s skunk,” Mindy replied, and Amina sat back, baffled.

“So how long you guys lived in Corrales?”

“I don’t know. Nine years.”

“Cool. I have an aunt that lives in Rio Rancho.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Rio Rancho sucks,” Amina said.

Mindy looked over her shoulder and laughed, her hand landing on Akhil’s knee. “Doesn’t it? It’s like the old-person capital of the state.”

“TB survivors,” Akhil said, taking the joint back.

“What?”

“A lot of them are tuberculosis survivors. The climate is easy on their lungs.”

“Fascinating.” Mindy turned so that she was leaning against the passenger door, her body facing Akhil’s. “So what else do you know?”

“About what?”

“About other things.”

“Other things?”

“About Indian things.”

“Indian things?”

Mindy squeezed his knee. “Kama Sutra?”

Akhil looked like he’d been hit with a bad smell. He knocked her hand away, and a nervous swell rose in Amina’s stomach. Would they pull over right there, on Coors Road? Would he yell furiously, or talk extra slowly to make each word hit harder? Would his speech be about racism or appropriation, or would he just tell Mindy she was a big fat nothing? Anything was possible. Amina imagined the heat-blurred silhouette of Mindy in the rearview mirror, waiting for some low-rider to pity her and give her a lift back to school.

Akhil said nothing. Mindy slid her hand to his upper thigh, squeezed again. He did not remove it.