South Haven

1. Pond Hockey and Other Tuesday-Thursday Affairs

In the spring semester, Mohan Lal taught late classes on both Tuesdays and Thursdays, but Ms. Farber picked Siddharth up from school so that he could continue with karate. He loved these afternoons. All the other kids had to remain in their seats until their buses got called over the loudspeaker, but he enjoyed a solitary stroll down the corridor at 3:13, two minutes before dismissal. Marc was often waiting for him outside. He’d be leaning against the pay phone and listening to his Walkman, his lower lip puffy with tobacco, the asphalt around him splotched with tiny pools of brown. The boys would slap hands and walk over to Ms. Farber’s ailing Saab, Marc spitting out his pouch before they got there. Siddharth knew people stared at them — the gym teacher, the bus drivers, the principal — but for once he didn’t mind the attention. He would look straight ahead, not down at the laces of his imitation Keds, which he had bought because Marc had gotten a pair of real ones. He was still a faggot according to Luca Peroti, still the ex-friend of slutty Sharon Nagorski. But that didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter that he spent recess alone and ate lunch with Bobby Meyers.

It was a cold month, with carrot-shaped icicles dangling from the roofs and drainpipes. The boys spent a lot of time indoors. Marc’s father bought him a new video game every weekend, and Marc wouldn’t relinquish the controller until he’d conquered it, which usually took forty-eight hours. Siddharth preferred it when they watched movies. Marc continued introducing him to the world of pornography, and he in turn introduced Marc to the joy of seeing a single film multiple times. They watched these films in Ms. Farber’s basement, where they’d been spending much more time because the guest room had been turned into her home office.

Marc said that building an office was easy when someone else was footing the bill.

“What do you mean?” asked Siddharth.

“Who do you think paid for this shit? Shelly did. My dad’s busting his ass so Rachel can play doctor.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” said Siddharth. But he didn’t actually think it was ridiculous. He’d met Marc’s father two times, and the man was grumpy. Too quiet. Marc sometimes said that he wished he could go live with his father full-time, but Siddharth didn’t think that would be a wise idea.

It took Ms. Farber more than a month to complete her home office, and she’d hired a team of three carpenters for the job. First they wrapped up the renovations that had ceased during her divorce, and then they put in a door that led directly from the guest room to the outside world. This door was essential, she claimed, for it would make her clients feel that they were in a real office. It would allow her to maintain healthy boundaries between work and home. Siddharth had watched the builders as they sawed and hammered, and he even helped a worker named Sean sand down some new oak shelving.

Three weeks after the Springfield karate tournament, he and his father went on another outing with Marc and Ms. Farber, this time to get her a new desk. They honed in on a hefty modern one that was on sale at the Post Road furniture warehouse where Siddharth’s parents had done a lot of shopping. But then Ms. Farber fell in love with something called a “secretary’s desk” at an antique shop in Westville, which cost twelve hundred dollars. Mohan Lal said that spending so much on a secondhand piece of furniture didn’t make sense considering the financial strain of starting a new business. But Ms. Farber was adamant. She explained that the antique desk reminded her of one that had belonged to her mother. Her father had left it out on the street when they moved out of their Victorian home and into their horrible apartment.

Marc bargained the antique dealer down to nine fifty, and Siddharth tried to help him load it into the back of his father’s minivan. He wasn’t strong enough, so Mohan Lal stepped in. Siddharth was proud to see his father heaving and lifting. Mohan Lal looked like a real man, not some crazed sand nigger from Indiana Jones. But the way he panted afterward embarrassed Siddharth. It also scared him.

* * *

Ms. Farber started complaining that the boys were spending too much time in front of the television. She gave Siddharth a pair of Marc’s old ice skates and began ferrying them to Foster Pond, which was on the border of Woodford and South Haven. Siddharth had never skated before, so Marc had to teach him.

During their first day on the ice, Marc skated backward and pulled him from one end of the pond to the other with a hockey stick. They did this for twenty minutes, then lit a fire in the woods and shared a cigar. On their second day, Siddharth managed to skate into his turns, crossing one foot over the other. Marc told him he was bending his ankles, and that ankle-benders were girls. By their third day, Siddharth had learned how to skate backward, and Marc clapped for him. “Atta girl,” he said, sticking his fingers into his mouth and whistling.

“Screw you,” said Siddharth, but he was smiling; he knew that Marc wasn’t serious.

Marc was still grounded for what he had done to the mailbox, and he would remain grounded until the summer, so the boys’ Foster Pond trips were often an excuse for him to get around the rules of his punishment and meet up with a Woodford eighth grader named Dinetta Luciani. Dinetta always showed up with her best friend, Liza Kim. The girls wore miniskirts and stockings, even with howling winds and temperatures in the teens. Dinetta’s grandfather owned Luciani Carting, but her father owned a liquor store, and she usually brought a few tiny bottles of vodka or rum. Siddharth only pretended to sip from them. If his father caught him with booze on his breath, his days with Marc would be numbered.

The four kids avoided the main pond, instead heading into the frozen labyrinth of swamps and trees behind it. This area mesmerized Siddharth. It seemed like a portal to a secret world, like the setting of one of his fantasy books. But he knew better than to share such observations out loud. Marc and Dinetta usually seated themselves on a fallen tree trunk and French-kissed the whole time, so Siddharth ended up spending a lot of time with Liza. She told him that junior high was awesome, that even though Marc was only a seventh grader, he was one of the cutest kids in their whole school. She asked Siddharth if he had a girlfriend.

“Used to,” he said. “But we, like, broke up.”

“You’re lying,” said Liza. “I can tell when people are lying.”

“Why would I lie? I even got to first base with her — second, over the shirt.”

“So what was her name then?”

“Sharon,” he said. “Sharon Nagorski.”

Marc later told Siddharth that Liza thought he was cute, but Siddharth said he wasn’t into Orientals.

“Pussy’s pussy,” said Marc. “I’d go for it if I were you.”

“We’ll see,” said Siddharth. He was thrilled that a girl actually liked him, but also petrified. He didn’t know how to kiss. And he would die if she saw his penis, which was probably the smallest dick in the world.

On weekends, fifteen or twenty kids showed up to Foster Pond for pickup hockey games. Everybody had to plunk their sticks in the middle of the ice. One boy would chuck the sticks into two separate piles, and the spot where your stick landed determined which team you were on. Siddharth was the smallest and most inexperienced player, and since nobody thought he was worth defending, he was usually left wide open. If his teammates were in a jam, they’d see him standing all alone and send the puck sailing in his direction. The sight of the approaching puck would make Siddharth want to gag. As soon as it would reach him, he’d smack it as hard as he could at nothing in a particular with his brand-new hockey stick, which was a gift from Marc and his father. Once in a rare while, one of these wild shots actually scored a goal, but most of the time they just went out of bounds, eliciting grumbles and ridicule from the other players. One of these slap shots accidentally pelted a tenth grade football player named Dennis Bolzano, and Dennis told Siddharth to watch it.

That same afternoon, another one of Siddharth’s frantic shots hit Dennis in the groin, and Dennis started cursing. He flew over to Siddharth, hooking his stick into the blade of his skate and yanking him onto the ice. Siddharth fell hard on his shoulder, but he didn’t care about the pain. He just hoped that nobody had seen what had happened. Marc, who was playing goalie, skated over and helped him up. Marc then jetted over to Dennis and shoved him hard from behind.

Dennis stumbled but didn’t fall, and when he turned around, he looked pissed. He was wearing hockey gloves, which he cast onto the ice the way the pros did on television.

“Hit me,” said Marc, raising his stick in the air. “Hit me, and I’ll crack your fucking skull.”

Siddharth was drenched in sweat despite the numbing cold. He wanted Marc to do it.

“Fucking midgets,” said Dennis, grabbing his gloves and skating away.

Siddharth laughed. He felt safe with Marc, like nothing bad could happen when he was around. He hated to admit it, but he would choose hockey with Marc over baseball with Arjun any day of the week.

* * *

After his evening classes, Mohan Lal made it to Ms. Farber’s by eight thirty. She microwaved him a plate of food, and as he ate, Siddharth and Marc would devour bowls of frozen yogurt alongside him. Ms. Farber usually steered the conversation toward her favorite topics, like “self-actualization” or “everyday enlightenment,” or the adults discussed books they had exchanged. Ms. Farber had given Mohan Lal a paperback by Ram Das, who Siddharth discovered was actually American. Mohan Lal had lent her something called The Autobiography of a Yogi, a book that particularly bothered Siddharth, for the holy man on its cover was too feminine and foreign-looking.

Siddharth liked it best when Ms. Farber swore them to secrecy and provided updates on her clients’ progress, making sure not to use their actual names. By the end of February, three clients were attending regular sessions at her clinical psychology practice. All of them had been referred to her by the rabbi at her new synagogue. There was the Polish woman who had lost most of her family in the Holocaust. She’d immigrated to America when she was six and later went to a Methodist university, but she dropped out to marry one of her professors. Her husband turned out to be an abusive alcoholic, and they eventually got divorced. Now she was dating a Jewish lawyer with a heroin problem.

“The truth is,” said Mohan Lal one night, “most people lack the capacity for introspection. For most people, genuine change is an impossibility.”

“Hell yeah,” said Marc. “Once a loser, always a loser.”

“That’s awful,” said Ms. Farber. “I actually don’t think there’s a grain of truth to what you’re saying. I mean, if she can get to the bottom of that trauma — if she can articulate it — then she can definitely stop being so. . so. .”

“So retarted?” said Marc.

“So self-destructive,” said Ms. Farber.

“Well, I think people can change,” said Siddharth. “Look at Arjun.”

“How interesting, honey,” said Ms. Farber. “And just how did your brother change?”

“Just look at the way he dresses. First it was heavy metal T-shirts, and then everything had to be preppie. Now all his clothes are torn up. He’ll only wear a shirt if it’s made of—”

“Let me tell you about the problem with the West,” Mohan Lal cut in. “The Western mind always wants to blame everything on the past — the past and the parents.”

Siddharth shot his father a look, partially because Mohan Lal had interrupted him, but mainly because he didn’t want him to go off on some ridiculous tangent. If Mohan Lal got political, everything could go to shit.

Ms. Farber placed her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Siddharth closed his eyes and swallowed.

Mohan Lal began to speak again, but Ms. Farber started shaking her head back and forth, her hands still cupping her ears. “I’m not listening. . I’m not listening.” She kept shaking her head, but soon let out a muffled laugh.

Mohan Lal started chuckling, which made her laugh even louder. Siddharth felt relieved and started laughing too.

Marc said, “What freaking cornballs.” But Siddharth was pleased to see that he was also smiling.

* * *

Marc was sleeping over at his father’s on a Thursday in early March, so Siddharth had to spend a few hours alone with Ms. Farber. He tried to concentrate on the television, but she insisted on making small talk. She asked him if things were getting any better with Mr. Latella. He lied and said everything was going great at school. She then told him about her charity work at the Jewish Community Center. She was running a clothing drive for struggling settlers in a place called the West Bank. All this talk bored Siddharth, and he was relieved when his father showed up early.

But Mohan Lal had dark pouches under his eyes. His tie was already off, and the two top buttons of his shirt were open, exposing the top of his worn, ribbed banyan. Siddharth asked him what was wrong, then fastened one of his father’s buttons.

“Get your things,” said Mohan Lal. “We have troubled Rachel enough for today.”

“No way,” said Ms. Farber. “First, you’re gonna have some dinner.”

She was about to place three slices of white clam pizza in the microwave, but Siddharth grabbed the plate and put the pizza in the toaster oven. His father hated microwaved pizza.

Ms. Farber asked if Mohan Lal wanted a glass of wine, and he said he wouldn’t mind a Scotch.

“Bourbon?” said Ms. Farber. “That’s what you-know-who used to drink.”

“Fine, a bourbon with ice and water.”

Mohan Lal devoured an entire slice in just two bites. He took a large gulp of bourbon and immediately started in on his second slice, but then started coughing until his cheeks turned red.

“Dad!” said Siddharth. He wished his father wouldn’t eat like an animal in front of Marc’s mom.

Ms. Farber placed her hand on Mohan Lal’s back and gave it a rub. Once his breathing went back to normal, she said, “Okay, time to spill it, mister.”

“Beg your pardon?” said Mohan Lal.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what’s up.”

Mohan Lal cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. I just had a very unsatisfying meeting.”

“What?” Siddharth sat down next to his father. “But you said there was nothing to worry about.”

“Well, I was wrong. The dean said the university would be making a decision about my position next year. I told him, Fine, no problem, all my paperwork’s in order.” Mohan Lal paused to crunch an ice cube. “The bastard, he tells me my paperwork isn’t the problem — it’s my track record.”

“What does that even mean?” asked Ms. Farber.

“Your students love you,” said Siddharth.

Mohan Lal sighed. “He was referring to my publications.”

“He’s a fool,” said Siddharth. “You did, like, two articles last year.”

“And I edited that idiotic journal,” said Mohan Lal. “But that’s not enough these days. Nobody gives a damn about education. The dean said he wants a world-class program, and in a world-class program, everyone must have a book.”

“Loser,” said Siddharth. He watched Ms. Farber pour Mohan Lal more bourbon, fighting the urge to tell her to stop. She’s a psychologist, he reasoned. She knows what she’s doing.

Ms. Farber said, “Mohan, I fail to see the problem. You’re working on a book. I mean, you even have a contract.”

A memory flashed in Siddharth’s mind of the day Mohan Lal had actually signed his contract with Walton Publishers. They had gone out to an Italian restaurant in West Haven, one next to a costume store that no longer existed. Arjun raised his glass and said, “To new beginnings.” Mohan Lal had replied, “Son, you don’t get new beginnings at my age. Only endings.” Recalling that evening, Siddharth felt grateful for all the new things he had — karate and Marc. Even Ms. Farber.

Mohan Lal began shaking his head. He explained that Walton wanted a complete draft by September. Between teaching and everything else, there wouldn’t be enough time to turn in anything worthwhile.

Ms. Farber dabbed his chin with a paper towel. “That’s plenty of time,” she said. “Especially if you have some help.”

“Rachel, what can you do? Teach my classes?”

She placed both of her hands on his wrist. “Of course not. But I can do other things. I can help with Siddharth.”

Siddharth cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can take care of myself.”

The adults didn’t respond. They had goofy smiles on their faces and were having some sort of staring contest.

Siddharth cleared his throat more loudly. “Let’s go, Dad. It’s time to go home.”

Mohan Lal stood up and brushed the crumbs from his blazer.

2. Conspicuous Consumption

On a foggy Saturday morning, Siddharth was sitting on the shabby white armchair in front of the television, eating cereal alone off the three-legged Indian end table. When his father woke up, Siddharth asked him if they could watch something together, or go somewhere — just the two of them. Mohan Lal told him he had to work. He grabbed a paperback from the bookshelf behind the portable television stand and headed to the kitchen. Siddharth got up and followed him. “But I thought you needed a break,” he said. “I thought you couldn’t write another word.”

“This is other work,” said Mohan Lal.

Siddharth snatched the book out of his father’s hands. It was called Taj Mahal: The True Tale of a Ruined Temple, and published by some company called Satya. He shook his head. His father used to go on about the Taj Mahal all the time. He called it an “emblem of decadence,” an “ostentatious graveyard.” Siddharth flipped through the pages of the slim paperback. “Looks fun. . Are you kidding me?”

Mohan Lal handed him a glass of apple juice. “Son, I am reading about the destruction of our heritage.”

Siddharth took a sip. “Who destroyed it?”

“The Mohammedans first, and then the Britishers. But Hindus only have themselves to blame.”

“This cover,” said Siddharth, thumping the book against his chest. “A five-year-old could have done it. Looks like they printed this crap on a photocopier.”

“Have more respect for knowledge, son.” Mohan Lal put an English muffin in the toaster. “This book was a gift from your Barry Uncle.”

“What?” Siddharth’s smile disappeared. “You saw Barry Uncle? Why didn’t you tell me you saw him?”

Mohan Lal opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang and he lunged for it.

Siddharth could tell it was Ms. Farber by the way his father’s voice got all sweet and formal. During their three-minute conversation, Mohan Lal kept on saying, “Simply wonderful, Rachel,” and, “Congratulations, I’m so impressed.” When he put down the phone, he told Siddharth to get ready. They were going out to a celebratory lunch because Ms. Farber had just signed up her seventh patient.

“Wait, what about Barry Uncle?” asked Siddharth.

“Mind your own business, son. And hurry up!”

* * *

Ms. Farber picked them up at 11:43. Nobody said much as they drove, and Siddharth sat in the backseat of the Saab stewing. He knew that his father’s seeing Barry Uncle was a good thing. It was further proof that things were going back to normal. But Mohan Lal should have consulted him first. He should have asked for his advice.

When they got to the mall, the lot was crammed with cars. Ms. Farber parked near the rear exit, beside a lingering bank of blackened snow. They first went to Filene’s, where she bought Marc a pair of baggy Guess jeans and then picked out a striped designer button-down for Siddharth. He had never heard of the brand, which was displayed on the shirt’s abdomen. Marc said it was cool, so he tried it on.

“Very handsome,” said Ms. Faber. “Your eyes — they have little flecks of green in them.”

Siddharth couldn’t stifle his smile.

“Handsome or not,” said Mohan Lal, “take it off.”

“Mohan, I’d like to buy it for him,” said Ms. Farber.

“Don’t waste your money, Rachel. These things will be too small by summer.”

“It’s my money.” She was smiling, but her voice was firm. “If I feel like being generous, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”

She paid for their things, and the group left the store. Siddharth felt contented as he clutched his shopping bag and stared at the throngs of weekend shoppers. A hunched-over, wrinkled white man stood behind his walker and picked out a watch strap. Two black couples giggled as they struggled to fit inside a single photo booth. Bands of familiar-looking teenagers squabbled and flirted.

Normally, if Siddharth had been there alone with his father, these kids would have made him nervous. But today he was able to gawk at them with confidence. He fell behind his companions, and when he looked up, they were fifteen or twenty feet ahead. Ms. Farber was standing between his friend and his father. She was gripping Marc’s wrist, and her other hand was clasping Mohan Lal’s elbow. They looked right together, almost natural. With these people by his side, Mohan Lal could have been a Jew, or even an Italian.

* * *

They went from the mall to Pasta Palace, Mohan Lal’s favorite South Haven restaurant. The Aroras had been dining there for years. The portions they served were huge, and each meal came with a free salad. The restaurant was packed today, but Mustafa, the place’s Pakistani manager, still took the time to personally greet them. He clapped Mohan Lal on the back, then patted Siddharth on the head. He said, “Look at him. This one’s gonna be shaving soon.” Siddharth’s face got hot, and he peered down. But he didn’t mind Mustafa. Even though the man was Pakistani — even though he referred to Mohan Lal as Chacha-ji—Siddharth thought he was funny. Mustafa spoke English with a perfect guido accent, like the Mafia goons from the movies. He said things like, “The spinach raviolis? Fugget about it — best raviolis this side a da Bronx.”

For lunch, Marc and Siddharth ordered meatball subs. Mohan Lal got veal parmigiana, and Ms. Farber asked for a Caesar salad with the dressing on the side. When both adults ordered wine, Marc said, “Rachel, boozing in the daytime? What are the lawyers gonna say about that one?”

Ms. Farber smiled, but her nostrils were flaring. She said, “Marc, put your napkin on your lap. And watch it, or no Coke.”

Marc craned his neck toward the bar to catch a basketball game. Siddharth couldn’t care less about sports again, now that Michigan’s Fab Five had lost in the finals. He half-listened to Ms. Farber blabbing about the art therapy class she was taking a local community college. Her professor was also a hypnotherapist, and he performed something called past-life regressive hypnosis. She wondered if Mohan Lal might be interested in a consultation.

“I’m interested, yes,” said Mohan Lal. “But I wouldn’t trust some amateur — some Western quack.”

“Oh, Mohan, you’re all bark,” Ms. Farber responded. “I know you don’t really think like that.”

Marc buttered a roll and bit into it. “What’s regressive hypnocrap?”

“Don’t be crude, Marc,” said Ms. Farber. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.” She paused to sip some wine. “Honey, I’m sorry. Do you really wanna know?”

“Totally,” said Marc. “I’m always interested in your thoughts and ideas, Rachel.”

Ms. Farber sat up straight and explained how according to the Hindus, a person’s soul lived multiple lives in multiple bodies. “What a person experiences in his past lives affects him in his present one. But the thing is, we don’t have any conscious memories of these past lives, and that’s where hypnosis comes in. With regressive hypnosis, a person can reconnect with the people they were in previous lifetimes. And once you unlock all those experiences, they say you feel a deep sense of freedom. Your soul is finally unburdened from centuries’ worth of guilt — from centuries’ worth of suffering.”

“Well put, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal.

She raised her glass, then gulped more wine.

“Wait, Dad,” said Siddharth. “I know you don’t really believe this stuff.” He liked Ms. Farber, but why did she have to encourage all this Hindu bullshit?

“What’s so strange, son? Half the world thinks there’s a red man with little horns at the center of the earth.” As Mohan Lal was speaking, Mustafa came with their appetizers. “Even Mustafa here believes in reincarnation. Don’t you, chief?”

Siddharth stared at the manager. He was wearing a white collared shirt with too many buttons open, so that you could see his black chest hairs and gold chain. Mustafa may have been Pakistani, but he looked just like an Indian. The most Indian thing about him was his ugly mustache. It was so thick, as if black rope was spilling from his nostrils.

Mustafa smiled, and his mustache turned into an ugly upside-down V. “Reincarnation? When I was growing up in Pakistan, we believed in it all.” He said Pakistan the way Americans do, so that it rhymed with can—not the way Mohan Lal pronounced the word. “We believed in everything, and we celebrated everything — Christmas, Holi, Eid. Anyway, buon appetito, folks.” He then nodded at them and walked over to another table.

Mohan Lal said, “Boys, wouldn’t you like to know who you were in a past life? Marc, wouldn’t you like to know if you were an officer in Napoleon’s army? What if you were Roman senators, or Julius Caesar himself?”

Siddharth sucked down some Sprite. “I’d only wanna know if I was, like, Cornelius Vanderbilt or J.D. Rockefeller or something.”

“I’d be Michael Jordan,” said Marc. “Or maybe Donald Trump.”

“Dude, they’re not dead,” said Siddharth.

Marc smirked.

“What now?” asked Ms. Farber.

“Nothing,” said Marc. “But last time around, I musta been some sort of serial killer or something.”

Siddharth laughed, but tensed upon noticing his father staring out the window.

Mohan Lal was grinning to himself. “Siddharth,” he said after a moment, “tell me — what happens to a caterpillar as it grows?”

“What? Dad, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“A caterpillar,” said Mohan Lal. “How does it grow?”

Marc grabbed a second roll. “It becomes a butterfly. What’s going on with the food? It’s like they’re flying in the subs from Italy or something.”

Mohan Lal’s eyes were gleaming. “Kids, answer me this: Do you think a butterfly can remember his life as a caterpillar? Does it have any recollection of what things were like before it could fly?”

Siddharth began to answer the question, but Ms. Farber cut him off: “Oh, I see what you’re saying. That’s quite an analogy.”

Marc said, “I have no freaking clue what any of you are talking about.”

“Honey, think of the caterpillar as our soul,” said Ms. Farber. “Its metamorphosis is like our rebirth into a new body.”

Siddharth glanced up at the ceiling. He had never noticed how high it was, but today it seemed a hundred feet tall. The ceiling was lined with wooden beams and heavy, tubular piping. He wondered what would happen if one of these ventilation pipes were to fall. Would it kill somebody? Or just wound them?

Mohan Lal took a sip of wine. “Yes, we could be like the caterpillar,” he said. “Death could just be our cocoon.” He let out a sigh of satisfaction. “The ancient Hindus, they understood some truths. They knew about maths — even love.”

Marc crunched on an ice cube. “If they were so smart, then why are they all so poor now?”

“Jesus, Marc!” snapped Ms. Farber.

“What? Haven’t you seen those commercials? The kids all got those big bellies. They got all those flies buzzing around their heads.”

Siddharth forced himself to cackle.

“He’s right, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “What can I tell you, son? If you aren’t a forward thinker, then it’s easy for others to destroy you.”

When the food finally arrived, Mohan Lal proposed a toast. He called Ms. Farber a wise entrepreneur. He said they felt grateful to her, and were lucky to call her a friend. It dawned on Siddharth that his father had never proposed a toast to him. He tried to remember if the man had ever toasted his mother.

* * *

He lay in bed that night wondering if he and Marc had been friends in a previous lifetime. Then he fell asleep and had another strange dream. In this dream, he got home from school and the house was completely empty. Everything felt eerie and looked the way it did when he was much younger. The family room had no skylight, the fake wooden paneling still lined the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and the old National Parks wallpaper covered the wall behind the leather sofas. Staring out the kitchen window, he found that the backyard was occupied by big machines — yellow backhoes and bulldozers and a couple of smaller orange ones. There were nine of them in total, just sitting there like giant, lazy animals. He felt relieved upon spotting Mohan Lal, who was standing beside a dozer, his hand resting on one of its enormous fanged tires. Mr. Iverson from up the street was standing next to Mohan Lal. He still had a ponytail and a thick beard. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. Siddharth jogged toward the men, and Mr. Iverson picked him up, raising him into the air so that he could peer inside the machine. A baby was lying on the driver’s seat sucking on a bottle. It was a girl, and she had brown skin and a big crown of curls. Siddharth felt as if he knew this child, and a jolt of electricity pulsed through his bones.

And then he woke up.

He stared at the ceiling, his father’s muffled snores echoing through the wall. His waist felt moist, so he ran a hand under his sheets. They were wet, as was his underwear. He felt hopeful. He might have just had a wet dream. He touched the wet patches again, then smelled his fingers. They were sour. Realizing what had actually happened, he went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. As he soaped himself, the image of the curly haired baby lingered in his mind. It was her. He closed his eyes, allowing the hot water to pour over his face. He had previously told himself that dead meant the opposite of infinity. Like infinity, it was something human beings couldn’t truly understand, so there was no point in thinking too hard about it. But if all that caterpillar bullshit were real, then she might be alive.

She could be in a zillion possible towns or countries, and if they ever passed each other on the street, they wouldn’t even recognize one another. But it didn’t seem to matter. She would have a new family who loved her, and he wouldn’t have to feel bad each time he offered up his forehead to Ms. Farber. He could stop feeling tense whenever Ms. Farber grasped Mohan Lal’s hand, for his mother would one day love another person too.

Siddharth dried himself in his bedroom, then stuffed his soiled sheets into his closet. Sunlight streaked his worn, stained mattress. He heard a dull rumble overhead, squirrels scuttling across the roof. Some blue jays were squawking. His mother hadn’t liked these birds. They had ugly calls, and they bullied the other birds that frequented her feeder. He wasn’t thinking straight and needed to talk to somebody. He didn’t want Marc to think he was a freak, and he didn’t want to worry his father. Besides, Mohan Lal was clearly confused. One minute he was an atheist, and then he was a Buddhist. Now he wouldn’t shut up about the ancient Hindus. Siddharth picked up the family room phone and punched in Arjun’s eleven-digit number.

His brother answered after five rings, and his voice was tired and scratchy. Siddharth suspected he had a hangover. He started rehashing what had happened with Michigan in the NCAA finals, saying how Weber had really blown it.

“Are you serious?” said Arjun. “This is why you’re calling me at eight in the morning? Siddharth, we’ve been over it, like, five times already.”

“Jesus, shoot me for caring.”

“Siddharth, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. Can’t I just call my big brother?”

“You better tell me,” said Arjun. “Now.”

“Well, it’s kind of a weird question.”

“Just talk. You can tell me anything.”

Siddharth took a deep breath. “Like, reincarnation and all that stuff — do you believe in it?”

Arjun sighed. “You know, I wish Dad wouldn’t burden you with all of his fundamentalist crap.”

“It wasn’t Dad, I swear.”

“Look, you’re still young, but you’re mature — so I’ll be honest. I used to believe a lot of things, but the more I read, I just can’t anymore. Religion, it’s just meant to control people — to make them feel better. But it’s all a total fiction.”

“Dad used to say the same thing.”

“Used to being the operative words here. If you ask me — and you are asking me — reincarnation was something cooked up by people in power. They just wanted to justify their lives. They wanted to suppress the people who were below them in the caste system.”

“What’s the caste system?”

“Siddharth, you should know that. Look it up.”

He swallowed hard. “Arjun?”

“What?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Say it, then.”

He paused, unsure of why he hadn’t said anything before — unsure of why he was saying something now. “I think Dad has a girlfriend, Arjun.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. Dad — he has a girlfriend.”

“A what?”

Siddharth told him about the karate tournament. He told him about the books they exchanged and the business plan — all the dinners, goodbye kisses, and hand-holding. As he spoke, he knew he was betraying Mohan Lal. He might have even been betraying Marc. But he couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t hold back even though he might be ruining things for himself.

Upon completing his narration, he was breathless. “You still there?” he asked.

“I’m here.” Arjun’s voice sounded higher. “I just don’t understand why this is the first time I’m hearing about this.” Nobody spoke for a while, but eventually Arjun broke the silence. “It’s just selfish. Dad is so fucking selfish.”

Siddharth bit the inside of his cheek, removing a sizable chunk of skin. He knew that he’d messed up. Why was he always messing up?

3. Happy Birthday, Bobby

During his twenty-month career at Deer Run, Siddharth had been invited to a total of seven birthday parties. He had only attended one of them, Sharon Nagorski’s, back when they were still friends. The other invitations had either come from popular kids whose parents made them invite everybody, or those who were desperate for friends. As soon as any invitations arrived, he normally threw them in the compactor. Unfortunately, Ms. Farber was over the day the invitation from Bobby Meyers arrived. As he was eyeing the envelope, which had been penned in fine calligraphy, she said, “Ooh, what’s that, honey? Why don’t you open it up?”

He tore it open, noting that the card inside looked like a poster Arjun had once owned, back before he’d put up the ones of Bob Dylan and the Beatles. It depicted a bikini-clad blonde atop a Ferrari, and she was coaxing invitees with a curled finger.

Ms. Farber snatched it out of his hands. “Bobby Meyers. . Marc, isn’t that Jocelyn Meyers’s boy?”

“Who?” said Marc.

“She’s an architect, I think. Her husband is definitely a podiatrist. This is good, if you ask me.”

“Good?” said Marc. “Dealing with other people’s nasty-ass foot fungus is good?”

Siddharth let out a laugh and slapped him five.

Later that week, Ms. Farber called Bobby’s mother, RSVPing for him and soliciting an invitation for Marc. She said she was letting Marc go despite his grounding since he’d been so positive lately. “If you keep it up, Marc,” she said, “you might just drive before the age of twenty-five.”

The party was at Amity Rec, an arcade on the Woodford — New Haven border. Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber drove the boys there the following Saturday. As the adults listened to a report about the Democratic presidential primaries, Siddharth grew nervous. He dreaded the idea of Marc seeing him among his classmates. If Luca were to say something, Marc might find out the truth about him. He might stop talking to him, and then Siddharth would go back to being alone. He’d been especially anxious about their friendship over the past couple of weeks. Marc had quit karate because he couldn’t juggle it with baseball. Without karate to link them, Siddharth worried that that their connection might start to dissolve.

Fortunately, they were still seeing a lot of each other, and they spoke on the phone as well. In fact, not much had changed at all. Siddharth had decided to take a break from karate too, but Ms. Farber was still picking him up from school, even when Marc had practice. Sometimes she brought him back to her house. Other times, she brought him straight to his own home, and together they waited for Mohan Lal to return from work. When Mohan Lal finally arrived, he cooked them delicious dinners — Indian food, but also his lasagnas and eggplant parmigiana.

Before reaching the arcade, they stopped at a record store to buy Bobby a birthday present. Mohan Lal insisted they get him a cassette and not a CD. He said, “I’m fifty-eight years old, and I’ve yet to indulge in such extravagances.” Marc picked out a tape by NWA, but Ms. Farber said she didn’t like the looks of it. “Those men on the front,” she said, “they look like criminals.”

Marc said, “Mom, I thought you used to be an artist.”

“I am an artist. But something tells me this doesn’t qualify as art.”

They ended up opting for Siddharth’s choice, an album by EMF, and then Ms. Farber used some newspaper and Marc’s new Swiss Army knife to wrap it. Her wrapping job failed to impress Siddharth, whose mother had been an expert at such chores. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the party had already started. Mohan Lal handed Siddharth a quarter and told him to call them at Ms. Farber’s twenty minutes before they were ready to come home.

“Marc, I’m trusting you,” said Ms. Farber. “Siddharth, make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Mom, I’m trusting you,” replied Marc.

The boys strode past gaggles of smoking adolescents, Puerto Ricans with flattops and gang beads, and ponytailed white kids with jean jackets and pimples. They went straight to the food court and found the tables with the balloons. None of the other guests were around, but Bobby Meyers was there in a blue blazer and jeans. He was carrying a clipboard and had a leather fanny pack around his waist. “Welcome,” he said, jotting something down before holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks,” said Siddharth. “This is Marc. Your mom said he could come.”

“Oh, I know this guy.” Bobby grinned, revealing a dimple. “We go way back.”

Marc shook his hand and clapped him on the back. “What up? Happy birthday, Bobby.”

“Everyone’s having a great time.” Bobby pulled out two rolls of tokens from his fanny pack. “These are for you — spend ’em any way you want.” He winked, then handed them over. “Oh, and please keep an eye on the clock. Pizza will be served in precisely forty-three minutes.”

“Thanks,” said Siddharth.

“Wait,” said Marc, “should we synchronize our watches?”

Bobby’s face became stony for a second, but then he broke into a smile. “Guy, you’re hysterical. That’s funny stuff.”

* * *

After a few games of pinball, Marc led Siddharth toward a video game that simulated the experience of piloting a real military helicopter. Marc inserted five tokens into it, and the game rattled and shook as he gunned down enemy aircraft. He played so well that a group of ponytailers started hovering around. When he finally lost, the ponytailers clapped, and a screen prompted him to enter his initials into a top-scorers chart.

Siddharth patted him on the shoulder. “You should be a pilot someday.”

“My cousin Brian,” said Marc, “he’s in the Israeli air force — only twenty-two, and the kid flies an F-15.”

As they headed back to the food court, Siddharth felt someone flick him in the ear. He turned around and saw Luca Peroti. Shit, he thought. Siddharth had just seen him a day earlier, but Luca looked different. He’d pierced his left ear, and his hair had changed too. It was shaved on the sides and floppy on top, just like Marc’s.

“What up?” said Luca. “No hug, kid?”

“Hey, Luca.” Siddharth wanted to flee.

“Sid, who’s your friend here?” said Marc.

“Yo, Marc,” said Luca, “it’s Luca. Luca P.? From basketball? Holy Infant basketball?”

“Rings a bell,” said Marc.

Luca smiled, revealing his multicolored braces. “You’re a jokester, kid. We were in the same league for a whole freaking season.”

Squinting, Marc tilted his head to one side. “Wait, you were, like, fatter back then. Right?”

Luca’s face turned red, and he glanced down at his black Adidas. “Yo, Marc, why you hanging out with this tool?”

Siddharth swallowed. He wished Ms. Farber hadn’t made them come.

“You mean Sidney?” Marc placed a hand on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Are you calling him a tool? Because he’s, like, one of my best friends. So if you’re calling him a tool, you’re kind of calling me a tool too.”

“Yo, I was just kidding,” said Luca.

“You sure?” said Marc, puffing out his chest.

“Siddharth and I go way back,” said Luca. “We’ve been friends for, like, years.”

Marc smiled. “You know, Siddharth here just ran out of tokens. You got any left? I’m sure he’d appreciate a few.”

Luca stuffed his hands into the pockets of his acid-washed jeans. He pulled out some candy wrappers and two rust-colored tokens, which he offered to Siddharth.

“Thanks,” he said, suppressing a smile.

“That was extremely kind,” said Marc. “You know, it’s important to be respectful to this kid. He’s, like, royalty.”

“What?” said Luca.

Siddharth furrowed his brow. He had no idea where Marc was going with this.

A PA announcement interrupted them, requesting all members of the Meyers birthday party to proceed to the food court.

“His great-great-grandfather?” said Marc. “He was, like, an Indian prince — with a castle and elephants and shit. He even had people to wipe his ass for him.”

Siddharth figured it out: Marc was referring to something Mohan Lal had said to Ms. Farber ages ago, way back in the fall.

Marc’s eyes were gleaming. “I guess that means you should probably bow down — or kiss his hand or something.”

Luca let out a nervous laugh.

“Go on,” said Marc.

Luca flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Are you for real, man?”

Marc let out a cackle, then punched Luca in the shoulder. “Nah, I’m just fucking with you.”

The three boys headed to the food court, which had purple carpeting and wallpaper with multicolored lasers. As Siddharth ate his soggy pizza and french fries, he felt uneasy. On one hand, he was sitting between Marc Kaufman and Luca Peroti, and so many of his classmates were there to witness this triumph. Then again, good things never lasted, and Luca couldn’t be trusted.

Marc asked questions about the other kids in their grade, and Luca told him who was who. Eddie B. was a good soccer player and really funny. Alyssa D. was hot but really prude — that’s why he’d dumped her. “She thinks she’s great because her father owns a couple car washes, but he’s a freaking guido — just like my pops.”

“And what about her?” asked Marc, pointing at Sharon Nagorski.

Siddharth stared at Sharon, who was sitting at the loser table, the one with Bobby’s grandparents and siblings — the one where he would have had to sit just a couple of months earlier. Sharon was laughing at something Bobby’s older sister was saying. Her dimples made her look cute. Not pretty.

“That dog?” said Luca. “She’s the biggest tool in our school.”

“But those lips,” said Marc. “Those lips gotta be good for something.”

Siddharth forced himself to laugh, slapping his knee as he chuckled. He pretended that he was still following Marc and Luca’s conversation, but in actuality he continued to watch Sharon out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing boyish jeans and a gray full-sleeve T-shirt. Her dirty blond hair looked particularly plain and stringy, as if she hadn’t washed it in a couple days. All of a sudden, she got up and walked toward the bathroom. He wondered if she knew they’d been talking about her. He wondered if he should get up too — if he should wait for her by the cigarette machines and have a talk with her. He wouldn’t say sorry. Just hello. They could start being friendly to each other, if not friends. Then he recalled something Sharon had once said about one of his drawings.

The previous year, she had said that a woman Siddharth had drawn — the singer from one of her stories — looked like his mother. Siddharth had grabbed his picture back and realized Sharon was right. The woman’s nose was hooked like a bird’s beak, just like his mother’s. The woman was wearing a string of black beads around her neck, like his mom used to do. And she had a large mole on her neck, just like his mother’s mole. Sharon said, “Relax, Siddharth. It was a compliment. You know, my mom always said your mother was beautiful.” Siddharth erupted. He told her that she needed to learn how to shut up. He told her that Luca was right — she could be a real loser when she wanted to. Sharon said, “I may be a loser, but at least I’m not an asshole.” The next day, he couldn’t go to school because he had a fever, and his father had to cancel his classes in order to care for him.

Luca said something and Marc laughed. Siddharth laughed too, even though he didn’t know what they were talking about. He dipped a fry in some ketchup and stuffed it into his mouth. He knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t talk to Sharon. They were never even supposed to be friends in the first place. And as Arjun said, things happened for a reason. If he hadn’t fallen out with Sharon, he never would have gone to karate. If he hadn’t gone to karate, he never would have become friends with Marc. This line of thinking soothed him for a second. But if life really worked that way, what did this mean about his mother? Had she died for a reason? In that moment, he could see the mole on her neck so clearly. It used to fascinate him. He used to flick it sometimes, as if it were a toy. He felt a surge of loathing for his own achy neck. It was all healthy and fine while hers had been mangled and broken.

He heard fingers snap by his left ear. He looked over to find Marc squinting at him. “Yo, where the fuck are you, homey?”

“Me?” Siddharth licked his lips. “I barely slept last night.”

Luca said, “I bet he was up late petting his pussy.”

“Screw you, Luca,” said Siddharth. “I was up petting your mom’s pussy.”

Marc cracked up, and whacked him on the back. Siddharth pretended that it didn’t hurt.

* * *

After lunch, the trio ambled through the room with the air hockey and pool tables toward the one with the Skee-Ball machines. Beside these machines was a glass counter containing prizes — cap guns, candy bars, and key chains with pictures of marijuana leaves and sunbathing models, all of which were up for grabs if you could win enough tickets playing Skee-Ball. Luca explained that he knew a way to get thousands of tickets for free. There was a button on the back of the machines, and if you held it down, they kept on spitting out balls, even if you didn’t put in any tokens.

“So that’s free balls,” said Siddharth. “Not tickets.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But if you go back there and press the button, I’ll stuff the balls right into the bull’s-eye. All Marc’s gotta do is keep a lookout.”

“But who’s gonna grab the tickets?” asked Siddharth, already sweating.

“Me,” said Marc.

“Guys, this sounds stupid,” said Siddharth.

“You’re right,” said Marc. “But it just might work. Sid, you’re small. Crawl back there and check it out.”

Sighing, Siddharth crouched down and headed behind the machine on all fours. The carpet was smelly and moist, but he found a red plastic button and pressed it down. A bell sounded, and he heard a set of Skee-Balls descend and clack against each other.

“Sweet, Sidney,” said Marc. “Nice work.”

Siddharth was slightly trembling, but he cracked a smile. He liked when Marc used this moniker.

“Grab ’em,” said Luca. “Grab the fucking tickets.”

“I got it, I got it,” said Marc.

“Siddharth, press it again,” said Luca. “Keep on pressing it until I tell you to stop.”

Siddharth remained crouched in the corner and did as he was told, but then he heard a voice — a new voice.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The voice was deep. Pissed off.

Siddharth gritted his teeth. He pressed his hot face into the cold steel of the machine.

Marc told the man that the machine had eaten their tokens and they were trying to fix it, but the man said they were going to have to come with him. Siddharth’s whole body felt heavy, as if mud were running through his veins.

“You little shit!” the man suddenly yelled. “That freaking hurt!”

“Run, Sid!” said Marc. “Get the fuck outta there.”

Siddharth crawled out and saw a tall, bearded man limping around in a circle. Marc and Luca were charging toward the pool tables, and Siddharth sprinted to catch up with them. They reached a stairwell and descended one flight, then burst through a set of emergency doors leading to the parking lot.

Siddharth had to shield his eyes from the sun. Marc grabbed his sleeve, and they started running even faster. They fled across Amity Road, taking refuge behind a Luciani Carting dumpster in the parking lot behind a Greek diner. They were all panting, and Siddharth’s brain was pounding against his skull.

“That was freaking awesome,” said Luca. “You missed it, Sidney. He wrecked that guy. He fucking wasted him.”

“I had no choice,” said Marc. “He was all grabbing me and shit.”

Marc looked at Siddharth, who in turn looked down at his fake Keds. He thought about Mr. Stone, their karate teacher. He would have been disappointed. Arjun would have been disappointed too, but he didn’t know about Marc’s good sides.

“Let’s go to Wendy’s,” said Marc. “Call your dad from there, Sid. It’ll be safer.”

“Screw that,” said Luca. “My moms’ll be here in, like, ten. She can take you home. Wait, there she is right now.” He pointed to the busy road. “That’s her shitter, right there at the traffic light.”

* * *

Mrs. Peroti’s station wagon had wooden paneling on its exterior and smelled like an ashtray inside. Luca sat shotgun, and Siddharth sat next to Luca’s little brother, who was sucking on his fingers.

“What the heck’s going on here?” asked Mrs. Peroti.

“Just step on it,” said Luca. “Get the hell out of here, Ma.”

Mrs. Peroti pulled out of the parking lot. “And who are they?”

“My friends,” said Luca. “We gotta take ’em home.”

“Hi, friends.” She had a strawberry-blond perm. “Something’s wrong here, and I’m gonna find out what. You I know,” she said to Siddharth. “But who are you?”

“I’m Marc. Nice to meet you.”

“Marc who?”

“Marc Kaufman.”

“Never heard of you.”

“My mother’s Rachel Farber.”

“You mean the psychologist?”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

Siddharth detected some sort of secret meaning in her tone — like she looked down upon Ms. Farber or something.

As Marc gave Mrs. Peroti directions, Siddharth’s whole body continued to throb. But he didn’t feel entirely rotten. A part of him was exhilarated. A part of him was numb. He noticed that Luca’s little brother was staring at him; the kid’s eyes were bright blue and strangely large.

“Hello,” said Siddharth.

The kid just giggled. He started making a buzzing sound with his lips, and little drops of spittle landed on Siddharth.

“Danny,” yelled Luca, “quit it or I’ll knock you out!”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” said Mrs. Peroti.

“Just ignore my brother,” said Luca. “He’s a ’tard.”

Mrs. Peroti gave Luca a hard slap on the back of the head, and he stuck his hand out the window and flashed his middle finger at the passing cars.

When they pulled into Marc’s driveway, Siddharth saw his father’s minivan parked underneath the hoop. He and Marc said thanks and headed to the front door.

“Yo, what’s up with your friend?” Marc asked.

“Luca? He’s okay sometimes.”

“Okay? He’s a total lunatic.”

“Yeah, he’s freaking nuts.”

The door wouldn’t open, so Marc rang the bell.

Mrs. Peroti rolled down her window. “You can come home with us if nobody’s home.”

“Oh, they’re definitely home,” Marc called back to her. “Thanks though.” He pounded on the door.

The Perotis reversed out of the driveway. A few moments later, Siddharth heard the sound of footsteps. When the door swung open, he couldn’t help but frown. His father was standing there, but he didn’t look right. His hair was out of place, and his face was sweaty.

“I told you to call,” said Mohan Lal.

Marc walked inside and tugged at Mohan Lal’s checkered shirt, which was untucked in the back. “I love the look, Dr. A. Very gangsta.”

Mohan Lal smiled and patted Marc’s arm.

Siddharth clenched his jaw and squeezed his temples. “Jesus, Dad, tuck in your damn shirt.”

Ms. Farber emerged from her bedroom with her hair wrapped in a towel. “Oh, boys,” she said. “How was the party?”

“A real blast,” replied Marc.

Siddharth wanted to say something. He wanted to say, The party was fine, but what the fuck were you two doing? Yet he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. He sat down on the sofa, took several deep breaths, and forced himself to think positive thoughts. It only looked like something weird was going on, but everything was actually fine. Mohan Lal had probably forgotten to tuck in his shirt after taking a shit. He’d probably gotten all sweaty because they’d taken a long walk.

Ms. Farber walked up to Mohan Lal and kissed him on the shoulder. “Marc, what did we say about sarcasm?” She removed a carton of milk from the fridge. “Boys, we could do a movie tonight. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Mom,” said Marc, “Dad’s gonna be here in an hour.”

She served the boys milk. “What about you two? What do you think, Mohan?”

Siddharth glared at his father.

Mohan Lal said, “We should go home, Rachel.”

“Home?” she said. “Why home?”

Siddharth needed to do something. “Dad, what about the epilogue? I thought you wanted to get started on your epilogue.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Mohan Lal. “This book won’t write itself. And then there’s piles and piles of grading.”

4. Prince Siddharth

After the Pledge of Allegiance two days later, Mr. Latella said that the class would be reading Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper, passing out a copy of the book to each student. “These books stay here,” he instructed. “Bring ’em home at your own peril.”

Siddharth wrote his name inside the cover, where ten years of students had done the same thing. One of them was Brad Horowitz, who Arjun had been friends with in high school. Leafing through the novel, he realized that it was an illustrated and abridged edition. He was sick of this kiddie crap. He began drawing a caricature of his teacher on a loose sheet of paper.

Mr. Latella asked the kids to define the words in the novel’s title. Megan S. raised her hand, explaining that a pauper was someone who experienced hardship. The teacher gave her a high five, then said, “But what about prince, guys?”

“Duh,” said Luca. “We’re not, like, five.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants,” said Mr. Latella. “Tell us what it means then.”

“A prince?” Luca snorted. “He’s, like, the son of a queen.”

“But what’s a queen? Words that seem easy can actually be pretty tough.”

Siddharth focused on his drawing, penciling in the man’s hefty torso. He drew the little horse that was stitched into the breast of his short-sleeve shirt. It wasn’t a real Polo horse, but one with wings, which reinforced the fact that Mr. Latella was lame.

The teacher clicked his tongue. “Come on, guys, what’s a prince? This is baby stuff.”

“Yo,” said Luca, “why don’t you ask Siddharth?”

“Luca, let’s quit while we’re ahead,” said Mr. Latella.

“I’m serious,” said Luca. “He should know.”

“And you shouldn’t?”

“Well, I’m not, like, royalty.”

A few sets of eyes turned to Siddharth. He put down his yellow pencil and turned to Luca, who separated his lips and flicked out his tongue. Siddharth had no idea where this was going, though he knew it wouldn’t end well. He had hoped that things would change between him and Luca after Bobby’s party, but the kid had barely glanced in his direction since Sunday.

Mr. Latella slammed his chalk down on the ledge of the blackboard, generating a tiny cloud of dust. “Can you keep your mouth shut, Mr. Peroti?”

“I didn’t even do anything,” said Luca, throwing his hands in the air.

Mr. Latella’s forehead went red. “You’re a real wise guy, Luca. You know that?”

“But I’m not kidding. Just ask him. Ask Siddharth.”

“You’re gonna be sorry, Luca.”

“Hit me,” said Luca. “I’ll sue.”

Mr. Latella walked over to Siddharth and thumped his hand down on his desk.

Siddharth winced. He placed his wrists over his drawing and stared at them in anticipation of what would follow.

“So, Siddharth,” said Mr. Latella, “your new friend back there is making some claims about you. He’s saying something about your family. Are you gonna sit there and let him do that? Isn’t there something you wanna say to him?”

“Tell him,” said Luca.

Siddharth took a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on his desk. He reread the words a previous occupant had etched into it: Kiss Rules. His brother used to like Kiss. He wished Arjun would barge into the room at that very moment and save him.

“Siddharth, you need to look at me when I’m talking to you.”

He met his teacher’s angry eyes, green slits in his pudgy, bearded face. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want to be able to move on with class, if that’s not too much to ask.”

Each student was now looking at him, and his face burned.

“So?” said the teacher.

Siddharth turned toward the window. It didn’t matter that a hard rain was falling, or that water had turned the asphalt paths into little rivers — he would rather have been outside getting drenched.

“You want me to wait all day?” said Mr. Latella. He placed a hand on one of his flabby hips. “Because I can, you know.”

Siddharth put his pencil in his mouth and started chewing it, keeping his eyes fixed on the rain. “My great-grandfather. .” He peeked down to make sure his rendition of his teacher’s bulbous gut was still obscured by his arms. “Well, my dad. . he says my great-grandfather was royalty.”

“I can’t hear you with that pencil in your mouth. Lead poisoning is a serious thing, you know.”

He removed the pencil. “My great-grandfather was royalty, but that was a real long time ago.”

“Is this some kind of joke? Did you and Luca plan this or something?”

Siddharth shook his head, and his teacher wheezed deeply.

“You’re telling me you’re serious?” said Mr. Latella.

“I told you so,” said Luca.

Mr. Latella shifted his weight to his other leg, and his stomach jiggled. “So what? He was, like, a maharaja or something?”

“He was a prince,” said Siddharth.

“A prince?” Mr. Latella gripped his beard. “Wait, was he, like, nobility?” His eyes suddenly widened. “Was he English?”

The next sentences came out before Siddharth could pause to consider them. “My great-grandfather went to study in England — at Oxford. That’s a famous college.”

“Thanks, I know what Oxford is.”

“He married this, uh, woman there — my great-grandmother — and she was, like, a real distant relative of the king.”

“Which king?”

“King George.”

“How distant?”

“I don’t know. The king and my great-grandmother were fifth cousins or something.”

“Really?” Mr. Latella put his foot on an empty seat, and the keys on his belt loop jingled. He stared into the air and smiled. “You know, I always wondered if you were mixed.”

The teacher’s words made Siddharth feel bolder. “That’s why my skin’s light. And my eyes — in the right light, they have little flecks of green in them.”

“Go figure,” Mr. Latella snickered. “Your great-grandmother was British nobility.”

Siddharth nodded. In that moment, the lie he had told felt right. It didn’t feel like a lie.

Luca started pounding on his desk and chanting. “Prince Sidd-harth, Prince Sidd-harth.” The rest of the class joined in too: “Prince Sidd-harth, Prince Sidd-harth. .”

Mr. Latella shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Okay, okay. Settle down.” He gave Siddharth a high five for the second time that year. “Take a bow, Prince Siddharth. Take a bow, and let’s move on.”

5. Land of the Arab-Haters and Nymphomaniacs

Siddharth was pretending to do math homework but was really watching television. He heard his father call for him. “What is it?” he yelled back. He wasn’t in the mood to get his father a glass of water. He wasn’t in the mood to tell him if the clothes he was wearing looked good or not. Mohan Lal kept on calling, and Siddharth begrudgingly peeled himself off the sofa.

He found his father in the bathroom wearing a pair of tan pants and a ribbed banyan — what Marc called a wifebeater. He was on his knees scrubbing the floor of the shower.

“Dad, what do you want?”

Mohan Lal told to him to clean up the house. He said Siddharth had turned their home into a pigsty.

“I turned it into a pigsty? Me?” Siddharth was about to shoot back with something mean — that Mohan Lal was worse than a pig, he was like a dirty Indian beggar who lived in a slum. That the house got so dirty because Mohan Lal was too cheap to pay the Polish cleaning lady to come more than once a month. But as he looked down at the glistening gray hairs of his father’s shoulders, he realized something strange was happening. Mohan Lal did clean from time to time. He blued the toilet bowls with that gel, vacuumed the floors in the family room and kitchen. But he rarely got down and dirty like this.

“Go clean your room,” said Mohan Lal. “Rachel and Marc will be here soon.”

“They’re coming over? Again?”

“Hurry up. Thanks to you, she’ll think we are animals.”

“Yeah, thanks to me,” Siddharth muttered. “I’m the one who has seven dirty coffee mugs on my desk. I keep the catalogs on the dining table for five months but never actually cut the coupons.” He reluctantly headed to his bedroom with an empty garbage bag and the vacuum cleaner. He sifted through the chaotic assortment of school papers on his desk, chucking a blackened banana peel and a paper plate full of Dorito crumbs into the garbage. Two weeks of dirty clothes were strewn across the patterned carpet. He stuffed his sweaters and sweatshirts into a drawer, then dumped his pants and T-shirts into the laundry basket in the linen closet outside the main bathroom, where Mohan Lal was now ringing out a mop.

Siddharth said, “So what are we doing tonight?”

“We are not doing anything. Rachel and I have an appointment.”

“An appointment? What does that mean?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

Fuck off, thought Siddharth. At least Marc was coming over. As long as he had Marc, the adults could do whatever they wanted.

The electronic doorbell rang just after five, and it sounded particularly off-key, like a dying bird. Ms. Farber walked into the house before he or his father could get there. She kissed Mohan Lal first on the cheek and then on the lips. She said, “I think those batteries need a-changing.”

“I’ve been telling Siddharth,” said Mohan Lal, who was now wearing a tie and blazer.

“I’ll take care of it right now,” she said. “Marc, get me a chair.”

“Leave it,” said Mohan Lal.

Marc slapped Siddharth five, then plunked himself down on the frayed love seat. Siddharth sat beside him and stared at Ms. Farber. Today she was wearing lots of black — black stockings and a black ribbed shirt. But her skirt was gray, and it stopped at her knees. He thought she looked good tonight — sort of elegant.

Mohan Lal handed her a recent letter from his publisher, which Siddharth had already read aloud to his father multiple times. Mohan Lal had sent in the first four chapters of his manuscript to Walton, and they were pleased with his progress. According to Ronald Wasserman, an assistant editor, Mohan Lal’s “perspectives on the field of marketing are not only impressive, but often innovative.” Although the book wasn’t due for another four months, Wasserman suggested that Mohan Lal rush to finish it by June. That way, they might be able to publish it as early as February.

After reading the letter, Ms. Farber dropped it to the floor and threw her arms around Mohan Lal’s neck. “Absolutely amazing! See, what did I tell you about positive thinking?”

Mohan Lal grinned. “Well, perhaps my discipline also played a role — my innovative ideas.”

She gave his neck a long smooch, and Siddharth had to look away.

Mohan Lal tapped his wristwatch. “We should be leaving.”

Siddharth stood up and removed the letter from the floor. “Would somebody please tell me where you guys are going tonight?” he asked sharply.

Ms. Farber winked at him. “Honey, we’re going to your school.”

“You’re joking.” Siddharth’s stomach tightened.

“I’m not.” She pulled out a brochure from her purse and used it to swat him on the head. “There’s an event in the gymnasium.”

He grabbed the pamphlet. Upon reading it, he felt relieved. They were going to some dumb-ass meeting about something called Dianetics, which could help people “unlock their true potential.” He threw the pamphlet onto the coffee table, which was neat and tidy for a change, then watched Ms. Farber apply lipstick to her contorted mouth. She pulled Mohan Lal toward the door and said, “Be good, boys. We’re trusting you.”

* * *

Once the adults had pulled out of the driveway, Siddharth followed Marc to the dining room and watched him kneel down on the orange carpet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?” said Marc. “I’m gonna get us happy.”

Siddharth watched Marc open a cabinet that contained stacks of china, teacups, and glasses. The next cabinet held piles of old Indian and Pakistani periodicals, and Christmas cards people had sent the Aroras in the eighties.

Marc asked, “Where the hell did the booze go?”

Siddharth pointed to a third cabinet door. Marc yanked it open, and the boys stared at Mohan Lal’s sizable stash of alcohol. Most of it consisted of unopened bottles of whiskey, a few of which looked fancy. Mohan Lal used to buy these from duty-free airport shops on his way back from India. Barry Uncle had given him a couple as birthday presents.

Marc reached into a corner and pulled out a bottle of brown liquid called Old Monk XXX, unscrewing its cap and sniffing it. “Shit looks Indian,” he said. “Smells good, but he might notice.” He pulled out a half-empty bottle of Gilbey’s Gin, then took a swig and sighed. “This’ll do just fine.” He gulped some more, and a few beads of sweat appeared on the bridge of his freckled nose. He wiped them away with the bottom of one of his shirts. He was wearing a red short-sleeve T-shirt, and a black full-sleeve shirt underneath it. “I could get used to this.” He took out a glass and poured some gin, then handed the drink to Siddharth. “Bottoms up,” he said. “Before they get back from their retard festival.”

Siddharth accepted the glass. It was crystal and had an intricate, heavy base. Holding it in his hands, he felt guilty. And a little sad. His father hadn’t touched these glasses since his mother had died, and even back then he would only use them on special occasions.

“Go for it,” said Marc. “I promise you’re not gonna die.”

Siddharth brought the vessel to his lips and sipped. The fiery liquid got stuck in his throat, and he sprayed it all over Marc’s shirt.

“Dumb-ass,” said Marc, but he was smiling. He took another swig from the bottle.

Siddharth wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. “You think it’s retarded?”

“You’re not retarded — just a little goofy sometimes.”

“Shut up. I mean this thing they went to — that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“You know: visualizing things, being born again—that stuff.”

Marc tucked his bangs behind his ear. “Yo, I think I can already feel it.”

Siddharth drank some gin and managed to get it down this time. “I’ve been in a plane hundreds of times, and there’s definitely no heaven up there. I mean, it kind of makes sense really.”

Marc squinted at him. “What makes sense? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know, reincarnation — that kind of shit.”

“Oh God, not you too.” Marc shook his head. “All this shit is getting on my freaking nerves. Listen, when you’re dead, you’re dead, and that’s it. Hell, they don’t even believe half of the crap they’re saying.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Believe me, it’s like a code language or something. They’d rather be screwing each other twenty-four seven, but they can’t do that — not with us around, anyway. All this philosophical mumbo-jumbo, it’s just bullshit they talk about to get their mind off fucking each other’s brains out.”

Siddharth forced another sip of liquor down his throat and winced.

Marc laughed. “There you go.” He poured more gin into Siddharth’s crystal glass.

Siddharth took another long swig. “What do you mean, fucking each other?” He had his suspicions about his father’s sex life. He knew that Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber had kissed, but maybe they had done a bit more.

“You know, sexual intercourse?” said Marc. “When a man inserts his penis into a vagina?”

“Yeah, thanks. You really think they’re doing it?”

“We’re sleeping over at your house tonight. They’re gonna sleep in the same freaking bed. What do you think they’re gonna do? Tickle each other?”

“What?” Siddharth felt his lip begin to tremble. “You’re sleeping over?”

“What do you think’s in my bag? Toys?”

Siddharth finished his drink and tried to tell himself that Marc was lying, but knew this wasn’t true. Mohan Lal had been acting strange. He had been acting strange because he was keeping something from him. How could his father have done this? Arjun had called him selfish, and their mother had said the same thing. Once, his parents had been fighting because her sister was supposed to visit for two whole months. Mohan Lal didn’t want her there for such a long time, and Siddharth’s mother called him egotistical. She said that his ego would get in the way of their family’s happiness, and Mohan Lal got into his shitty Dodge Omni and sped down the driveway.

Staring at Marc, Siddharth now saw his father for the selfish man he was. He liked to talk but not listen. He was only nice to people who were nice to him. Siddharth had always thought that Mohan Lal had become friends with Ms. Farber to make things easier for his son. But maybe he was only in it for himself — for the sex. This thought made him actually shudder.

Marc poured him some more booze. “I didn’t think you were that stupid, Sidney. Look, at least somebody’s getting some.”

Siddharth couldn’t calm his frenzied nerves. “Yo, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do. Our parents are doing it, Siddharth. They’re having sex. They’ve done it at my house, and tonight they’re gonna do it here — right in your father’s bed. Maybe they’ll even make us a little brother.”

Siddharth’s stomach began to lurch. He gave Marc a shove.

Marc laughed. “Are you serious? Try doing that again.”

Siddharth froze for a second. He wanted to kick his friend in the balls or bite his face off, but instead he ran toward the bathroom and locked himself inside. With his back against the door, he took some deep breaths. The breathing failed to settle his stomach; it failed to still his mind. He wondered if he was drunk — if he might puke. His body felt hot, so he cupped some water into his mouth. Doing so only exacerbated his nausea.

He wondered what they did together. Was it regular sex? Or the stuff he had seen in the movies? Had Ms. Farber sucked his father’s dick? Had Mohan Lal stuck his penis between her tits? Licked her pussy? The man suddenly seemed like a stranger, a sex addict who would do anything for a naked body. Betray his wife. Betray his kids. But it wasn’t his fault. Mohan Lal was sad and confused, and Ms. Farber was a slut. She was the one who had led him in this disgusting direction.

Siddharth began to burp up a mixture of garlic and gin. He felt himself starting to shiver. He walked over to the toilet bowl and raised the lid. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out, so he shoved his index finger toward his tonsils and gagged. An acidic liquid singed his larynx but then retreated. He poured the rest of his drink into the toilet bowl and flushed.

When he got out of the bathroom, Marc was on the love seat thumbing through one of Mohan Lal’s books. “Yo, you done with your little hissy fit?”

“Shut up,” said Siddharth. “I’m not feeling good. I think I ate something bad at school.”

Marc waved Mohan Lal’s book in the air. “Funny shit. It’s like all sci-fi — like Total Recall or something.”

Siddharth snatched the book out of his hands and examined the cover. It was called Am I a Hindu? He had never seen it before.

“You know what my dad says?” said Marc. He put a stick of gum in his mouth and handed one to Siddharth. “He says Hindus and Jews, they only got two things in common: they’re both really bad tippers — and they hate the Arabs, and the Arabs hate them too.”

Siddharth threw the book on the table and suggested they watch a movie. He recommended Planet of the Apes, but Marc said it was too old. After some back and forth, they eventually opted for Back to School. Marc was laughing out loud the whole time, but Siddharth’s mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t believe his father was fucking Ms. Farber. He couldn’t believe the man had already forgotten about his dead wife. Dead, dead — when you’re dead, you’re dead. Siddharth’s brain burned with these words. He could feel a big, heavy sob building in his body. Dead was dead. You weren’t reincarnated, and you didn’t go to heaven. Arjun had pretty much said the same thing. Siddharth imagined the flames licking at his mother’s body. They had cremated her and left him with nothing — not even a strand of hair or a gravestone where he could say hello.

A key rattled in the front door.

Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber walked in, though they remained in the entrance hall. Marc didn’t seem to notice, but Siddharth peered at the adults from the darkened family room. Ms. Farber removed her coat and hung it up in the closet. She was saying something about being individuals — about not having to like the same things.

“It is not a question of liking,” said Mohan Lal. He loosened his tie and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. “Aren’t you the one always telling people to be more open?”

“Listen, it’s just not for me,” she said, grasping Mohan Lal’s lapels. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be for you.”

Mohan Lal stepped away from her. “What? So I’m a fool? My judgment can’t be trusted?”

Ms. Farber tied her hair into a bun. “Look, we just went over this. Paying thousands of dollars to learn how to be happy — it just doesn’t seem right. For Christ’s sake, normally you’re the skeptic. You’re the one who would call it consumeristic.”

Siddharth noticed that her boots made her look almost as tall as Mohan Lal. These boots were tall, black, and leather. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining her naked, wearing nothing else besides them. Did she keep them on while they were screwing? He shook his head to rid it of this perverted image.

Mohan Lal stepped into the family room. “As if you’re one who should talk of consumerism,” he muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She then noticed the boys behind her. “Why are you guys sitting in the dark?”

Marc brought a finger to his lips and shushed her.

She kissed him on the forehead. Her curls appeared eerily orange in the light cast by the television. Siddharth hoped she wouldn’t kiss him but then cursed her in his mind when she didn’t. Mohan Lal turned off the VCR and put on CNN, then seated himself beside Siddharth. Marc clicked his tongue. Ms. Farber sat down next to her son.

“What about dinner?” she suggested. “One of my famous stews maybe?”

“There are leftovers in the fridge,” said Mohan Lal.

“But what about your news?” said Ms. Farber. “We should celebrate.”

“Celebrating would be premature.”

Siddharth grasped his father’s knee. “Dad, I don’t feel so good.”

“What’s wrong?” Mohan Lal’s eyes were fixed on the television.

“My stomach hurts.”

Mohan Lal didn’t respond.

“Dad, I vomited.”

“What?” Mohan Lal grabbed his wrist. “Yes, you’re warm.”

Siddharth caught Marc smirking out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care though.

Ms. Farber stood up and placed her fingers on Siddharth’s forehead. “How about I make him some soup?”

“I just wanna go to bed,” said Siddharth. “If I eat, I’m definitely gonna puke again.”

Mohan Lal said he would boil some fennel water that Siddharth could drink in his bedroom. He took him by the hand and began to lead him away.

“Mohan. .” said Ms. Farber.

“What?”

“Mohan, hang on a sec.” She sounded annoyed.

“What is it?” said Mohan Lal.

“Everybody else needs to eat, right? Why don’t I go ahead and make something for the rest of us?”

Don’t you get it? thought Siddharth. He doesn’t want your fucking food.

Mohan Lal glanced down, and when he raised his head, his eyes were wide with anger. “Tonight’s not the night, Rachel.”

She placed a hand on her hip. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, my son is unwell.”

“Are you saying we should leave? Because if that’s what you mean, just say so.”

Mohan Lal sighed. “We’ll be seeing each other in just two days’ time.”

Ms. Farber’s chest was heaving. Her nostrils began to flare. “That’ll be perfect, right? I’ll watch the boys, and you can get down to work. I mean, Mohan, we talked about this. I packed a freaking bag.”

Siddharth groaned, then squeezed his father’s hand. “Dad, my stomach’s killing me.”

* * *

Later that night, after Marc and Ms. Farber were gone, Siddharth lay in bed on the verge of sleep. His stomach felt better now. He was alone in the house with his father, and everything was totally fine. The ringing phone startled him, and he got out of bed and crept down the hallway. He seated himself on the floor, right by the doorway that led to the family room. That way his father wouldn’t see him.

Mohan Lal was on the sofa wearing pink shorts and an untucked striped shirt that had once belonged to Arjun. A glass of whiskey stood on the coffee table, and the receiver was sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. He was frowning silently as somebody spoke on the other end of the line. One of his hands held a slice of mango, and the other wielded the serrated Ginsu knife he had ordered from the television.

Siddharth could almost make out Ms. Farber’s angry words all the way from where he was sitting, but more than a minute passed before he heard his father say anything. When Mohan Lal finally spoke, his mouth was full of mango. “I never said that. Why would I think we’re doing anything wrong?”

Siddharth wished he could hear Ms. Farber’s words.

“Look,” said Mohan Lal, agitated, “it sounds like you’re giving me an ultimatum.”

. .

“Well, to me it sounds like an ultimatum.”

. .

“So you’re the boss then?” said Mohan Lal. “If you think something is right, then that’s the final word?”

. .

“What if I said the same thing about you?”

. .

“I don’t give a damn what you meant.”

. .

“Frankly, I’ve also had more than enough!”

Mohan Lal slammed down the phone and took a long sip of whiskey. Then he used his free hand to suck on the heart of his mango. He devoured it like a savage, like someone who hadn’t eaten in ages.

Siddharth wondered what his father was feeling in that moment. Was he angry? Lonely? Did he miss Ms. Farber? No, Mohan Lal didn’t really care about her. He missed his wife, and she was dead now. Both of them missed the same person, and she was dead. Normally, Siddharth would have gotten up and wrapped his arms around him. But he didn’t feel like it tonight. Tonight he just wanted to go to sleep. As he tiptoed toward his bedroom, a small part of him felt guilty. But mostly he was filled with a deep sense of relief.

6. Buff Blue God

For the next two days, Mohan Lal didn’t let Siddharth answer the phone, instead sending all calls to the new answering machine. Ms. Farber stopped trying after she’d left a few unreturned messages.

Siddharth and Mohan Lal resumed their dinners together in front of the television, laughing along with their favorite sitcoms. Mohan Lal made him turkey burgers and a special vat of rajma, enough to eat all week. He asked Siddharth to check his manuscript for typos and then to read certain chapters out loud. Once or twice, Siddharth even got up in the morning and crawled into his father’s bed like he used to when he was younger. He brushed his teeth in his father’s bathroom while Mohan Lal shaved, the man dumping his mug of murky shaving water out the window for the sake of the septic system.

By the end of the week, however, Mohan Lal started to seem distant and distracted. He stayed in his office straight through dinner and resumed old habits like falling asleep in front of the television or not sleeping at all to work on his book.

Things at school weren’t much better. Even though Luca had invited him to sit at his lunch table and play kickball, he still felt on edge around these kids. One day in the cafeteria, when he was reluctantly eating the brown Indian beans his father had packed for him, Eddie Benson started sniffing the air and grimacing. “Yo,” he said, “your lunch smells like my dirty stinkhole.” For the rest of the afternoon, Eddie and Luca referred to Siddharth as the Prince of Poop.

Without Ms. Farber to collect him from school, he found himself on the bus more often, and these long rides felt quieter and lonelier than he’d remembered. One evening, his father made him come to Elm City College and sit in on his graduate-level management course so that he wouldn’t have to spend the entire evening alone. Mohan Lal showed his students a clip from a movie in which an ape picks up a bone and starts smashing the ground. The scene seemed weird and totally irrelevant, but the students kept raising their hands to make different comments — that the movie was “criticizing the inherent savagery of progress,” or that it “depicted mankind’s innate animalistic nature.”

On the ride home that night, Mohan Lal asked Siddharth what he had thought of his teaching.

“It was fine,” said Siddharth, who had spent much of the class squirming in his seat, embarrassed by his father’s accent and constantly gesticulating hands. To Siddharth, Mohan Lal actually resembled the ape from the movie.

“Just fine?”

He turned to face his father. The man looked particularly exhausted in that moment, vulnerable. Siddharth’s embarrassment and frustration suddenly evaporated. He wondered how Mohan Lal could make it in the world if even his own son were so cruel to him. “Dad, your students totally love you.”

“They do?”

“Come on — you’re one of the greatest teachers in the world.”

Mohan Lal grinned, the glow returning to his tired face.

* * *

After almost a full week without Marc or Ms. Farber, Siddharth felt himself falling into a dark place. Even his favorite movies weren’t distracting him. He needed someone to talk to, but his brother was flaky these days, and also rather annoying. First Arjun had hated Ms. Farber and ranted about their father’s selfishness, and then, out of the blue, he called to say that he thought their relationship was a great idea. “Dad’s finally moving on. You need to be mature and let him.”

Siddharth wished he could talk to Marc. Two days earlier, he’d left a message on his friend’s answering machine, but Marc hadn’t called back. At the time, he told himself it didn’t matter, that he had other friends now and was doing just fine. But he’d come to see how this was bullshit. Maybe Arjun was right. Maybe he needed to stop living in the past. His life would probably be better if his father and Ms. Farber just did whatever they wanted. He felt like an ass for the way he had acted that night — for exaggerating about his stomach.

On Saturday morning — eight days after the adults had fought — he decided to give Marc another try. He took the cordless phone into the bathroom and dialed his number. The machine picked up again, so he called Ms. Farber’s office line. She answered after three rings.

“Hi. May I please speak with Marc?”

“Siddharth? Is everything okay?”

“Can I talk to him, please?”

“He’s out, Siddharth.” Her voice was deeper than usual, and raspy. “He’s been at his father’s for the past few days.”

“Really? Why?” He heard her light a cigarette.

“What do you mean, why? It’s his father.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. He stared at himself in the mirror and tugged at his bangs, which came down to the middle of his nose. Soon his hair would be long enough to get it cut right — long on top and shaved on the sides.

“Siddharth, is there something you’d like to say?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure? How’s your dad?”

Oh God, he thought. She never knew when to shut up. “He’s fine — great, actually.”

“Has he mentioned anything?”

“About what?”

“About me, Siddharth.”

He swallowed hard, wondering if he should make something up. “No.”

She scoffed. “He’s a stubborn man, your father.”

Siddharth gritted his teeth.

She took a long, audible drag. “Honey, it’s fair to say that the four of us were getting along — right?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so? You mean you didn’t like hanging out with Marc? You boys have gotten pretty close. That’s a good thing — right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Yeah, right. That’s a good thing, I guess.”

“Remember that, honey. Keep that in mind.”

* * *

Rain poured on and off for the next few days. It stopped on a Tuesday, and when Siddharth was walking to the bus stop that morning, he noticed that the trunks of the nearby pine trees had started oozing an orange slime. He thought about the awful afternoon that lay ahead of him. His father was insisting that he attend his idiotic after-school program. A part of Siddharth had wanted to say, Call Ms. Farber and tell her you’re sorry. But the pissed-off part of him won out, so he kept his mouth shut.

The school day was fine. During recess, he played a board game with Luca and Eddie, and then came math. Once that was over, Mr. Latella started going on about Memorial Day, which was only a couple of weeks away. He wanted to know if anybody’s father had ever served in the military. Siddharth thought about mentioning Mr. Iverson, his neighbor who rode a Harley-Davidson. Mr. Iverson had fought in Vietnam, and he and Mohan Lal were always talking about how that war was a disgrace to the nation. Siddharth wished he could bring up Marc’s uncle, who was wounded in basic training before actually shipping out to Vietnam, or Marc’s grandfather, who had been in one of the World Wars. He stayed quiet though. These people weren’t family; they were strangers.

Samantha R. raised her hand and said that her father had fought in Grenada. John G. said his grandfather had gone to Korea.

“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.”

They drove in silence to the next light, passing by the road that led to the dump, then the pancake house where Arjun had once worked as a dishwasher.

“He should watch out, you know,” said Barry Uncle. “My ex-wife was a gori — what a terrible storm.” As Siddharth listened to these words, a surge of optimism pulsed through his veins. Maybe Barry Uncle’s return was the sign he’d been waiting for — a sign that things were really and truly returning to normal.

Barry Uncle said, “At least Dad’s got himself a Jew. With them we have something in common.”

“I know, I know. Bad tipping and hating Arabs.”

Barry Uncle turned into a plaza containing a bridal shop and a Subway, parking next to a Jeep Wrangler. “Good man,” he said. “Yes, we both have the same problem with the Mohammedans.” He shut off the engine, and the seat belts slid forward on their own. “Listen, kid, this all must be strange for you. But your father’s a smart man. And we all gotta look to the future.”

Inside Subway, the radio was playing “More than Words,” one of Luca’s favorite songs. Barry Uncle explained that the turkey here was better than the roast beef, and that pickles went well with the peppers. He called the Latina cashier “sweetheart,” telling her she had gorgeous eyes. Siddharth wondered if Barry Uncle could knock some sense into Mohan Lal — if he could keep him from doing something stupid, like marrying Ms. Farber.

They sidled up to a booth by the window, and Siddharth asked when he would see his father.

“Don’t worry,” said Barry Uncle, his mouth full of turkey, “I’m not gonna kidnap you.” He devoured his sub, then tapped his hairy fingers against the acrylic tabletop, the two of them going quiet.

Siddharth struggled to finish his sandwich, breaking the silence by asking, “You’re a lawyer, right?”

“Me? I’m an entrepreneur — got a gas station and half a liquor store. I actually do the things that your dad teaches.” He slurped some ginger ale through a straw. “You could say this place — America — has allowed me to live with some dignity. But things are changing over there too.”

“Over where?”

“In India, boy. I keep telling your father, but he doesn’t wanna listen.”

They took an odd route home, a tape with some wailing Indians playing on the stereo. Barry Uncle asked if Mohan Lal still listened to this stuff, and Siddharth shrugged. To him, all Indian music sounded the same. Barry Uncle said, “This is Rafi Sahib. Mohammed Rafi. Real music, not like your McHammer.”

Siddharth struggled to contain his laughter.

“What’s so funny, kid?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

“It’s MC Hammer, not McHammer. And he’s lame.”

“Boy, all your music’s lame. Same with your cinema. Your movies are nothing compared with the classics. Me and your Dad, we used to go to the movies once a week. Your father, he was a Guru Dutt man. But me, I loved Raj Kapoor.”

“I should know these people?”

“Don’t tell me — you don’t know Raj Kapoor?”

He shrugged. “I saw Gandhi once.”

“That trash? That’s not a movie — it’s bloody propaganda.”

* * *

Once they were home, Barry Uncle poured himself some of Mohan Lal’s whiskey. He sipped it on the armchair while reading an Indian magazine that he’d pulled out of his briefcase. Siddharth sat on the sofa, and as he watched TV, he wondered if being here with Barry Uncle was better or worse than his after-school program. Maybe the best thing would be if things could just go back to the way they were a few weeks earlier. He took the cordless phone to the bathroom and dialed Marc’s number. There was still no answer.

He recalled a time when Barry Uncle had really pissed off his mother. They were eating a standard weekday meal of daal, vegetables, and frozen pita, and Barry Uncle declared that the food was nice, but that nothing was better than piping-hot, homemade chapattis. Siddharth’s mother had slammed down her glass. She took the man’s pita from his plate and threw it in the trash compactor.

Mohan Lal’s van pulled in a few minutes after eight, and Siddharth ran to the front door to greet him. As Mohan Lal hung his blazer over a kitchen chair, Barry Uncle removed an expensive-looking bottle of alcohol from a plastic bag.

Mohan Lal held the bottle up to the light. “Wow. Rocks and soda, chief?”

“Boss, that’s the good stuff,” said Barry Uncle. “We gotta have it neat.”

The men poured the whiskey into Mohan Lal’s special crystal glasses, sipping it on the family room sofas as they munched cashews flavored with Indian spices. Siddharth sat on the armchair, eating a plate of rajma on his three-legged Indian table. He tried to concentrate on a sitcom, but Barry Uncle kept interrupting him. At one point, he told Siddharth that his table was gorgeous.

“Thanks,” he replied. “I made it all by myself — from scratch.”

“I bet you don’t even know where it’s from,” said Barry Uncle.

He scrutinized the wooden table, as if seeing it for the first time. It was only a foot tall and had a round top carved with intricate floral patterns.

“Kashmir, boy,” said Barry Uncle, who then turned to Mohan Lal. “I bet he doesn’t even know where that is.”

Of course he knew where it was. Kashmir was in India, the goddamned country that nobody would shut up about.

“Why would he know?” replied Mohan Lal. “All kids know today is television.”

“But it’s his grandmother’s place. It’s one of the most beautiful places on this earth. Sid, listen up. You must visit Kashmir one day. But your father can’t take you there now. He can’t take you thanks to these bloody Pakistanis.”

Siddharth got up to raise the volume.

Barry Uncle poured a second round and grew even louder, yelling over the television. He went into great detail about his new business. He had invested in an Indian company that would print American textbooks for a quarter of the price and then ship them back to America.

“Chief,” said Mohan Lal, “I wish you all the best, but you couldn’t pay me enough to do business in that cesspool of a country.”

Siddharth was relieved to hear these words. The last thing he needed was another trip to India. If he went to India, he’d get allergies from the all the dust and smog. If he went to India, he’d have to see his mother’s little sister, who wrote him letters once in a while and called him on his birthday every year. She had the same nose as his mother, and she bought him sweets and took him to temples. He wanted to see her again — someday. Just not now.

“Boss, I’m gonna make a killing,” said Barry Uncle. “There’s a new mindset over there.” He started going on about something called the BJP, which would revolutionize things, and a place called Ayodhya, where justice would be done. He would soon be traveling to Delhi, where he planned on meeting a man named Advani.

Mohan Lal grunted. “I’ve heard it all before, chief. If I recall, you once had an appointment with Indira Gandhi.”

“This time it’s different.”

“Different? Politics don’t change, Barry.”

“They do. They change when you call on someone with a suitcase full of greenbacks.”

They drank another round, and Barry Uncle asked Mohan Lal why his son was watching shit like Gandhi. Mohan Lal said that the kids here did what they wanted. They were individuals, not like in Barry Uncle’s beloved India. Siddharth was taken aback by the fact that his father was swearing, and that he’d begun to slur his words. But more than anything else, the men’s loud voices made him happy. Such boisterous conversation hadn’t filled the family room in a long time.

Barry Uncle said, “But he should learn. He should know the truth.”

“Oh, he’ll learn.”

“Learn what?” asked Siddharth.

Mohan Lal burped, then took another sip of whiskey. “The truth about that traitor.”

“He was a homo,” said Barry Uncle.

“A British agent,” said Mohan Lal.

The men clinked their glasses together.

“Boss, you’ve always spoken the truth,” said Barry Uncle. “It’s time to share your opinions with a wider audience — to put them down in print.”

“My book’s almost finished, chief — four months ahead of schedule.”

“Yaar, that marketing nonsense is useless. Focus your talents on something important.”

Siddharth tensed up. He’d have to say something if Barry Uncle kept criticizing his father. But Mohan Lal was smiling, so Siddharth settled down.

“Okay, sir,” said Mohan Lal. “And what would you have me do?”

Barry Uncle tried to take a sip but missed his mouth, the whiskey dribbling down his chin. “You must create something you’re passionate about. Something that’s gonna make a difference.” He wiped his chin with the cuff of his shirt.

“Like what?” asked Mohan Lal.

“How about a book on Partition? A book about independence by someone who actually saw it.”

“Maybe in another lifetime,” said Mohan Lal.

“Dad, what’s Partition?”

His father ignored him.

Barry Uncle finished the last of the cashews. “You know, I’ve been telling Vineet about you. He’s very interested in your perspectives. If you wrote something, I bet he would print it.”

“Forget your Vineet,” said Mohan Lal, batting the air with his hand. “Forget your Satya Publishers. That Taj book was shit. Not at all respectable scholarship.”

“Why, boss? Tell me why.”

Siddharth remembered seeing the book — the one that looked like it had been made on a photocopier. Yeah, it was definitely a piece of shit.

“For starters, whatever you may say about the Muslims, at least they knew engineering. The Hindus couldn’t build a proper doghouse.”

“Well, that’s your perspective,” said Barry Uncle. He walked over to the entranceway and opened up his briefcase, returning to the sofa with a paperback. “Here’s his latest baby. Actually, it’s our baby. Trust me, this one you’re gonna love.”

Mohan Lal examined the book, then placed it on the coffee table.

Siddharth grabbed it. The volume was called Islam and the Infidel: What the World Should Know about Muslims but Is Afraid to Ask. The cover depicted several bearded strongmen breaking apart a temple with swords and daggers. This drawing was impressive. The men’s muscles were nicely shaded, and the carvings on the temple showed a lot of detail. Siddharth hadn’t sketched in a while. He would try to copy it later on.

7. Shakespeare Sucks

As they drove to Woodford that Friday, Siddharth tugged at his uncomfortable formal clothing. His father had made him wear one of Arjun’s old blue blazers. It had gold buttons with little anchors on the cuffs. Mohan Lal was wearing a similar coat. Earlier in the week, Ms. Farber had taken Mohan Lal to lunch and given him a pair of bamboo wind chimes, which were now hanging from the maple beside the old bird feeder. She told him that she had bought some theater tickets as a surprise for his birthday and that it would be a shame for them to go to waste. Mohan Lal mulled over her invitation for a couple of days before saying yes. Siddharth had been dreading the thought of the adults going back to their sex, along with the idea of his father being so busy again — of Mohan Lal devoting too much of his energy to Ms. Farber. And yet he also appreciated that he would have his friend back. He wouldn’t have to stay after school or spend more lame afternoons with Barry Uncle.

Once they got to her house, Marc greeted him with a high five but barely said hello, which made Siddharth’s stomach tighten even further. Ms. Farber gave Mohan Lal a loose hug and no kisses. She then wrapped her arms tightly around Siddharth, whispering that he looked great and that she was sorry. He wondered why she was apologizing — for screwing his father, or for being such a freak on the phone?

The foursome drove to New Haven in relative silence, parking in a private, multistoried lot. Siddharth felt alone and wished he hadn’t come. The play, Shakespeare’s Richard III, was sold out, and throngs of glamorous people were chatting and drinking from plastic cups in the lobby. The women wore long dresses and flashy jewelry. Most were gray-haired and plump, but he nudged Marc and pointed out a few “bangable” ones. Marc cracked a smile but remained quiet. Siddharth felt that familiar emptiness swelling in his chest. It was official: his best friend hated him.

A suited usher seated them, and the enormous, opulent theater made him a little dizzy. Gigantic chandeliers shimmered on the ceiling, and complex patterns were carved into the walls. Just sitting there made him feel older, more mature. Once the performance started, the audience started snickering, but he didn’t see what was so funny. At first he thought the English accents were getting in the way, but once he got the hang of them, he decided it was the jokes. They were childish and dumb.

During the excruciating second act, the boys got up to go to the bathroom. Marc slammed his body into a vending machine, which spat out a free pack of Camels. They went outside and stood beneath a tree with bright pink blossoms. Siddharth’s mother used to beg his father to drive them downtown to admire these flowers, but Mohan Lal usually said no, making some excuse about parking. Siddharth shook these thoughts out of his mind and focused on Marc, who looked like a full-grown man as he pulled on his cigarette. Only a couple of weeks had passed, but Marc had changed. For one thing, his hair was growing out. It fell over his ears and reached down to his neck. He seemed taller too. Wider.

Marc handed him the cigarette and said, “Yo, why haven’t you called?”

Siddharth took a drag and coughed. “What?” Water sprang from his eyes. He spit up some mucous, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. “I called, like, a hundred freaking times.”

“You’re messing with me,” said Marc.

A campus police car sped past, splashing oily water on Siddharth’s loafers. Had Marc really not gotten his messages? Or was he lying?

Marc took another drag. “I mean, you’re, like, one of my best friends. That means we’re supposed to keep in touch.”

Best friends. That made him feel a little better, lighter. They passed the cigarette back and forth until a homeless man appeared. The guy wore a leather jacket that said Vietnam Veteran and was pushing a shopping cart filled with various pieces of junk: a lamp, a tennis racket, some bottles. “Gentleman, I’m very hungry. Can you spare a dollar for some food?”

“Food?” said Marc. “Or a needle and a spoon?”

The man tilted his head to one side, staring at some faraway thing, and gave his torso a thorough scratching. Marc fished his cigarettes from his blazer pocket and handed three of them to the homeless man, who smiled and said, “Your parents — they raised you well.”

“My parents?” Marc lit one of the man’s smokes. “Dude, my parents are worse off than you.”

The man ambled away, the wheels of his shopping cart creaking loudly in the darkness.

Staring down at his soiled loafers, Siddharth mulled over the evening. He was glad that his friend was opening up, but he’d never understand the harsh way Marc spoke about his parents.

“What is it?” said Marc, pushing him on the shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it,” said Marc.

“Say what?”

“Whatever little thought you’re thinking.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t be a pussy.”

Siddharth sighed. “I need to know something.”

“Know what?”

“Were you being serious before? You really didn’t get any of my messages?”

Marc held the stubby cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He sucked a final drag then flicked it into a puddle. “That bitch — she must have forgotten to tell me you called.” He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. “Rachel, she’s not like your dad. She’s nuts. For the past week, she’s been sitting around doing nothing and jabbering like a madwoman. Every night she calls my dad and just starts yelling at him.”

“About what?”

“Money and shit. And then he gets on the phone and does the same thing to me. And then one night — one night she smacked me.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not fucking joking. She hit me right in the face. I said, Rachel, I know you’re a chick — and you’re my mother and stuff — but try that again, I’ll give you a beating.”

* * *

After the play, the foursome began the five-block walk to the parking lot, for which Mohan Lal had a special coupon. Ms. Farber had a pleasant but tight-lipped smile on her face. She slipped her hand through Mohan Lal’s arm and asked him what he’d thought. He said it had been an invigorating experience. What a suck-up, thought Siddharth. He knew that his father hated Shakespeare.

Marc started shaking his head.

“What is it?” said Ms. Farber.

“Nothing.”

“Spill it, dear.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Marc, I’m always interested in what my son has to say.”

Siddharth thought about what Marc had said while they were smoking. If he’d been telling the truth, then she was a really good actress.

“Listen,” said Marc, “I know those tickets were worth a bundle, but let me tell you, that play sucked. It was a total piece of crap.”

“Language, dear.”

Marc was smirking now. “I mean, I thought about jumping off the balcony — just so something interesting would happen.”

“Me too,” said Siddharth. “I wish I’d had some tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes?” said Marc. “What the hell would you do with a tomato?”

“When you see something boring, that’s what you do. You throw tomatoes at the stage.” He saw Ms. Farber clutch his father’s arm more tightly.

She said, “Boys, you’re talking about one of the greatest artists to ever live.”

“Whatever, I don’t see why he’s so hyped up,” said Marc. “If you ask me, the play was like one of your stupid soap operas — except the chicks were total dogs.”

“Cute, Marc,” replied Ms. Farber. “But for your information, I don’t watch soap operas.” She turned to Mohan Lal and poked him in the belly. “And you, mister. Just what’s so funny?”

Mohan Lal broke into a grin. “Nothing, but you’ve raised a smart young man, Rachel. The world lacks people who are willing to speak the truth.”

As they walked down the desolate sidewalk, Marc announced that he was hungry. Ms. Farber said she had Ben & Jerry’s at home, but he said he needed real food. Mohan Lal suggested they go out somewhere, telling Marc to choose the place. Siddharth was pleasantly surprised by his father’s attitude. Mohan Lal was more easygoing around Ms. Farber. That was definitely a good thing.

“We can walk it to Paulie’s,” suggested Marc. “It’s the only decent thing that’ll be open.”

“I’m not sure about sticking downtown at this hour,” said Ms. Farber. “How about somewhere in Woodford?”

“Fret not, dear Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “You have three strong men to protect you.”

* * *

Siddharth had never been to a place like Paulie’s before. It was a squat wooden building that looked more like a cabin than a restaurant. Stepping inside, he found no neon signs, no milkshake machines. He saw no pictures of the toys that could accompany your food for an extra charge.

“Get stoked,” said Marc. “This is the best shit you’re ever gonna eat.”

The place was dimly lit and contained lots of wood. The wooden tables and chairs were oddly shaped and built directly into the walls, and long wooden beams lined the ceiling. Thousands of customers had chiseled their names into every square inch of this wood. Some had even made declarations of love. Marc pointed out a spot below a fire extinguisher where his father had carved the name of the family business, State Street Scrap. “That’s where I’m gonna work someday,” he declared. “Not in some pussy-ass law firm.”

Siddharth laughed. He noticed a pair of cops sitting on barstools in front of a wooden counter, on the other side of which was the place’s rustic kitchen. Standing in the kitchen was a young man with a red mustache and a grease-stained apron. His bright green eyes were focused on a tiny TV mounted above the entrance.

One of the cops, a short, squat guy, addressed the redhead: “What do you think, Ronny? How’s about I put a bill on Philly?”

Ronny squeezed his temples. “There’s fifteen minutes left in the game, Sam. It’s not a bet if you already know what’s gonna happen.” He extracted a metal cage filled with glistening hamburger patties from an upright iron oven. Actual flames were flickering. This oven seemed strange. Ancient. For some reason, it reminded Siddharth of India.

Ronny served the cops their hamburgers, which came on toast, and the second cop, a tall guy with a shaved head, complained that his was too bloody. Ronny pointed to a sign above the cash register. This isn’t Burger King. We don’t do it your way, and we take our time. Then the redhead finally turned to Marc. “Long time no see, kid.” He wiped a hand on his apron and extended it. “Where’s the old man?”

Marc shook Ronny’s hand. “Somebody’s gotta pay the bills.”

Ronny nodded at Ms. Farber, who flashed a perfunctory smile and put a hand on Marc’s back. Marc ordered a cream soda and a burger, and then Ronny turned to Siddharth. “What about you, kid?”

Siddharth had no idea what to order here, but Marc stepped in and saved him: “Same again for him, Ronny.”

Mohan Lal approached the counter and asked for a cheese toast.

“A what?” said Ronny.

“A grilled cheese,” explained Siddharth.

“Sorry, sir, we got hamburgers, cheeseburgers, chips, and blueberry pie. Oh, and Monday through Wednesday there’s Mother’s potato salad.”

“You’re kidding,” said Ms. Farber with a scowl. “People get grilled cheese all the time.”

Mohan Lal clasped her elbow. “I think chips would be fine.”

Siddharth bent down and peeled a candy wrapper from the bottom of his loafers. He wished his father would just have a burger. But then he remembered what the doctor had said about his cholesterol.

“Junior!” a voice called from behind the kitchen. A few seconds later, an old man walked into the dining area carrying a box of onions. He dropped it on the counter, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Junior, I don’t see a big crowd here. We don’t have a rush. Would you please give this gentleman what he wants?”

The old man was wearing thick glasses and a plaid flannel shirt. Siddharth wasn’t accustomed to the elderly looking so robust. His father’s mother had always been shrouded in white and liked to complain a lot. His mother’s father had worn a three-piece suit every day, and he was so skinny and old that it looked like the wind might blow him away.

“Welcome, folks,” said the old man. “Is it your first time?”

“Me?” said Marc. “I’ve been here like a hundred times.”

The old man squinted at Marc and nodded. “That’s right. I know your father — knew your grandfather too.”

Mohan Lal took off his blazer and sat on a bench. “Sir, are you Paulie?”

“Me? No. Paulie was my grandfather. Moved here from Ireland and worked the gun factories. Started this place up back in 1892—exactly a hundred years ago.” He winked at Siddharth. “So where you folks from?”

Siddharth’s pulse quickened; he hated that question.

Ms. Farber sat down next to Mohan Lal. “Oh, we’re from the area.”

“Actually,” said Mohan Lal, “before Connecticut I was a New Yorker.”

The old man rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them. “Ah, the melting pot.” He sat on the only empty barstool, patting the tall cop on the back. “Used to deliver groceries for my uncle in the Bronx. But where are you from—I mean your people.”

Ms. Farber placed a hand on Mohan Lal’s knee. Siddharth wished she wouldn’t touch him like that in front of strangers.

“Me?” said Mohan Lal, pointing at himself. “By birth I am an Indian.”

“Thought so.” The old man snapped his fingers. His smile widened, revealing a silver-capped incisor. “I spent more than a year of my life in your country. Was stationed in Karachi during the war, and once it was all over, I traveled around with my buddies — some of the best months of my life.”

Ms. Farber tilted her head. “You mean World War II? My father—”

“What a country! You’ve got everything over there. Deserts, mountains. And those cities — they’re something else.” The old man spread his arms to convey the grandness of these things, winking at Siddharth again.

Mohan Lal was grinning. “Why, thank you.”

Siddharth sipped his cream soda, wishing the old guy would leave them alone. He was glad Marc was watching the game, not listening.

“Kashmir,” said the man. “That place had the most beautiful ladies. Bet you a hamburger that’s where your people are.”

“I had some family there.” Mohan Lal loosened his tie. “But you could call us Punjabis.”

The man shook his finger at Mohan Lal. “My second guess. I swear it was gonna be my second guess. The Punjab — Golden Temple — Amritsar. I bet that’s your city.”

“Actually, I’m from a small place near a city called Peshawar.”

Siddharth was confused; these places were totally unfamiliar to him.

“Which town?” asked the man.

“Abbottabad.”

The man snapped his fingers a second time. “Oh, I’ve been there. Been everywhere in Pakistan.” He cocked his head to one side. “Muslim?”

“I’m a Hindu — from a Hindu family, that is.”

“So you were a refugee?”

Mohan Lal stroked the stubble that had started to shadow his cheeks. “Yes, we had to move.”

The old man puffed up his cheeks and sighed. “It’s just awful what they did to each other. Saw the photographs in Time magazine. So much bloodshed in such a holy place. I tell you — brought tears to my eyes.”

Mohan Lal shook his head. “Well, the Britishers, they threw stones at a hornet’s nest. It was a deviant course of action.”

“But they left you with so much. That railroad — it’s just spectacular. And your army? One of the largest in the world.”

“Sir, your sense of history is most impressive,” said Mohan Lal.

The old man chuckled. “Well, they actually used to teach you something back when I was a kid.” He got up abruptly and disappeared back behind the kitchen.

Ronny handed the boys their sandwiches atop tiny paper plates. Siddharth grasped his burger. It didn’t look like much; it had no lettuce or mayo, and there were no pickles or onions. He squeezed the patty, and the toast it was served on turned purple.

“Mine’s all dry,” said Marc. “I wanted you to have the good one.”

Siddharth brought the burger to his mouth. He took a deep breath, then bit down. The meat was moist, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the source of this moisture. It was blood from an actual living thing, an animal with parents and children. He could see his own mother’s blood splattered across the vinyl seats of her Chrysler LeBaron. As he suffered his meat in silence, the old man returned and started sorting through bags of plastic cutlery. After completing this task, he walked over to Mohan Lal and placed a mole-ridden hand on his shoulder. Siddharth clenched his teeth. He wanted this guy to leave them alone. He wanted to eat in peace.

The old man said, “Can I show you something?”

Mohan Lal was finishing up his grilled cheese. “Please.”

Siddharth followed the man’s fingers, which were pointing toward a spot close to the ceiling, one of the only brick-laden sections of the restaurant. Amid these bricks were several pieces of stone. Some of the stones were green, and two of them were blue. Only one was white, and the man was pointing at the white one. “Guess where it’s from.”

“No idea,” said Mohan Lal.

“Here’s a story for you,” said the man. “When I was in Karachi, I made good friends with a nawab. He was a captain in the British Indian Army. Well, we cabled him and said we were going to visit the Taj Mahal, and guess what he did?”

Siddharth prayed that his father wouldn’t go off about the Taj Mahal, about how much he hated the Muslims.

“He arranged a special tour,” said the old man. “And you’ll never guess what they did for us. . They hung thick ropes from the top of one of those pillars—”

“The minarets,” said Mohan Lal.

“That’s the word. They hung rope from the top of a minaret, and we put on harnesses and climbed the thing as if it were a mountain. That rock right there — the white one — I took a chisel and carved it out myself. That building is just gorgeous — makes Lady Liberty look like child’s play.”

Mohan Lal had a wide grin on his lips. “Very true, sir. I couldn’t agree with you more.”

Siddharth didn’t get it. What the hell was his father talking about?

* * *

Back in the car, Ms. Farber told everyone to lock their doors. Siddharth watched her pull a cassette from her purple purse. She inserted it into the minivan’s stereo, and he resisted the urge to say, Hey, you should ask first. The cassette began to play, and an American man started chanting the name Sitaram over and over.

Marc snickered, “Cool music.”

“Dear,” said Ms. Farber, “don’t be such a philistine.”

“I’m serious,” said Marc. “It’s kind of trippy.”

Ms. Farber said, “Marc, you’re too young to know that word.”

Mohan Lal turned up the volume. “Where did you get this, Rachel?”

“You like?”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Mo, let’s plan a trip to India,” she said. “I would love to see the Taj Mahal.”

This nickname — Mo — was new to Siddharth. It wasn’t that bad.

“We can go to many places,” said Mohan Lal. “But not that one.”

“What do you mean?” Ms. Farber turned the music down.

“That’s a conversation for another day.” Mohan Lal turned onto Chapel Street, passing a herd of drunken students. Siddharth spotted a police checkpoint a couple of blocks ahead.

Ms. Farber clicked her tongue. “I mean, is it a special place for you?”

“No,” said Mohan Lal, who was grinning again.

“If it is, that’s okay. We all have our pasts.”

Siddharth could tell she was growing sullen. “Ms. Farber, don’t take it personally. He hates the Taj Mahal.”

“What?” she said. “Why’s that?”

He told her how the building was a symbol of decadence — how it used to be a Hindu temple until the Muslims came and destroyed it.

“Mo,” she asked, “could that really be true?”

“There are grains of truth in every story,” said Mohan Lal.

Ms. Farber sighed. “Well, I wish I could say I was surprised.”

They were getting closer to South Haven, passing through endless streets of old Victorian homes. Siddharth knew that this neighborhood was bad, and yet some of the houses were large and pretty, if a little run-down. He hadn’t realized poor people could live in such nice houses. Mohan Lal slowed down near Saint Rafael’s Hospital, pointing out an old brick building where he’d once had a third-floor apartment.

“You mean you lived there with your wife?” asked Ms. Farber.

Siddharth gritted his teeth. When he had visited her office in school, they sometimes spoke about his mother — but it didn’t seem right anymore.

“That was in my bachelor days,” said Mohan Lal.

“There’s just so much I don’t know about you. I mean, you were born in Pakistan? I should know that.”

“It was India then,” said Mohan Lal.

“Well, I should know that too.”

Marc leaned forward. “Mom, you’re ignorant. I still love you though.”

She placed a hand on Mohan Lal’s thigh. “Mo, why did he call you a refugee?”

“Nothing is to be achieved by dwelling on such things. Aren’t you the one always telling us to be more mindful of the present?”

She started fiddling with her hair. “But I also say that if you’ve experienced something traumatic, you need to tell that story. You need to talk about it.”

“Well, I could say the same thing to you.”

They were back on familiar suburban turf. Siddharth gazed at the ancient Yale Bowl, then the pastoral reservoirs of South Haven. He found himself agreeing with Ms. Farber. His father needed to talk more. About his feelings. His past. Siddharth’s mother used to say the same thing.

“Marc’s grandfather,” said Ms. Farber, “he was in the war too.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mohan Lal.

“Did I ever tell you how he met my mother?”

“Which war?” interrupted Siddharth.

“The Second World War,” said Mohan Lal. “Boys, who fought in World War II?”

“We did,” answered Siddharth.

“And on the other side?” asked Mohan Lal.

“The Russians,” said Siddharth.

“You’re retarded,” said Marc. “It was us against Hitler — the Nazis and the Japs.”

“You’re the ’tard,” said Siddharth. “The Russians are the freaking enemy.”

“Oh well,” Ms. Farber sighed, “I guess no one wants to hear my story.”

“I do.” Siddharth reached between the front seats to turn down the volume even more.

* * *

“My parents met in London,” she explained. “It was 1945.”

“Your mother was a Britisher?” said Mohan Lal

“She was born in Germany, but her parents were from Russia. And when the war started, they shipped her off to England. Can you believe it? She was fourteen years old.”

“Too bad her parents didn’t go too,” said Marc. “Then Hitler wouldn’t have gassed ’em.”

“Marc!” snapped Ms. Farber. “Not another word.”

They took a right toward Woodford, and Ms. Farber continued narrating her mother’s story. After arriving in England, she’d studied to become a nurse and got a job in a place called Croydon, and in the hospital there she came upon an American soldier who was totally unconscious. “He’d literally just gotten in from the African front. He was a driver there, and the other troops called him Lucky.”

“Lucky?” said Marc. “That’s not what I heard.”

Ms. Farber shot him a look. Marc drew a finger across his lips to indicate that he was shutting up, then nudged Siddharth and gave her the middle finger behind her seat.

“He was very lucky,” Ms. Farber went on. “Men sitting right next to him got shot. The truck right in front of him would get destroyed by a landmine, but somehow — somehow — he always made it through without a scratch.” She paused to tie back her hair. “But when he was two weeks away from discharge, they put him on a plane out of Egypt. Halfway through the flight, he came down with this crazy fever. They diagnosed him with malaria once he got to London. When he finally came to, he couldn’t hear anything, but the first face he saw was my mother’s. For some reason, Mom felt something special for him. There was something about his voice. She started bringing him soup from home — she had a room in a boardinghouse — and she gave him sponge baths. She read him books all the time, even when she was off duty.”

“What books?” asked Marc.

“Marc, what did I tell you?”

“Jeez, shoot me for caring.”

“Do these little details really matter, Marc? She read him Kipling — your grandfather loved Rudyard Kipling. Can I move on?. . So when Dad was strong enough to fly, he went home to New Jersey and wrote the nurse every single week. Then it became every day. Eventually, he proposed to her in one of these letters.”

“And she said yes?” asked Siddharth. He wished his own family had done such interesting things. He wished they’d lived in such interesting places. But the Aroras were boring.

“No, but she did get on a boat and come to America. She moved in with some friends in Brooklyn, other Jews. Mom and Dad dated for two years until she had no choice but to marry him.”

“Immigration?” asked Mohan Lal.

“Nope,” said Ms. Farber, laughing. “She was pregnant with my big brother.”

Mohan Lal held out his hand to her. “You should write this all down and publish it.”

She grazed his hand but then started fixing her hair again. “You’ll love this, Mo. One time, my father actually got to drive Eisenhower.”

“Really?” Mohan turned right onto Ms. Farber’s street. “Ike’s driver — his main driver — was a woman. Kay. They were lovers.” He took a left into her driveway and parked underneath the hoop.

The engine idled, and nobody said anything. Siddharth felt cozy and warm and wished they could just stay right there in the driveway, but Marc shattered the cozy silence: “Listen, story time was great, but I’ve got to excuse myself — unless you want me to take a dump in the backseat.” He stepped out of the van and let himself into the house through the garage.

Ms. Farber took a long, deep breath. “Mohan, this has been. . Really good. I was thinking. .” She let out a breathy laugh. “No, forget it.”

“What? What is it?” Mohan Lal shut off the motor.

“No, it’s all a little too raw still.”

“Please, Rachel.” He held out his hand.

She didn’t touch it. “Not now. It’s not the right time.”

Siddharth shrunk in his seat, worried that she was referring to him, then Mohan Lal restarted the engine.

Ms. Farber reached for his wrist and took another deep breath. “Okay, I’m done holding things back.” She paused before continuing. “Mohan, I want you to come inside. You can have some coffee and go home, and that’ll be okay. But you could also stay till tomorrow. That would be fine too. . What am I talking about? It would be more than fine. I would love it if you both spent the night.”

Mohan Lal started rubbing his neck. He stared into the rearview mirror with raised eyebrows, and Siddharth met his eyes. These people are fucking crazy, he thought. It was almost as if they were waiting for him to decide. Well, he was done. He didn’t care anymore. He had seen what happened when he got in the way. They could do all the screwing they wanted.

He hopped out of the car and jogged toward the house. Marc was in the family room watching Saturday Night Live. Siddharth sat down beside him, sinking into the plush leather sofa. He laughed hard, forgetting all about the adults and their love life for a little while.