South Haven

1. Pussy Man

Eli Whitney Junior High was a drab single-story building, a part of which seemed much taller due to the vaulted ceilings of the gymnasium. A concrete slab in the school’s foundation announced that it had been built in 1958. Arjun had gone here six years earlier, and the trophy case in the lobby still contained two of his photos.

In one photo, Arjun was standing with his cross-country track team, which had come in second place at the regional finals that year. The other photo was of him, Iris Chang, and William Evans, all three of them with braces and glasses. They had just won a statewide science olympiad for ninth graders. During Siddharth’s first days of school, he occasionally paused to stare at these photos on his way to the bathroom. But he never mentioned them to any of his friends.

The school combined kids from three different elementary schools — Deer Run, Lower Housatonic, and Rolling Ridge. Siddharth had attended two of these schools in his short academic career, so there was no dearth of familiar faces in his seventh grade class. But during the first days of junior high, he dreaded reconnecting with the students from Rolling Ridge, where he had spent first through fourth grades. Those kids would always talk to him in that irritating formal tone, which said it all: We feel bad for you, you single-parent loser. To those kids, his friendship with Luca Peroti or Marc Kaufman would never matter. He would always be the boy with the dead mom.

He dreaded seeing his neighbor, Timmy Connor, who was now an eighth grader at Eli Whitney. Siddharth had successfully avoided the Connor boys over the past couple of years, ducking down in Mohan Lal’s minivan when they passed them on the road, or staying out of the backyard when Timmy and Eric were cutting the grass. But now he was on the same bus as Timmy, so it would be almost impossible to escape him.

During the first two days of school, he timed it so that he was a solid five hundred feet behind Timmy on the three-quarter-mile trek to his new bus stop in front of the rickety Miller farmhouse that belonged to Sharon Nagorski’s great-uncle. When he got to the top of his street on the third day of school, however, he found Timmy waiting for him. He was standing there with his faithful mutt, Naomi, wearing white jean shorts and a black tank top. His hair was spiked, with little lines shaved into the sides of his head.

They greeted each other with a handshake and walked in silence, kicking a gray stone back and forth to each other. As they neared the farmhouse, Timmy finally spoke: “Yo, what’s up with those people who are always over at your house?”

“Which people?”

“That woman. The one who’s always with that tall kid.”

“Marc Kaufman? He’s my best friend. She’s his mom.”

“Kaufman?” said Timmy. “Wait, I’ve heard of Marc Kaufman. Isn’t he, like, nuts?”

“Nuts? He’s really nice, actually — really cool.” He tensed up, preparing for an avalanche of further questioning.

Fortunately, Timmy changed the subject, telling him that his brother Eric was dating a hot senior. “They haven’t done it yet, but he’s doing her up the butt.”

“Gross,” said Siddharth.

“Why, you gay or something?”

“Nah. I’m just more of a pussy man myself.” He looked over at Timmy and was relieved to see he was smiling.

“Yeah, me too. But he doesn’t wanna get her pregnant.”

* * *

Even though things were going smoothly with Timmy, Siddharth still dreaded seeing his ex — best friend, Chris Pizzolorusso. He had slept over at Chris’s house at least a dozen times when he was younger, and his mother had been friendly with Chris’s mom. After the accident, Chris had tried to be nice. Every time he called, he said, “I’m here if you wanna talk.” Siddharth had found that shit suffocating, so he cut himself off.

For the first week of seventh grade, he glanced down whenever he passed Chris in the hall, or took refuge in the lavatory upon spotting him at lunch. One day, as he was squirting ketchup onto his fries in the cafeteria, he felt someone touch his shoulder. He turned to find Chris standing there with a smile on his face. He had braces now, and was much lankier.

When Chris started going on about a summer fishing trip to Lake George, Siddharth loosened up. He even made a couple of jokes, saying how their new English teacher must do her hair in the morning by sticking her finger in a light socket.

Chris laughed, but then suddenly got serious. “Yo, I gotta ask you something.”

“What?” said Siddharth, grinding his teeth.

“Those shoes — are they, like, suede?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are.” He breathed out in relief. “Of course they’re suede. I don’t wear that fake-ass shit.”

“Dude,” said Chris, “I gotta get me some of those.”

* * *

The person he most dreaded seeing was Sharon Nagorski, and when he spotted her in the back corner of his first-period English class, he made a plan: he would have his father call up his guidance counselor and get him transferred to another class.

His English teacher, Mrs. Wadsworth, was a tiny elderly woman with a bloated belly, which made her appear pregnant. She had a crown of jet-black permed hair, but her curls were so thin that the purple dye stains on her scalp were visible underneath the flickering tube lights. On the first day of school, Mrs. Wadsworth recognized his surname while taking attendance. “Arora?” she said. “I have fond memories of an Arjun Arora. Would you by chance be his son?”

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

The class erupted with laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

“Authentic? How am I supposed to know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to explain that Pakistanis were bad people.

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

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

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

“That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

“Duh.”

“Shakespeare fucking sucks.”

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

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

“No you’re not.”

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

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

“What about my dad?”

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

“What are you even talking about?”

“Come on, Sid. Don’t be so immature.”

“I’m not being immature.”

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

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

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

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

“What about me?”

“Have you ever done it?”

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

“Well, how far have you gotten?”

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

“Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?”

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

“You’re lying.”

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

“Sharon, I can tell when people are lying.”

“Don’t believe me. What do I care?”

2. Some Sort of Zionist

Whenever Arjun called to check on Siddharth during the first days of September, he refused to say hello to Mohan Lal. Arjun said he didn’t have time to rehash a bunch of bullshit with a closed-minded bigot. The situation frustrated Siddharth, especially because his mother would have wanted him to fix it. He pleaded with Arjun to make up with their father, and Arjun eventually relented.

By the first week of October, Arjun and Mohan Lal were talking once a week. This truce pleased Siddharth, at least at first. But soon they were speaking several times a week, causing him to feel pangs of jealousy. He began listening in on their calls, to find out if they were exchanging declarations of love or secrets about his progress at school. He needed to know if Mohan Lal was telling Arjun about a covert plan to marry Ms. Farber.

Each time he eavesdropped, he was relieved — and also annoyed — to discover that they were just going on about India. Mohan Lal called Gandhi a “traitorous homo,” a stooge who had “let the British chop India in two,” whereas Arjun said that “the Mahatma altered the course of modern politics.” Arjun said, “Don’t you get it? If you fight force with force, then the violence never ends.” When he called the Indian Congress Party a “truly progressive political party,” Mohan Lal said, “Bullshit. It’s a criminal organization. How can a party be progressive when it murders innocent Sikhs?”

“So it’s okay to kill Muslims?”

“Did I say that?” asked Mohan Lal.

“It’s what you’re implying, Dad. You’re starting to sound like some sort of Zionist.”

“What’s wrong with that? Son, the Israelis have done quite well for themselves. Thanks to the Jews, an impoverished desert is now a blooming civilization.”

“I’d talk to a couple of Palestinians about that. I’d look up the word oppression in the dictionary.”

Many of their debates led back to Israel, and Siddharth couldn’t fathom why his brother had such a problem with that country. Andy Wurtzel had gone there the previous summer, and he got to drink in bars and go spelunking. Andy had also reported that Israeli girls gave good blow jobs. When Siddharth tried to ask his father about Israel, Mohan Lal was dismissive. He said, “For now, just focus on your studies. One leftist son is enough.”

Mohan Lal was in his own world as summer faded into fall. He was always working on his new India book, or reading some paperback or magazine from India. He had taken to pacing around the house with an old tape recorder, sometimes listening to cassettes of motivational speakers provided to him by Ms. Farber, but usually studying recorded political speeches in Hindi. Barry Uncle acquired these for him on his frequent business trips to Delhi.

Mohan Lal kept listening to one particular politician over and over again, a woman who sounded rather manly. Ms. Farber said the woman sounded so passionate, and Mohan Lal explained that her life was truly inspiring. She had been born a pauper, but thanks to the BJP, she had managed to make a success of herself in one of the most backward places on earth. Siddharth hated these tapes, which he found scratchy and whiney.

Mohan Lal sometimes went to meetings with Barry Uncle and other BJP supporters, and one time, Barry Uncle said it would be a good idea if Siddharth came along. Siddharth protested at first but gave in upon finding out that the meeting was being held in a Fairfield home whose owner possessed an actual Lamborghini. When they finally made it to the place, it turned out the Lamborghini was in the shop, and Siddharth had to spend two hours sitting around while some hairy-eared Indians drank cans of Coors Light and droned on in Hindi about politics. They talked about the same things over and over — Ayodhya and Advani, and Hindus being proud to call themselves Hindus. Once the political discussions were over, they all sang a song in Hindi — or maybe it was a prayer. Siddharth wasn’t sure, but hearing the men sing together made him want to vomit.

On the car ride home, he said, “Dad, this BJP crap is so stupid.”

“Son, this stupid crap just might change the world.”

“I thought Hindus were weak, Dad. I thought Hindus didn’t have backbones.”

“Precisely, son. That’s what I’m trying to change. I am being the change that I want to see.” Upon uttering this sentence, Mohan Lal chuckled to himself.

Siddharth didn’t get what was so funny. All he knew was that his father was a hypocrite.

* * *

When Mohan Lal wasn’t working on his book, he was preoccupied with finishing up his application for tenure at Elm City College. Everything about the application put him in a bad mood, like using a typewriter to fill out countless lengthy forms. The most difficult part of the tenure process was getting original copies of his Indian degrees, which resulted in several calls to Delhi University, and even a phone consultation with an Indian lawyer. After these phone conversations, Mohan Lal snapped at Siddharth about cleaning up his room or doing his homework, about turning down the television so that he could focus on his work. Eventually, Barry Uncle stepped in, placing a call to a politician friend in India. A few days later, Mohan Lal’s degrees arrived via DHL. Siddharth was impressed with Barry Uncle. Yet he was anything but pleased with his father.

Even though Mohan Lal was stressed all the time, staying up late and sleeping in, he still managed to be such a kiss-ass with Ms. Farber. Whenever she cooked something, even if it was horrible — like her salmon cakes — Mohan Lal told her that dinner was delicious before locking himself in his office. Mohan Lal, who hated “brownnosers,” was himself being a brownnoser, and Siddharth knew why: his father was being a brownnoser because he was addicted to Ms. Farber’s pussy.

Siddharth wanted to remind his father that he was more important than a piece of pussy. He tried doing small things to demonstrate that he was the most valuable person in Mohan Lal’s life. But when he offered to type up his dad’s handwritten pages, Ms. Farber said she could type much faster. When he checked Mohan Lal’s manuscript for spelling mistakes, Ms. Farber rechecked the pages afterward, even though he had done a fine job on his own.

Ms. Farber went way too far with her editing. She not only made comments about Mohan Lal’s writing style and vocabulary, she also told him to rearrange sentences about Stafford Cripps and Lord Mountbatten. Siddharth thought this was ridiculous, since she hadn’t even been to India before, but when she made these suggestions, Mohan Lal beamed. He told her that she was a genius. He told her that she should leave psychotherapy and go into publishing. All this gushing nauseated Siddharth.

He started keeping a written tally of the annoying things that she did in one of his old sketchpads that he rarely used for actual drawing anymore. Thanks to Ms. Farber, anyone who entered the house had to remove their shoes in the entranceway. The sandwiches she prepared for his lunch were served on dark-brown bread that tasted like cardboard, and she stuffed them with disgusting things like sprouts and hummus — pussy-ass poser food, according to Marc.

An especially annoying thing about Ms. Farber was the way she took pleasure in meddling in his personal life. Once, when Siddharth had gotten off the phone with Sharon, Ms. Farber said something about Sharon not being the right type of friend. Siddharth said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Things are pretty complicated for Sharon,” replied Ms. Farber. “I’m not at liberty to divulge the details — just trust me on this. Sharon has a difficult situation.”

“Maybe I’m the one with the problem. Sharon should watch out for me. My home life is pretty damn complicated.” He looked to his father for a reaction, but Mohan Lal was lost in a book, unaware that he was even speaking.

But the single most irritating thing about Ms. Farber was that she made both he and Marc do chores. One week, Siddharth had to do the vacuuming, while Marc had to place the recycling bin at the end of the driveway, and then they switched jobs on the following week. They also had to help with the dishes. On a Wednesday evening, when the four of them were finishing one of Mohan Lal’s Indian meals, Ms. Farber said it was Marc’s turn to help clean up. Marc, who was in the middle of football season, complained that he was tired.

“Don’t worry,” said Mohan Lal, patting him on the shoulder. “Marc, go and rest.”

“Oh no,” said Ms. Farber. “Mo, he’s gotta learn. If he’s gonna reap the benefits of this household, then he’s gotta give something back.”

Marc muttered something under his breath.

“I didn’t hear that, honey,” said Ms. Farber. “If you have something to say, speak up.”

Marc said, “Rachel, can you give a man some peace?”

“Marc, my parents would have whacked me if I spoke that way.”

“So whack me then,” said Marc. “I know you want to.” He was smiling, but his eyes looked deranged. “And for your information, I don’t give a shit about this household.” As he spoke this final word, he flexed his fingers to mime quotation marks. “If it was up to me, I’d be back in my own freaking household.”

She took a long sip of water and then grasped the top of her head. “Jesus, why doesn’t anyone want me to be happy? Nobody has ever wanted me to be happy.”

“Mom, there are these things called psychologists,” said Marc. “Maybe you should go and see one.”

A part of Siddharth enjoyed watching his friend stand up to his mother, but he hated hearing him talk about their life together like that. He wanted Marc to be his second brother. Brothers fought, but at the end of the day, they were family. They were there when you needed them. In some moments, it was painfully obvious that Marc didn’t feel the same way. He had been distant and cold ever since the August incident with Dinetta. After that night, he’d been grounded for a second time. But this grounding was brief. Now he was free again, and out all the time. When he was home, he watched TV in silence or lay on Arjun’s bed listening to his new Discman, a recent gift from his father. He only seemed to get animated when speaking on the phone, or getting ready for a football game.

Siddharth blamed himself. He should have kicked that rum bottle under the bed. He tried doing things to get Marc to like him again, such as taking an interest in baseball, but Marc would only talk sports with Andy or his father. Siddharth even pilfered some expensive whiskey from Mohan Lal’s dining room stash. The boys drank it down together, but the alcohol didn’t bring them any closer.

* * *

Fights between Marc and Ms. Farber became more frequent, and they gave rise to slightly revised living arrangements. Marc had been spending one night a week at his father’s Hamden condo, but he soon began spending two. And he and Ms. Farber started staying at their own home at least two nights a week, usually without the Aroras. These changes meant even less time with Marc, and Siddharth began to wonder if Marc hated him.

But the new routines had an upside. With Ms. Farber and Marc spending more time at their own house, he had his father all to himself some days. When Ms. Farber wasn’t around, he didn’t have to eat lentils or tofu steaks. He got to order pizzas with extra cheese and pepperoni, and they ate their meals in front of the television for the first time in months. When Ms. Farber wasn’t there, Mohan Lal sometimes asked him to read passages from his manuscript out loud, claiming that hearing the rhythm of the words made his sentences stronger. Even though Siddharth was so sick of Gandhi and all that shit, he showered praise upon his father’s writing. He said that his book would make them rich, but Mohan Lal told him that real intellectuals weren’t in it for the money.

On a Thursday night in October, Marc and Ms. Farber left to attend a function at their synagogue, and they planned on sleeping in Woodford. This would be Marc’s third night away that week, which irritated Siddharth. What was the point of putting up with Ms. Farber if it didn’t mean more time with Marc? What was the point of letting her fuck his father? He shed some of his anger when Mohan Lal declared that he was treating him and Barry Uncle to dinner at Pasta Palace.

The place was packed that night, with dozens of cops. They were in uniform, laughing, shouting, and drinking. Mohan Lal told the hostess to get Mustafa, but she said he was busy in the kitchen. It took them twenty minutes to get a table, and once they were seated, the waitress took ages to gather their orders. Barry Uncle thumped Mohan Lal on the back. “Boss, if this is how they treat VIPs here, I’d hate to be an ordinary customer.”

Siddharth was starving by this point, and he thought Barry Uncle was right. But he needed to stick up for his father. “Trust me, Barry Uncle. The wait is worth it.”

Mustafa eventually showed up with a complimentary round of drinks — more whiskey for the men, and a Coke for Siddharth. He also brought over a free order of fried mozzarella.

Barry Uncle had a weird smile on his face. “Mustafa-ji, I’ve heard a lot about you, boss.”

Mustafa laughed, stroking his thick moustache. “Well, Arora sahib here is one of our best customers. His wife, she was such a fine lady.”

Siddharth coughed on his Coke and the table fell silent. After an uncomfortable pause, Barry Uncle asked, “So what about you? You married, Mustafa?”

Mustafa broke into a big smile. “Oh, very happily married indeed. I’m very blessed, actually. I got two daughters — twin girls.” He pulled his wallet out and handed Barry Uncle a picture. Siddharth glanced over and saw two baby girls wearing little dresses. He had to admit they were cute despite their very dark skin.

“Girls, eh?” said Barry Uncle. He handed the photo back and finished his whiskey in a single gulp. Then he took a long sip of the other one that had come for free. “Tell me something. You gonna make those little darlings cover up their heads?”

Mustafa’s lips gaped but no words came out.

“Because those kids are sweet,” continued Barry Uncle, “and it would be a shame to cover up their little heads.”

Siddharth knew that Barry Uncle shouldn’t have said this, but a part of him was glad — for in that moment, he loathed Mustafa for bringing up his mother. Staring at Mustafa, he saw anger flash in his eyes — a cold, hard look. But then it vanished, and Mustafa was his usual smiley self again. He said, “Well, folks, I better be going. A lotta work to do tonight. The PBA’s here — annual function. Don’t wanna tick off the coppers. Am I right?”

Mustafa started walking away, but Barry Uncle grabbed his wrist. “Hang on, man. Let’s finish our little conversation. Your wife — you make her cover her head too?”

Siddharth now realized that Barry Uncle had crossed a line, and he wanted his father to intervene. But Mohan Lal was gobbling a saucy bite of fried mozzarella, which dripped onto the tablecloth. He swiped it with his finger and lobbed it onto his tongue. Siddharth winced at his father’s dining manners.

Mustafa dusted off his shirt and gazed around the restaurant. “You know what, gentlemen? Dinner’s on me tonight. The service is gonna be slow, so consider it an early Christmas present.”

Siddharth said, “Wow, Mustafa, that’s really nice of you.”

“Mustafa mia,” said Barry Uncle, “one more question for you.”

“Barry Uncle,” said Siddharth, glaring in his direction.

“Your wife — she’s your cousin, right? You people still do that, right?”

Chewing his fried mozzarella, Mohan Lal mumbled, “Enough, Barry. Let Mustafa get back to work.”

Mustafa definitely wasn’t smiling anymore. He was rubbing his neck and looked as if he might hit someone. Siddharth made a plan: If Mustafa hit Barry Uncle, he would grab Mohan Lal and run. If he hit Mohan Lal, however, then he would have to retaliate. He would give him a sharp kick — right to the balls.

Barry Uncle said, “Wait. . don’t tell you married your own sister. Mustafa, that that would be too much. That’s when we get into problems.”

Mustafa put both of his hands on their green tablecloth and leaned forward. He said something sharp in Hindi that Siddharth couldn’t understand.

Siddharth prayed for Barry Uncle to apologize.

“Mustafa-ji.” Barry Uncle emptied his whiskey into his mouth, then slammed the glass down on the table. “Mustafa-ji, how many thumbs do your little girls have? How many toes? Because if you married your sister, you better count those toes.”

Mustafa switched back to his guido English: “You know what, guys? We’re gonna need this table sooner than I thought. Why don’t I get your food wrapped up tonight? Why don’t you eat it at home?”

Mohan Lal stood up, dabbing his face with his napkin. “Good idea. That’s a very good idea.”

Siddharth glanced to the right and saw a gaggle of police officers staring in their direction.

Mustafa placed a hand Mohan Lal’s shoulder. “Arora sahib,” he said, “see you again — soon, I hope. But I’d lose the friend if I were you.”

Mohan Lal cocked his head to one side. “What was that?”

“Yous are always welcome in my restaurant. Always. Just not him.”

Shit, Siddharth thought. Mohan Lal was going to say something stupid. Something that could get them arrested.

Mohan Lal clasped Siddharth’s arm and yanked him out of his seat. “Come, son. Get away from that bloody mullah.”

3. Trick or Treat

For the first time in his life, Siddharth found himself actually looking forward to school. In junior high, he felt a new sense of freedom. He got to walk by himself to his classes, not like the primary-school drones with their regimented routines and single-file lines. He tried to plan his routes so that he could use the breezeway, an open-air corridor with a roof but no walls. The breezeway reminded him that he could flee the premises any time he wanted, and he used it even when it was raining.

Having his own locker that he could decorate any way he chose was another source of simple but constant pleasure. He put up a picture of Kurt Cobain that he’d ripped out of one of Marc’s copies of Rolling Stone, and a photo of a television actress in a sports bra from one of Sharon’s teen magazines. Luca gave him a magnetic mirror from his father’s beauty salon, and Siddharth used it at least twice a day to brush his hair, which was now long on top and shaved on the sides.

In some ways, Luca had changed over the summer. He was taller and had lost some weight. He dressed better, wearing brown moccasins and tucking in his shirts. A little stubble now shadowed his cheeks, and he had long, stylish sideburns, like the actors in 90210. He even acted fairly normally around other people, talking about sports with boys and listening to girls as if he really liked hearing about their summer breaks. But he would then do something to remind Siddharth that he was the same old Luca, like telling a joke about Mrs. Wadsworth sitting on someone’s face.

Luca liked to say good morning to the dorks in a voice that sounded retarded. He often snapped Carol Corcoran’s bra as she opened her locker, but strangely, Carol didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Luca and Siddharth were getting close to Carol, one of the pretty girls from Lower Housatonic Elementary. She and her friends were good at sports, but also liked to smoke cigarettes and drink wine coolers. Even though these girls had older boyfriends, they hugged Siddharth in the hallways or gave him a squeeze on the waist.

Each morning, he met Luca at his locker, and the pair combed the hallways together before the first bell, talking shit and joking around. Eddie Benson usually joined them, and by the second week of October, a whole squad of seventh graders was following them around. Random wiggers and metalheads who Siddharth knew through Marc — grubbers, as Luca called them — nodded their heads as they passed him by, and Marc’s friend Corey Thompson always stopped Siddharth to shake his hand. Sometimes Corey asked him if he could borrow twenty bucks, so he would steal a bit of extra cash from his father’s wallet. Corey always paid him back, occasionally with a buck or two of interest or a miniature bottle of rum.

Siddharth was developing a reputation for being smart and funny, and he didn’t want to ruin this, which was why he was perpetually anxious about being seen with Sharon Nagorski outside of class. If Luca saw them together, there would be trouble. Fortunately, she didn’t pay Siddharth any attention in the hallways, and in the morning, when everyone else was roving and socializing, she went to the band room to practice her trumpet. She did the same thing at lunch, and, thankfully, she only mentioned Luca a single time during the fall semester.

It had happened on a Monday morning in science class. Sharon said that Siddharth seemed upset, and he told her that he was just tired after a crazy weekend.

“Why, what did you do?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just hung out with a couple friends.”

“Friends? Oh, you mean Luca — Mr. Asshole?”

“Take it easy. Once you get to know him, he’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” said Sharon, blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

“Hey, it takes two to tango, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you just sit there and take it. If you want him to respect you, you should say something back.”

“Whatever,” said Sharon. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“You mean your boyfriend?”

She smiled, revealing a dimple. “He took me out to Pasta Palace on Sunday. The bill was, like, forty dollars.”

* * *

By the end of October, Siddharth was going over to Luca’s on most Saturdays. The house was dark and old-fashioned. Luca’s family room had a La-Z-Boy recliner, which was great for watching movies. It had thick brown carpets and a wallpaper mural of the Grand Canyon. This wallpaper reminded Siddharth of the mural that had once adorned his own family room, back when his mother was still around — before Ms. Farber had taken over his father’s life.

Mrs. Peroti had grown fond of Siddharth. She cooked him fresh manicotti or ravioli, always sending him home with some. She said, “I got plenty of pasta for you. Just keep my Luca outta trouble.”

Luca would mutter the strangest things in front of his mother. One time, when she was cooking and watching television, he said, “Ma, do you like pussy better, or cock?”

When she turned around, her blue eyes were blazing, and her ringed fingers were clasping one of her ample hips. “Did you just say what I think you did?”

Luca threw his hands in the air. “Jeez, Ma, I asked you a simple question — are you a Pepsi woman, or are you into Coke?”

In moments like these, Siddharth’s heart beat quickly, and yet he couldn’t help but grin. Luca was definitely one of the funniest people he’d ever met, and Siddharth was pretty sure that Arjun would like him.

Initially, he avoided spending the night at Luca’s, as he had heard about the crazy things that Luca and Eddie did during sleepovers. They went out shitting houses, which had once consisted of spray-painting dirty words on people’s driveways but had evolved into more serious acts of vandalism, like burning mailboxes and shattering windows. Sometimes Luca and Eddie sat in the woods by the edge of the Merritt Parkway and chucked stones at passing cars.

When Siddharth finally decided it was time to spend the night at his new friend’s house, it was because he was sure Eddie wasn’t going to be there. He ended up having a good time. He and Luca just sat around listening to music and talking, and they also taught Luca’s little brother how to ride a bicycle with training wheels. At night, over a game of Monopoly, Luca said he’d heard that Marc was smoking reefer.

“Smoking what?” said Siddharth.

“You know — grass.”

“I haven’t heard anything about that.” But he knew Marc was getting stoned, and the truth was, he was nicer high. When Marc came home stoned, they stayed up late talking, and he asked Siddharth interesting questions: “If the world was ending and you could only save one person — would it be your dad? Or the president?” “If you had to kill yourself, would you do it with a gun, or by jumping off a bridge? Keep in mind that I hear drowning yourself is the most painless way to die.” These conversations made Siddharth feel older. They made him feel that his special connection with Marc wasn’t totally dead.

Luca said, “Yo, weed’s fucked up, kid.”

“Why’s it fucked up? You’re always talking about getting hammered.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“If anyone can take care of himself, it’s Marc.”

“All I’m saying is that reefer’s for porch monkeys.”

“For what?”

“For jigaboos,” said Luca.

These were new terms for Siddharth. But he knew they were racist, and that made him nervous. Racism was definitely bad. His father had called racists the biggest cowards.

All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Peroti barged in. He was a beanpole of a man with a thick Italian accent who put in twelve-hour days at his Howard Avenue beauty salon.

“Boys,” announced Mr. Peroti, “time for dinner.”

“Dad,” said Luca, “this kid doesn’t know what a porch monkey is.”

“Enough porch monkey talk,” said Mr. Peroti. “I get enough of that at work.”

“One question, Dad: how do you get all that nigger sweat off you — all those pointy little Negro hairs?”

Siddharth’s stomach tightened. He counted his Monopoly money to avoid making eye contact with either of them. He had heard the N-word said in movies and on Marc’s rap tapes. But this was the first time he was hearing it said in real life — the first time he was hearing it said by a regular person. He told himself that his friend was joking, that he needed to lighten up.

“You’re bad,” said Mr. Peroti, who was shaking his head but smiling. “Hurry up, Luca. Your mom’s gonna chop off your hands.”

* * *

Halloween was on a Sunday that year. Luca invited him and Eddie to come straight over to his house from school. The plan was to go trick-or-treating in his neighborhood and then have a sleepover. Siddharth was excited, but anxious. The thought of ending up in handcuffs just two months before his thirteenth birthday wasn’t appealing. Not to mention, Luca was on the same bus route as Sharon Nagorski. Luca had told him about the things he said to her on the way home from school — that she was a slut, a loser, a wild boar. When Luca gloated over his cruelty, a part of Siddharth wanted to say that Sharon had changed — that she was cool once you got to know her. But he would always just laugh before changing the subject.

As Halloween approached, Siddharth tried to figure out an alternate way of getting to Luca’s. But Ms. Farber wouldn’t be around that afternoon, and his father had an evening class. Mohan Lal said he could drop off Siddharth at nine, but that wouldn’t work because then he would miss the best part of the evening.

On Halloween morning, it started drizzling as Siddharth and Timmy Connor made their way to the Miller farmhouse, passing smiling jack-o-lanterns and garbage bags bursting with decomposing brown leaves. Timmy told him about a new pellet gun that his father had gotten him for his fourteenth birthday, and how he had used it to kill a squirrel. Siddharth was too worked up to listen. He had a note in his pocket that gave him permission to take the bus home with Luca. He wondered if he should crumple it up and throw it into the sewer.

For some reason, Sharon wasn’t in English class, and he felt a deep sense of relief. Maybe she was absent. But when he walked into science, she was standing at their station, preparing materials for the day’s lab. She was wearing a strange homemade costume, which consisted of a yellow T-shirt with pieces of cardboard attached on the side. There was also a disc-shaped piece of golden cardboard on her head. He said, “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

Sharon told him that the entire band had dressed up as their instruments. “What about you?” she asked. “Too cool for costumes?”

“I didn’t feel like dressing up,” said Siddharth.

“Are you going out tonight?”

He responded with silence.

She poked him in the chest. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Siddharth grabbed the lav pass and headed down the hallway. He was glad that that the bathroom was empty. He placed his hands on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, noting that the little hairs above his lip were getting thicker. If he could only hang out with Marc tonight, then he wouldn’t be worrying about any of this. But Marc was going out with Andy Wurtzel, and that was the way things were now. Siddharth recalled a conversation he’d had with his father, after their last dinner at Pasta Palace. He had asked Mohan Lal why he hadn’t stood up for Mustafa when the man was always so nice to them. Mohan Lal said, “Son, you’ll understand once you’re my age. One has to be true to his values. And there is no greater virtue than loyalty.”

Siddharth gave the paper towel dispenser a solid punch with the top two knuckles of his right hand, just as he had learned in karate. As usual, his father’s words were of no help to him. He had no idea which one of his friends was more deserving of his loyalty.

* * *

When the last bell of the day sounded, he found Luca at his locker with Eddie whispering into his ear.

“Yo, what’s up?” said Siddharth.

“We’re just doing some planning,” said Eddie.

“What’s the plan?” asked Siddharth.

“The plan?” said Eddie. “Tonight we’re gonna pop your cherry. Tonight we’re gonna get you a freaking mailbox.”

“Pop your cherry,” repeated Luca, shaking his head and smiling.

Luca and Eddie boarded the school bus first, and Siddharth followed behind. He handed his note to the driver, who was wearing a mesh baseball cap. Siddharth spotted Sharon in the sixth row. Fortunately, she was staring out the window. Holding his breath, he kept his eyes glued to the ribbed rubber walkway and scurried past her. Luca and Eddie were seated in the second-to-last row, and Siddharth sat alone in the seat before theirs. The bus pulled out of the lot, and a ninth grade girl in the back lifted a live rabbit from her backpack. Everyone cooed over it for most of the ride. At one point, Eddie grabbed the animal and held it up to his face, miming that he was giving it cunnilingus. Siddharth chuckled, but he tried to keep himself from laughing too hard. As the bus navigated the quiet, soggy streets of South Haven, he occasionally stole furtive glances at Sharon. Maybe she hadn’t even realized he was there. Twenty-five minutes into the ride, he saw her gather her things and prepare to leave. He was grateful that the journey had passed without any incident.

The bus stopped, and Sharon exited along with four other kids. Siddharth watched as she walked toward her house, weighed down by her bursting backpack and clunky trumpet case. This was the first time he was seeing the house that her mother had rented. It was a tiny ranch, with chipping paint and overgrown grass. On the front lawn sat an old sofa and a rusty, broken-down jeep. The sunless sky made it all seem especially dreary. In that moment, Siddharth realized something: Sharon was poor. In that moment, he felt worse for her than he ever had before. But he also felt like he barely knew her. He felt uneasy about letting her back into his life.

He turned back to Luca, who was sliding down his window. “Yo Niggerski,” shouted Luca, “you look hot today! Would you be my girlfriend?”

From her driveway, Sharon glanced up at the bus and scowled, then stuck up her middle finger.

Siddharth crouched down, focusing his gaze on the worn knees of his blue jeans.

“Freaking dyke,” said Eddie. “Her mailbox is mine.”

* * *

Luckily, the rain picked up, and by six o’clock, loud booms of thunder were rattling the windows of the Peroti household, causing Luca’s little brother to howl. Mrs. Peroti said she would drive them from house to house to get some candy, but Luca said that would be lame. Mrs. Peroti served them tortellini for dinner, and the boys watched a movie called Re-Animator, which Mohan Lal had rented for Siddharth. After reading the back of the case, Mohan Lal had said it was a work of science fiction, and science fiction taught young people to think critically.

The movie ended up being about a scientist who developed an injection that could bring dead things back to life. In Siddharth’s favorite scene, a decapitated body grasped its own head and performed oral sex on a woman. Siddharth ended up having a great evening and wondered if the universe was finally on his side.

Mrs. Peroti drove them to school in the morning, which meant that he avoided another encounter with Sharon. But the thought of facing her in class made his stomach churn. During English, he tried smiling at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. As he walked to science later that day, he thought about visiting the nurse to see if he could go home early. But it was Thursday, and Ms. Farber was usually home on Thursdays. He stopped in the bathroom to cup some water into his mouth and ended up arriving three minutes late to class. Mr. Polanski said he would give him a detention if it happened again.

Today they were going to do an experiment that involved comparing the masses of various liquids. By the time Siddharth got to his lab station, Sharon had gathered most of their materials — goggles, glass beakers, and a triple-beam balance. She looked up at him and said, “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would something be wrong?”

She yawned and stretched her arms. “Well, I’m pretty exhausted.”

He strapped his goggles onto his head. “Why, what did you do last night?”

“Jake came over. We were watching scary movies until three in the morning.”

“You mean he slept over?”

“What did you do?” asked Sharon, ignoring his question.

“Your mother let him sleep over?” Siddharth didn’t know why, but he felt himself growing hard. He felt disgusted with himself, and with Sharon too.

Smiling, she wrote their names on their lab sheet. “Come on, Siddharth. Why do you always gotta make such a big deal about everything?”

4. Sharon’s Blues

As the temperatures dipped toward freezing, Siddharth started daydreaming about his brother’s holiday visit. Once Arjun was back, it wouldn’t matter that Marc didn’t have any time for him. Arjun would take him to the mall. They would stay up late talking. Siddharth would show him off to Luca Peroti and Eddie Benson. He would show off Eddie and Luca to Arjun. He would prove to Arjun that he was definitely a regular guy — so what if he didn’t play sports?

On a mid-December evening, Arjun called to say he had a change of plans. Instead of flying to Connecticut for winter break, he was getting a ride in a van to rural Tennessee, where he would spend Christmas with other college students building houses for poor people. Siddharth was hurt. Angry. He couldn’t fathom why his brother would want to do something so lame and taxing.

“Let me guess,” he told Arjun, locking himself in the bathroom with the new cordless phone, Ms. Farber’s most recent purchase. “You’re doing this to impress your girlfriend.”

“Don’t be a child,” said Arjun. “I’m doing this because I believe in justice. Look, I have a week off in February. I’ll definitely see you then.”

“Whatever.”

“Siddharth, what did I tell you about trusting people? You gotta trust me. I’ll see you in February.”

Over dinner that night, Mohan Lal said he was glad Arjun was putting his money where his mouth was, but that he hoped this charity nonsense wouldn’t interfere with his studies. Ms. Farber said that Arjun was setting a great example, and she thought that the four of them should plan something similar for the summer.

“Fabulous,” said Marc, who then made a gagging sound.

“Siddharth, honey,” said Ms. Farber, “I know this is disappointing, but it actually might be for the best.”

“The best for who?”

Ms. Farber explained that an old friend from her Manhattan days was finally getting married, and that the wedding was being held in Atlantic City on the final weekend of Arjun’s February vacation. “Mo,” she said, “Arjun could watch the boys. We could turn it into a little vacation.”

“Vacation?” said Mohan Lal. “You think my book will write itself?”

“Jeez, Mohan,” she replied. “God forbid we spend a night alone.”

A few days later, Ms. Farber booked a two-night February package at a boardwalk hotel, which included four meals, a live show, and thirty dollars of tokens for the slot machines. Siddharth cringed at the idea of her and Mohan Lal being alone together in a hotel room, but he calmed himself with the thought of having his brother all to himself. Besides, February vacation was still two months away. A lot could happen between now and then. Ms. Farber could be hit by a bus, or perhaps move to Indonesia. No, that would be bad. That would be bad because Mohan Lal would have to grieve for another woman.

* * *

The next morning was the second-to-last day of school before Christmas vacation. The sky was bright blue, but the temperature hovered around freezing. As Siddharth headed to the bus stop, he couldn’t free his mind from thoughts of Atlantic City. He had once gone there when he was seven or eight, for one of Mohan Lal’s marketing conferences. On the first night there, they went out to a fancy restaurant, where the waiters pulled out their chairs and brushed away their crumbs. He had loved all the luxury and attention. He ordered mussels for dinner, even though his mother said he wouldn’t like them. She was right, but to prove a point he had eaten every last one and said they were great.

Siddharth reached the top of his street, pausing in the middle of the quiet intersection to wait for Timmy Connor. He placed his foot on a frozen puddle, causing it to shatter. When they were small, this area would often freeze over completely, and he and the Connor brothers used this ever-present patch of ice as a makeshift skating rink. Surrounded by sand and salt, the puddle now looked like a miniature ocean, complete with its own beach. During the Atlantic City trip, while Arjun had bathed in the ocean, Siddharth remained on the shore building a sand castle. As he stood there now, waiting for Timmy, the memory was still so vivid in his mind. He could taste the bitter mussels. He could see his Velcro sneakers, the silk scarf his mother tied around her neck when it was windy. But what was the point of these memories? That weekend was gone forever.

Looking up, he saw Naomi, Timmy’s mutt, trotting toward him. Siddharth’s mother used to keep a water bowl for Naomi by the Aroras’ front steps. The dog nuzzled up against him, and he scratched below her jaw. The tip of her left ear was oozing blood; a few gnats were swarming around it. “What’s wrong?” asked Siddharth. “Where’s Timmy?”

The dog wagged her tail and offered him a paw.

If he waited any longer, he would miss the bus, so he started walking. Naomi remained by his side. He saw that many of his neighbors had placed Christmas candles in their windows, and a few had put up menorahs. This year, Ms. Farber would light a menorah at the Aroras’, and she would buy him a compact disc player for Hanukkah. His neighbors’ lawns were blotched with snow, so he stuck to the street to avoid ruining his suede shoes. As the road curved to his left, he passed an enormous oak. The tree stood in front of a tiny brick house, which a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses had recently purchased. Naomi abruptly halted and started barking.

“It’s just a tree,” said Siddharth, patting her head.

The dog’s ears pointed outward, and her tail shot up in the air. She started pacing back and forth, growling.

“Naomi, you’re gonna make me late.”

But her barks got louder and sharper.

Suddenly, a large falcon leaped from the oak and shot upward. As Siddharth watched the bird fly circles above their heads, another image from Atlantic City surfaced. During the trip, his mother had visited a boardwalk psychic who claimed that his dead grandmother was always watching over them — manifesting itself in birds. The psychic said that the presence of any unusual avian life might actually be a sign from Siddharth’s grandmother, and at the time, this notion gave him chills.

He resumed his journey, but with his eyes glued to the winged missile hovering in the clear blue sky. Yes, his mother might have sent the falcon. She might actually be inside of it, he thought. If the bird were actually her, he would apologize to it for so many things — for not drawing regularly or thinking of her more often. He would say sorry for that time she had wanted him to spend a night with his grandfather and he told her that his grandfather was old and boring and smelly. Naomi started barking again. The falcon nosedived toward the earth and grazed the grass, then shot back to the sky. It was now clutching something in its talons.

As it flew toward the main road, the bird released whatever it had hunted. The object crashed on the hood of a parked burgundy Taurus, then bounced to the ground. Siddharth anxiously jogged over to the car and was dismayed to discover that what had fallen was nothing but a crunched-up can of beer. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he mumbled. He stuffed the can down a sewer drain, and it made a plopping sound upon hitting the sooty water. Naomi approached him, once again wagging her tail and panting.

“Go home,” said Siddharth. She wouldn’t budge, so he threw a stick at her. He recalled what his father had said on the ride home from Atlantic City: birds were just birds, and the psychic was a goddamned liar.

* * *

During homeroom, the principal got on the PA system and told everyone to make their way to the gymnasium in an orderly fashion. Today was the band’s annual winter concert, which meant that Sharon would be performing. Siddharth had a vague recollection of her complaining about her mother not being able to attend the event.

He walked down the hall with his only homeroom friend, David Marcus, who was telling him about an upcoming ice-fishing trip. Siddharth was only half-paying attention. He still couldn’t get over the fact that David was shorter than him and not as funny, and yet he had somehow managed to bag a decent girlfriend.

By the time they reached the gym, it was already abuzz with the animated chatter of several hundred students. The basketball hoops had been cranked up, and the bleachers were out, behind a dozen rows of metal folding chairs. Mrs. Oliver, his blond math teacher, directed him and David to these chairs. He turned around and spotted Luca on the bleachers, sitting beside his skinny new girlfriend, Jeanette Horiuchi, who was part Japanese and part Italian. He had lost many hours counseling Luca about this volatile relationship, doling out advice he’d gleaned from the television.

Principal Moser, a short woman with huge glasses, got up onstage and stood in front of the closed curtain. She issued warnings about the consequences of disruptive behavior, smiling in spite of her stern tone. She said she wouldn’t be averse to issuing Christmas Day detentions, which made a few people laugh. “That’s no idle threat,” she added. “Right, Corey?”

Corey Thompson sat in the front row of chairs, flanked by a teacher on each side. He was smiling like a child who had been caught stealing candy. It struck Siddharth that the world was more fond of troublemakers than the kids who actually did what they were told.

When the curtain rose, the parents in attendance approached the stage to snap pictures. Siddharth spotted Sharon to the right, with all the other horn players. The entire band was wearing black pants and white shirts, except for Sharon, who was wearing a black turtleneck. She sat beside Kenny Hong, a Korean kid with golden glasses and spiked hair. Kenny seemed to be having a problem with his trombone, so he handed it to Sharon, who made some quick adjustments and then handed it back. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she nodded her head and cracked her knuckles.

As the band went through a series of screechy classical pieces, Siddharth’s mind wandered. He thought about how Arjun would have laughed at the idea of their mother communicating with them through a bird. He thought about how most of the other kids would soon be away with their families. Marc was flying to Florida, and Luca would be driving to Maryland. Even Sharon was spending Christmas with her father. All he had to look forward to were ten nonstop days of the Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber show.

Suddenly, the entire audience began clapping. Onstage, there was a huge commotion. Most of the band members cleared out, with just a few kids remaining. They brought out a full drum set, then wheeled out a wooden piano. Mr. Donahue, the ninth grade biology teacher, leaped onto the stage. He grabbed a microphone and told everyone to settle down. “People, you’re in for a real treat,” he said. He had a crew cut, and his thick eyebrows seemed as if they’d been drawn with permanent marker. “I and some talented musicians — all of whom are significantly more talented than myself — have formed a little jazz quartet. We call ourselves the Cotton Gins.” He put the microphone back, then brought an enormous guitar-like instrument over to the piano, where the eighth grade social studies teacher was sifting through some sheet music. A ninth grader named Keith Liaci seated himself at the drums.

“That’s my cousin,” said David Marcus. “Go, Keith!” He whistled. “Rock out!”

Siddharth stared at the drummer, who had a butterfly collar and large silver glasses, the kind that were tinted. Keith looked more like someone who had gone to junior high in Arjun’s day. From the bleachers, someone shouted, “I love nerds!”

He wondered if it had been Luca, but he could no longer see him. Turning back to the stage, he was surprised to see Sharon walking on with her trumpet. He hoped Luca wouldn’t say anything — not today. Not when she was about to do her thing.

Mr. Donahue introduced the members of the band, then said, “We’re going to play a song of Ms. Nagorski’s choosing. It’s a song of great beauty, of great importance. Unfortunately, it’s a song that most of you have never heard.” He slipped the mic back into its holster, and a few people clapped, mainly parents and teachers.

David kept whistling, which made Siddharth uncomfortable. He wondered why David wasn’t embarrassed about Keith. He wondered if he should be cheering for Sharon too.

Mr. Donahue snapped his fingers and counted to four in a firm whisper. He then started plucking the strings of his large instrument, which stood vertically, like a dance partner or a high-rise building. It emitted one of the deepest sounds Siddharth had ever heard.

After a few beats, the piano chimed in with two solid chords, and the pair went back and forth like this for a couple of minutes, as if they were having a conversation. When the drums kicked in, Siddharth started tapping his suede shoes against the shiny wooden floor. Keith held brush-like batons in his hands, not actual sticks. His shoulders bounced while he played, as if he were dancing in his seat. His head was turned to the side, and he looked peaceful and contented.

As for Sharon, she was just standing there, bobbing her head and tapping her hip. He couldn’t imagine her keeping up with these skilled musicians, but as soon as she started playing, he knew he was wrong. Her fingers pumped the trumpet’s keys like the pistons of a perfect machine. The sound her instrument emitted was sweet but serious, and it lodged itself deep into his bones. At first his insides were icy, but then he felt as if he were floating in bathwater. He could tell that Sharon was making up the notes as she went along, and he wondered how someone so young could play so well and why he had never known that his weird friend could do something so beautiful. In that moment, he was proud of her. In that moment, he wanted to be like Sharon.

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

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

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

5. Terrorist Attack

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

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

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

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

“No, the fat one.”

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

“Call who?” he said.

“Natalie.”

“Natalie? You mean fat?”

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

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

“You’re back,” he said.

“Siddharth?”

“No, Ronald Reagan.”

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

“Fucking blows.”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

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

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

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

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

“Siddharth, I have to go.”

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

When it was over, he ran the shower, sending the evidence of his misdeed down the drain. As he washed his hands, he heard the sound of voices. Oh shit, he thought. He shoved the magazine underneath some towels, then patted down his hair and tucked in his shirt. He was moving so quickly that he knocked his toothbrush into the trash bin.

Ms. Farber was taking off her boots in the hallway. She smiled without looking up. “Having fun?” she said. She kissed him on the head, then asked if Marc had called. She had asked this question twice a day for the past ten days, but Marc had only called once from Florida.

Siddharth stepped into the family room before speaking, so that she wouldn’t smell his breath. “He called, like, forty times,” he said. “I stacked all the messages in the closet.” He headed to the kitchen and pulled a piece of gum from the drawer with the scissors and coupons. Thanks to Ms. Farber, this drawer now always contained a little candy or chocolate. There were a few good things about her. Just a few. As he popped the peppermint stick into his mouth, he noticed Barry Uncle pouring drinks in the dining room.

“Boy!” said Barry Uncle. “I missed you, boy.” Barry Uncle walked into the kitchen with two whiskeys, which he placed on the counter, then pulled Siddharth into his armpit and kissed him.

Siddharth winced at the feel of his sandpaper cheeks, at the noxious smell of Old Spice, betel nut, and booze.

“I brought you a present,” said Barry Uncle.

“You did?”

“Yes sir.”

He followed Barry Uncle to the family room. Barry Uncle placed his drinks on the Kashmiri table and then picked up a plastic duty-free bag from the carpet. Just then, Mohan Lal walked in. He had already removed his shirt and tie and put on his peach-colored kurta. After giving Siddharth a hug, he asked Barry Uncle if he wanted a whiskey.

“Three steps ahead of you, boss.” Barry Uncle nodded toward the little round table. He reached into his bag and pulled out a videocassette, then handed it to Mohan Lal. “Boss, this is for you.” Next he pulled out a large, fork-like object with an intricately carved wooden handle. He turned to Siddharth. “Now what do you think of that, boy?”

Siddharth grasped the gift. It had two metal prongs. A slack length of rubber was connected to each of them, and at the center of this cord was a quarter-sized piece of leather.

“You know what it is?” asked Barry Uncle.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“A real weapon for a real man.” Barry Uncle snatched it back, then pulled and released the rubber, which gave off a dull twang. “With a good rock, you can kill a bird — a rabbit maybe, or even a squirrel.”

Siddharth took hold of it, pulling and releasing the cord as Barry Uncle had done. The Connor brothers had a slingshot, though theirs was much sleeker, with a special fiberglass attachment for extra leverage. But this slingshot wasn’t bad. It was definitely better than a crappy snake-charmer’s flute, or some other shitty toy from India.

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

“Pleasure, boy. You and me can do a little hunting come spring. Your father — he was a great one for hunting.”

Ms. Farber walked in carrying a glass of her pink wine. “Mo used to hunt? How awful. Why is this the first time I’m hearing this?”

“I could write a whole book about him,” said Barry Uncle. “But I’m not the writer.”

Grinning, Mohan Lal seated himself on the love seat. He picked up a whiskey and raised it in the air. “Cheers, chief. Chalo, let’s watch your little video.”

Barry Uncle and Ms. Farber sat down, and the trio clinked glasses.

“Siddharth,” said Mohan Lal, waving his new tape in the air, “put this in and press play.”

Siddharth sighed but did as he was told. He was about to flee to the guest room when Barry Uncle said, “Stay, boy — this is important. You should know about your culture.”

Static shimmered on the screen, but soon the words Jain & Son Productions were streaming across a blue background. Siddharth let out a muffled laugh. These graphics looked cheap, the work of amateurs. Blowing a bubble, he realized that his gum had already lost its flavor. That was the thing with Ms. Farber’s sugar-free stuff — it tasted like crap and never lasted.

The camera focused on a gloomy, vacant prison cell. Suddenly, a little blue boy with a bow and arrow flashed on the screen. He kept on flashing on and off, as if he were a ghost. He then multiplied into four distinct boy-gods, which started rotating in a kaleidoscopic fashion.

A narrator started speaking in Hindi.

Ms. Farber leaned forward, squinting and grasping her chin. “What are they saying?”

“That is the god Ram,” said Barry Uncle. He explained that Ram used to have an important temple in a place called Ayodhya, but a Muslim king came and destroyed it. “And then — surprise, surprise — that bastard invader erected a bloody mosque.”

Ms. Farber was riveted. “Jeez, it’s always the same story, isn’t it?”

Siddharth sat down beside Barry Uncle, who squeezed his knee. Barry Uncle said that some years ago, Ram had appeared in the dream of a Hindu holy man. The god urged the Hindus to demolish the mosque and rebuild their forsaken temple. Soon, little statues of Ram mysteriously appeared in the mosque, and these were further proof of Ram’s wishes.

“Don’t worry,” said Mohan Lal, draping his arm around Ms. Farber, “he doesn’t actually believe this drivel.”

“Call it what you want,” said Barry Uncle. “All movements need myths to mobilize the masses.” He poked Siddharth in the thigh. “Boy, fast-forward a bit.”

He begrudgingly got up and pressed the forward button. It was 11:23, and he didn’t want to miss the festivities in Times Square.

“Stop, stop, stop,” said Barry Uncle. “This is it. This is what we need to see.”

When he pressed play, the screen was much shakier.

“This is my own handiwork,” said Barry Uncle. “Shot it all myself.”

“Forgive me, Barry,” said Ms. Farber, “but I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

Mohan Lal chuckled, then kissed her on the shoulder.

“Hah,” said Barry Uncle. “We’ll see who laughs last.”

Siddharth remained standing, spitting his gum into an old receipt that he found in his pocket. The screen now showed a dusty Indian square with some sort of religious structure in the background.

“That’s it,” said Barry Uncle. “That’s the mosque.”

“You mean the temple?” asked Ms. Farber.

“Bright bird,” said Barry Uncle, snapping his fingers.

Thousands of men were gathered in front of the mosque. A few of them were cops with perfect mustaches, and some were grubby holy men with painted foreheads. But most were ordinary Indians — not the kind who spoke English, like Siddharth’s relatives, but the ones who rode around on mopeds with their entire families, the ones who worked as cooks and drivers. These men were wielding sticks and shouting slogans.

As Siddharth rolled his gum into a perfect ball, the men on the screen were getting angrier. A few of them jumped over a fence and bolted toward the mosque. They started hurling things at it, mainly stones, but also bricks and bottles.

The camera zoomed in on the huge dome that capped the building. It reminded Siddharth of the Colt factory near Hartford — and of that nice park with the parrots near his uncle’s Delhi home. He picked up his new slingshot, grazing its cold metal prongs against his warm cheeks.

“Boss, I hope you’re paying attention,” said Barry Uncle. “Isn’t that something?”

“Amazing,” said Mohan Lal. “I never thought I would live to see it. The Hindus have finally grown a spine.”

Several men standing atop the dome began battering it with pipes. Others kept pelting it with bricks from afar. The thing began to crumble. This video was the first decent one Siddharth had seen about India. Something actually happened in it. He placed his pellet of gum into the slingshot’s leather holster, then aimed at the screen. He knew his father would get upset, but he needed to test out his weapon.

6. I-95 to the BJP Hospital

The weather had been strange lately. On Siddharth’s thirteenth birthday, it had hit fifty-three degrees. Then, during the first week of January, a record-breaking nor’easter pummeled the East Coast with two feet of snow. Now, as he dozed in the family room, freezing rain clicked and crackled against the skylight.

Marc walked through the front door and started unlacing his tan work boots, a recent gift from his father.

“Hey,” said Siddharth, “I thought you were staying at your dad’s.”

“Things change, young Sidney. Get used to it.” Marc grabbed the cordless phone and headed toward the bedroom.

Ms. Farber entered the house carrying the small black suitcase she used to transport personal items between her home and the Aroras’. She patted him on the head on her way to the love seat. “Honey,” she said, “what did Dad say about straightening up the coffee table?” She organized the chaotic swamp of bills and catalogs into three tidy towers, then proceeded to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she called for Siddharth.

“What is it?” he yelled back, shaking his head.

“Could you turn on the outside lights?”

He groaned, then got up and walked to his bedroom.

Marc was on the phone, examining one of Siddharth’s old model cars, a die-cast Mercedes SSK that Siddharth and his mother had built together. “Hang on, Andy,” said Marc. He turned to Siddharth and squinted. “What?”

“You wanna do something?”

“I am doing something,” said Marc.

Siddharth returned to the family room and pressed his forehead into the cold glass of the sliding doors, wishing he could go back in time to those afternoons on Foster Pond. He eyed a broken hedge trimmer, the porch’s musty cane furniture that had been there since he was born. He couldn’t see into the backyard but heard the maple’s branches scratching against the house. The wind chimes Ms. Farber had gotten Mohan Lal batted against each other, producing notes that were hollow and spooky.

A loud noise jolted him out of his trance. It had come from the front of the house and sounded like an explosion. He rushed to the living room and looked out the window.

His father was back. He had crashed the minivan into the front steps, bending the cast-iron railing forward. Mohan Lal reversed a few feet, then pulled into the car’s usual spot. He cracked open his door, and the car’s overhead light illuminated his disheveled hair. He tapped his head against the steering wheel two times before emerging from the vehicle.

Siddharth hurried to the entrance hall, where Ms. Farber was already standing, one of her bony fingers on the waist of her burgundy dress. She threw her arms around Mohan Lal as soon as he entered, but he pushed her away.

“What happened?” asked Siddharth.

“What happened?” replied Mohan Lal. He placed his overcoat on its special wooden hanger. “What happened is that I live among foolish people.”

“What?”

Mohan Lal glared at Siddharth. “I ask you people one goddamned thing — to turn on the outside lights when I’m gone. But you’re useless.”

“Mo, it was my fault,” said Ms. Farber, flashing Siddharth a crooked smile.

He couldn’t tell if she was trying to make him feel better or express her irritation. Assuming it was the latter, he responded with a glare, then looked down at the old, cracked stones of the corridor floor.

“Thanks,” said Mohan Lal. “Your forgetfulness will cost me a thousand dollars.”

“So I’ll pay for it,” she said.

Mohan Lal placed his hat on the closet’s messy tool shelf. Siddharth thought that the furry, elliptical hat made him resemble the worst kind of person: a cross between an Arab and a commie. Mohan Lal stormed toward the dining room, Ms. Farber and Siddharth in tow. He took out his most expensive bottle of whiskey, the blue one he only opened on special occasions, finishing half of a tall drink in a single gulp. Siddharth knew it was something serious. Either something had happened to Arjun or his father had cancer.

“Mo, what’s wrong?” asked Ms. Farber. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.”

Pulling a handkerchief from his blazer pocket, Mohan Lal wiped the back of his neck. “Rachel, I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Dad, what the hell is going on?”

Mohan Lal’s lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “Son, your father has some news.”

“What?” said Siddharth, swallowing hard.

“That bastard did it.”

“Did what?” asked Ms. Farber.

“The dean,” said Mohan Lal. “He has denied my tenure.”

“What — why?” said Siddharth.

Mohan Lal finished his drink without responding.

Ms. Farber placed her hand on Mohan Lal’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mo. But you gotta talk about—”

“Talk, talk, talk!” Mohan Lal raised his palms in the air and stomped off to the family room, seating himself on the armchair and turning on the news. Siddharth sat down on the love seat and placed a hand on his father’s knee. Ms. Farber walked in a little while later carrying a glass of her pink wine. She stood beside the television, partially blocking the screen.

Mohan Lal said, “You weren’t made in a glass factory.”

“What?”

“I can’t see!”

She stepped toward him. “I’m your friend, Mo.”

“Everyone’s your friend in times of bounty. Drought is a different story altogether.”

She took a sip of wine. “Mo, it’s hard to see sometimes, but trust me, this is still gonna be our year.” She combed his stray gray hairs with her fingers. “This tenure thing, you can appeal it.”

He shifted, evading her hands. “Believe me, there is no future for me at Elm City College.”

“Mo, it’s that pessimism that’s holding you back. I know it feels really bad right now, but it’s not gonna feel that way tomorrow.”

Siddharth thought about telling her to shut up, but he just said, “Jeez, let him feel bad if he wants to.”

“No, they will never offer me tenure, Rachel.” Mohan Lal stood up and tossed the remote control at the large sofa. It bounced off the leather and landed on the carpet.

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Because I’ve left them. I’ve quit my job.”

Siddharth gasped. “You’re joking.”

Ms. Farber stared up at the skylight. Siddharth could tell she was really pissed because of the way her nostrils were flaring. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know what to tell you, Mo. You didn’t wanna discuss this first?”

“So I needed your approval?” Mohan Lal had a fiendish grin on his face. “Shall I ask your permission before taking a shower?” He stormed off to his bedroom, his dress shoes clomping loudly on the corridor floor.

* * *

Later that evening, Siddharth tried to open his father’s door, but it was still locked. “Dad!” he called out, banging on the door and rattling the knob.

“Go away,” said Mohan Lal.

He kept knocking. “Open up, Dad. We need to talk.”

“Are you deaf? Leave me alone.”

Siddharth rested his forehead on the door. A few moments later, he felt her thin, cold fingers on his shoulder. She gave him a pat and tried to nudge him away. But he wouldn’t budge. He said, “My dad doesn’t wanna talk right now.”

She flashed a fake smile, then tapped on the door.

“Jesus, Siddharth!” said Mohan Lal, furious now. “Don’t you listen?”

“It’s me, Mo,” said Ms. Farber. “Come on, love. Let’s sort this out.”

Siddharth heard the sound of footsteps. Then the door cracked open. Ms. Farber slipped inside, locking it behind her.

Siddharth bounded to the main bathroom and sealed himself inside it, then punched the bathroom door. His knuckles struck an old nailhead, and one of them started bleeding. He sucked on his wound, soothed by the sour red trickle. He then went to his room and dove onto his bed.

Marc was lying down, listening to his Discman and staring into space. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” said Marc. He removed his headphones and walked over to Siddharth, giving him a light smack on the leg. “Don’t be a bitch. What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s fine. Actually, everything’s fucking great.”

Marc shook his head. “Yeah, everything’s fucking great. Sure. Your mom’s dead, and your dad’s fucking a crazy Jewish lady. I can tell you feel great about that.”

“Leave me alone,” said Siddharth.

“You sure know how to open up about your feelings. It’s a real talent, Sidney.” Marc left the room.

Siddharth tried to close his eyes and empty his mind, but his body was pulsing with nervous energy. He got out of bed and paced around in circles. He picked up one of Arjun’s baseball trophies, then hurled it at the floor. He eyed his old Call of the Wild report, which was thumbtacked to the bulletin board on the backside of the door. The dog’s eyes had once seemed so perfect, but they now looked like the work of a toddler. He ripped the report down and tore it in two, then walked over to Marc’s nightstand and picked up the cordless phone. Underneath it was a copy of GQ and a brochure for a teen tour to Jerusalem. Marc had never said anything about going to Jerusalem. Siddharth punched in Luca’s number, and his friend answered after three rings.

“Hey, kid,” said Siddharth.

“Yo, I was about to call you,” said Luca. “You’re not gonna believe what Jeanette just said.”

“Man, I got some news.”

“What is it?”

“It’s my dad,” said Siddharth. “He got laid off.”

“Shit, kid, that really sucks. You know I know how bad that sucks.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m telling you.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Luca. “My mother — she got another job in, like, three or four months.”

“Totally.” Siddharth wished he hadn’t said anything at all. He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about his father. “Hey, what happened with Jeanette?”

“Yo, that bitch is off the hook.”

After listening to the story of Luca’s latest fight with his girlfriend, Siddharth felt calmer. He buried his face in his pillow and decided to wait for someone to come check on him. If Ms. Farber came knocking, he would forgive her. If she didn’t, he would show her. He would show both of them. He would tell his brother how freakish they’d become.

Twenty minutes later, the sound of footsteps made him hopeful, but there was no ensuing knock. If Arjun were still home, he definitely would have knocked by now. His mother would definitely have knocked.

He wondered if Arjun and his girlfriend were having sex, or if she’d ever given him a blow job. No, probably not. She was a Pakistani, and though Pakistanis were the archenemies of Indians, they were probably just as prude. He wondered how it must feel to eat dinner with a girl after she’d sucked your dick. Was it strange to see her lips on a piece of pizza knowing where they’d been?

He thought about his brother. Mohan Lal’s news would definitely anger Arjun, who would probably get into a fight with their father, or at least say something mean to him. A couple of years ago, Arjun had predicted that this would happen. Maybe he had been right about other things too. Maybe their father was a closed-minded bigot. Selfish. After all, he had quit his job without even considering his sons. He was choosing to remain with a fool like Ms. Farber.

It was as if Mohan Lal was afraid of her. He let her decide what they watched and what they ate. He listened to each word of her advice about his manuscript, even though she didn’t have the slightest clue about India. And she was making him get a five-hundred-dollar suit for Atlantic City, something the old Mohan Lal would have thought was ridiculous. Even Marc had commented on Mohan Lal’s sheepishness. He said that Mohan Lal needed to grow a pair — that Rachel needed a man who knew how to handle her.

Eventually, Siddharth fell into a deep sleep, and when he next glanced at his clock, it was 3:14 a.m. To his left lay Marc, under the covers and snoring. Siddharth had fallen asleep in his cargo pants, and he was still wearing socks. No one had woken him up or wondered if he was hungry. What a skank, he thought. She’s a skank, and he’s a fucking asshole.

He fell asleep again and had strange, vivid dreams.

He dreamed that he was riding his bicycle through the streets of South Haven. It was an old bike from when he was six, with only a single training wheel. He was trying to get to the hospital to see his father but kept getting lost. He was on a street that resembled Boston Post Road, but among the strip malls and chain restaurants were Indian men hawking vegetables, yelling that they had the greenest peas in town. He overtook a dirty Indian beggar, who had no legs and was navigating the road in a tiny wooden cart, like the one Eddie Murphy uses at the beginning of Trading Places. A car pulled up beside Siddharth. It was Mrs. Peroti; she asked where he was going.

“To the hospital,” he said.

“The BJP hospital?”

He nodded.

She told him to put his bike in the back. “We can take 95,” she said. “I’ll get you there in a jiffy.”

7. February Vacation

The first weekend of February vacation was boring. Marc was around since his father had gone to Syracuse, where his girlfriend would have their baby, but Marc remained holed up in Siddharth’s bedroom most of the time, talking on the phone. Sometimes he read a Polish Holocaust novel or listened to hip-hop, but he didn’t utter more than twenty words. Siddharth didn’t care anymore. He no longer needed Marc. His real brother was finally coming home.

This year, Arjun’s break coincided with Siddharth’s February vacation, and Arjun planned on borrowing a car from a friend and driving all the way from Michigan. He would leave Ann Arbor early Monday morning and drop off his housemate in Pennsylvania. He planned on making it to South Haven by dinnertime. The five of them would spend the next few days together, and on Friday, Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber would leave for Atlantic City. They would return home on Sunday night, and Arjun would set out for Michigan the following morning.

The night before Arjun’s scheduled arrival, Siddharth lay awake making plans for his visit. They would see movies together; they would go to the mall or just drive around. He had a feeling that this time Arjun would finally see the truth about Ms. Farber — that she was totally fucked up. She was constantly nagging her son and putting him down. She had even hit Marc, which meant that one day she would probably hit Siddharth.

And look what she had done to their father: Mohan Lal had fallen apart in her company. Just the other day, Siddharth woke up and found his father asleep at the kitchen table. His head was resting on his hairy arms, and his India manuscript was beside him, marked up with zillions of red squiggles. He hadn’t dyed his hair in a while, which made him look particularly old, as did the uneven patches of gray stubble sprouting from his cheeks. He woke up with a start, then declared that he needed to say something.

“I’m late,” said Siddharth.

“Just listen a second,” said Mohan Lal.

“I’m listening.”

Mohan Lal sighed. “Son, listen up carefully. Do whatever you want in life. Become a lawyer, a banker, a doctor. But whatever you choose, don’t turn out like your old man.”

Siddharth knew what his father wanted him to say — that Mohan Lal was brilliant, the greatest father in the world. This was their old song and dance. But he left the house without uttering a word.

Arjun would know how to handle their father. He would tell him to get more sleep, to apologize to the dean and get his job back. Since Mohan Lal had quit, Siddharth had begun to worry about the family’s financial situation. If they ran out of money, he feared, they would have to move to a poorer town, or a city like New Haven. He imagined them living in a scruffy Victorian with old-fashioned radiators, or worse still, a grimy, multistoried apartment complex. He would have to go to some inner-city school where the students were crack babies or gave birth to crack babies — a school where the kids’ parents collected welfare and carjacked Yalies.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that Ms. Farber had a big empty house in which all of them could comfortably fit. But if they moved in with her, she would have won. Other times, he imagined the riches that would pour in from his father’s book. Authors like John Grisham made tons of money. Maybe once Mohan Lal got published, they would be set for life. That’s what Barry Uncle thought; Ms. Farber thought so too.

Siddharth woke up out of pure excitement on Monday morning. He got up and made sure the guest room was ready for his brother, placing back issues of Marc’s music magazines on the nightstand and a clean towel on the dresser. Recently, he had found a three-by-five picture of him and Arjun with their mother’s family, which had been taken outside of their grandfather’s Chandigarh home. Siddharth leaned it against a white bottle of aftershave that had been sitting there for as long as he could remember.

It started snowing around ten a.m., and two hours later Arjun called to say that the roads were getting dicey. He would spend the night in Pennsylvania and make it to South Haven the next afternoon. Siddharth slammed down the phone, wondering if his brother was lying. He wondered if Arjun was still under the fucking sheets with his Pakistani girlfriend.

The next morning, four or five inches of fresh powder covered the cars, and a slender crest of ice lined the telephone wires. His brother pulled into the driveway around eleven. By the time Siddharth reached the front door, Arjun was already inside, giving Ms. Farber a tight hug. Arjun said, “Rachel, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but have you been working out?”

She smiled. “Actually, I am paying a little more attention to what I put in my body. In fact, Arjun, I’d like to have a word about your diet.”

Siddharth hadn’t realized that she and Arjun were on a first-name basis. He hated the way she said his brother’s name, as if the j were French, like in Jacques.

Marc was suddenly lumbering down the hallway. He cut in front of Siddharth and gave Arjun a halfhearted hug and a handshake. “Nice beard,” said Marc. “I bet they’re just lining up to sit next to you at the airport.”

Marc was right. Arjun’s facial hair was longer, and thicker too. He looked like a real foreigner, like one of the bad guys from Die Hard.

Arjun finally stepped toward Siddharth and hugged him, but they were interrupted by their father, who appeared in the entryway wearing nothing but a pink towel.

“That was fast,” said Mohan Lal.

“You were right. The Tappan Zee was totally empty.”

Mohan Lal embraced Arjun, then patted him on the cheek. “Son, do me one favor.”

“What?” asked Arjun.

Mohan Lal smirked. “Cut your damn beard.”

“Dad, please,” said Siddharth.

Ms. Farber gripped Mohan Lal’s naked shoulder. “Go put some clothes on, dear.” She turned to Arjun. “Hon, you must be starving.”

* * *

Arjun brought gifts for everyone. He gave Siddharth a fitted Michigan baseball cap with Jalen Rose’s number stitched into the back, and handed a Michigan hockey T-shirt to Marc, who said, “Thanks, I guess,” but then immediately put it on. Arjun got Ms. Farber an expensive-looking set of candles and their father a Michigan pen that required special cartridges. Mohan Lal put on his reading glasses to examine it, then uttered a faint thank you.

“You don’t like it?” said Arjun.

“Your father loves it,” said Ms. Farber.

Arjun then presented Mohan Lal with a stack of essays he had written that semester. As Mohan Lal thumbed through them, Siddharth saw him genuinely smile for the first time in days. Siddharth peered over his father’s shoulder and read the strange titles of these papers—Elusive Truths in the Zen Koan, Woodrow Wilson: Liberator or Racist? Not surprisingly, Arjun had gotten As on all of them.

“Proud of you, son,” said Mohan Lal, grasping Arjun’s shoulder. “Next month, when my book is done, you will lend me your expertise.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” said Arjun.

As evening fell, Arjun told them about the treacherous drive on Interstate 80, and how the rural people of Tennessee were poor but inspiring. Ms. Farber and Mohan Lal were hanging on his every word. Siddharth thought about how they barely even listened to what he had to say anymore, but he was ready to drop that for today. It felt good to have Arjun home, and that’s all he wanted to think about.

Ms. Farber made paneer that night, using tofu instead of actual cheese. Mohan Lal and Arjun were complimentary, but Siddharth stayed quiet. Marc said she should stick to pancakes and leave the curry to the Indians. She quickly changed the subject, bringing up the Honda Civic Arjun had driven home from Michigan. “It’s very generous of your friend to lend out his car like that. It must be a thousand miles here and back.”

“Fourteen hundred, actually,” said Arjun. “But we don’t really look at things like that.”

“Like what?” Ms. Farber scrunched up her nose.

“With real friends, it’s not about quantifying things,” said Arjun. “It’s not about miles or money.”

Mohan Lal said that next year, Arjun wouldn’t have to borrow anybody else’s car. He could buy him his own vehicle.

“That’s a nice idea,” replied Arjun, “but it’s not exactly an ideal time for frivolous expenditures.”

Mohan Lal coughed midbite, then took a gulp of water.

Ms. Farber rubbed Mohan Lal’s back. “Arjun, this time next year, your father’s book’ll be out. It’ll be a whole new ball game.”

“If you say so,” said Arjun, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

Ms. Farber told the boys to clear the table and then brought out a lemon meringue pie that one of her clients had given her. She placed it in front of Mohan Lal, who served each person a slice, giving himself a particularly wide one. Siddharth struggled to eat his pie, but Marc quickly finished his and took seconds.

“My question is,” said Marc, “who’s gonna wanna read a book about India? If you haven’t noticed, Americans don’t really give a crap about much. They really only care about themselves.”

“Marc, I’ve had enough for today,” said Ms. Farber.

“Okay, lemme grab my muzzle.”

She pulled his pie away and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Arjun, if you had a car, you’d be able to get away from campus — do a little grocery shopping on weekends.”

“Honestly,” said Arjun, “I’d like to do without a car for as long as possible.”

Ms. Farber dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, and why’s that?”

Arjun commenced a long speech about the pointlessness of automobiles, which had made Americans lazy and dependent on autocratic governments. “They created this,” he said, spreading his arms wide apart.

“This what?” asked Siddharth.

“This sprawl. It’s just. . disgusting. Americans are so isolated, so lonely. You ever wonder why?”

“Heavy,” said Ms. Farber. “Interesting.”

“But Mom,” said Marc, “I just said the same exact thing.”

Mohan Lal served himself more pie. “Son, what about your beloved workers? Didn’t Henry Ford give them jobs? Automobile factories have given the working class of this country some dignity.”

“Dignity?” countered Arjun. “Dad, Henry Ford was a racist.”

“Jesus,” said Mohan Lal. “What kind of pinkos are teaching you at the University of Michigan?”

Arjun cleared his throat. “I take it you won’t be applying for a job there. They’ll be devastated, I’m sure.”

* * *

After dinner, Siddharth was finally alone with his brother in the guest room, where Arjun carefully unpacked the contents of his worn backpack. He pulled out a wool sweater with little animals on it, then a hairbrush and several books. He placed these items in the dresser before picking up the photograph from Chandigarh that Siddharth had left for him.

“I heard they’re selling Nana-ji’s house,” said Arjun. “I wanna go back there this summer — see it one last time.”

“Great,” said Siddharth. “Have fun.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” He didn’t know where to begin.

“I can tell something’s up — so talk.”

Siddharth shrugged. “You know Dad’s book?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Come on, Arjun. Don’t be like that. I’ve got a serious question.”

“So ask your question.”

“Well, I wanna know if Dad’s book is gonna be a hit. You think it’ll make us rich?”

Arjun snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Siddharth, it takes years to write a real book, not a few months. Dad, he’s writing more of a pamphlet — a silly piece of propaganda.”

“Propaganda?” Siddharth’s throat was now scratchy.

“Yeah, fascist propaganda.”

“You mean like the Nazis?”

“Not the Nazis. More like Hindu fascism.”

“That’s not even a real thing, Arjun.”

Arjun sat on the bed and placed a hand on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Listen, as long as I’m alive — and I plan on being here for a while — you don’t have to worry about anything, especially not money. Dad’s gonna find another job. And he has some money to fall back on.”

“He does?”

“Yeah, he does.”

“What money?”

“I really shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Come on,” said Siddharth. “I’m a teenager now.”

After some coaxing, Arjun explained that when their mother had died, their father received money from a life insurance policy. “It’s not a lot, but enough for a couple of years.”

As Siddharth lay in bed that night, the thought of this life insurance money made him feel lighter, but then he was overwhelmed by a wave of disgust. The only reason they had this money was because she was gone. Did that mean he was happy she was gone? You’re a freak, he told himself. A cruel and demented freak.

8. Partition

On the Thursday morning of February vacation, Ms. Farber dropped Marc off at Dinetta’s on her way to see clients at her place. Siddharth sat in front of the television, waiting for his real family to awaken. Arjun had been out late last night. He’d gone drinking with Derrick Rodgers, a roofer, and Sam Palmieri, who had taken over his father’s landscaping business. Siddharth couldn’t understand why his brother wanted to go out with people who weren’t in college. He wondered if Arjun was doing so to buy drugs.

Mohan Lal emerged first, just after ten, wearing sweatpants and a flannel robe. Siddharth made them pizza bagels, and while they were eating, Arjun walked into the kitchen wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He gave Siddharth’s shoulders a brief massage and then downed a glass of water.

“You want one?” asked Siddharth.

“I’ll grab something when I’m out. The car needs an oil change.”

“I’ll come,” said Siddharth.

“We’ll both go with you,” said Mohan Lal.

Arjun grabbed Siddharth’s bagel from his plate and ate half of it in a single bite. “You’ll get bored,” he said, still chewing. “I have to run a bunch of errands, actually.”

“Which errands?” asked Mohan Lal.

“I need a new comforter. I need a copy of the Times.”

Mohan Lal started grinning.

“Don’t start, Dad.” Arjun took a banana from the counter and peeled it open. “I’m not in the mood for one of your conspiracy theories.”

“What conspiracy theories?”

Siddharth knew all about his father’s conspiracy theories. Mohan Lal had always said that the Times was a State Department mouthpiece. It “bad-mouthed India” but “glossed over the fundamentalists in Pakistan.”

“Whatever, Dad,” said Arjun. “The Times is one of the most respected newspapers in the world. And my professor has an editorial coming out — about the riots.”

“Good for him,” said Mohan Lal, wiping his mouth.

“You should read it. Professor Sengupta’s pretty amazing. They say he’s gonna get a Nobel Prize.”

Mohan Lal plunked his dirty napkin onto his empty plate. “I know all about these Professor Senguptas. They’re sycophants. Pseudosecularists. Babbling Bengali Brahmins.”

“You know what, Dad?”

“Tell me.”

Arjun threw his peel into the trash compactor. “It’s just the way you operate — your way of controlling other people. You criticize everybody else because of your own insecurities.”

“Arjun,” muttered Siddharth, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“Wonderful,” said Mohan Lal. “Now my son is also a psychologist.”

“Come on, Siddharth,” said Arjun.

“What?”

“Come with me — that is, if you want to.”

Siddharth felt bad admitting it, but he did want to go with his brother. And he was glad their father wasn’t coming with them.

Mohan Lal went to the sink and started doing dishes. He said, “Son, if I had insulted my father like that, he would have given me a thrashing.”

* * *

They got into Arjun’s borrowed Civic, and Arjun put in a cassette that sounded crackly and faded. He said it was a live performance by the Grateful Dead, a name that was vaguely familiar to Siddharth. For some reason he associated it with drugs — drugs and motorcycles. The music was surprisingly gentle, though, even a little babyish — the kind of thing they made him sing in the fourth grade.

Arjun took a right onto Post Road, where mountains of plowed snow were glimmering in the strip mall parking lots. Siddharth squinted, and his brother put on a pair of aviator sunglasses.

“Where’d you get those?” asked Siddharth.

“A friend. I’ll get you some when you’re older.”

The road was so clogged with cars that they had to wait six minutes to clear a single light. “Where the hell is everybody going?” said Arjun, lighting a cigarette. It was the third time he had done so in front of Siddharth. “It’s like, if they don’t buy something, they’ll go crazy — they won’t feel like good Americans.”

Siddharth’s stomach tingled. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask Arjun for a drag of his cigarette, or to make him promise to quit smoking. Neither option would go over well, so he just kept his mouth shut.

Arjun ashed his cigarette out the window. “How long has Dad been like this?”

“Like what?”

“Depressed.”

“He’s not depressed, Arjun. He’s just focusing on his book.”

Arjun stopped at another light. He glanced at Siddharth and smiled. “Don’t be so serious all the time. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Then, after a long pause, he said, “Well, lots of things.”

“Name one.”

Siddharth chewed a chunk of skin from the inside of his mouth. “I don’t know. Money.”

“We already talked about that. I thought that was all settled.”

“Yeah, but Rachel, she spends way too much money.”

“What?”

“She’s always buying such pointless stuff — shampoo and makeup. And she makes Dad spend his money on stupid things. His suit — it cost, like, a thousand dollars. And the new shoes? They were at least a hundred bucks.”

Arjun wove the car through the congested thoroughfare. “That doesn’t sound like him. Dad’s too cheap to spend that kind of money on shoes.”

“Yeah, well, things change. You don’t know the real Ms. Farber, Arjun. All she cares about is money. That’s why she got divorced in the first place.”

“She has her own money,” said Arjun, smoke trickling out of his nostrils. “It’s not really your place to judge.”

“You don’t get it. Why do you think she’s sticking around?”

Arjun took a hard drag off his cigarette and then chucked it out the window. “Why?”

“I bet she wants the life insurance money.”

Arjun cracked a smile, then slapped Siddharth on the knee. “Sometimes I forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That you’re just a kid.” He pulled into a gas station, parking beside a beat-up tow truck. “Siddharth, you really need to try to be more honest with yourself. Otherwise you’re gonna end up like Dad.”

Arjun stepped out of the car, leaving Siddharth sitting there stewing. His brother was just as big of a pain as his father.

* * *

In the morning, when Siddharth walked to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth, he spotted their luggage at the end of the hallway — Ms. Farber’s black suitcase and the rolling duffel she had given Mohan Lal for Hanukkah. A bag containing Mohan Lal’s new suit was draped over the luggage. They’ll be gone soon, he thought. Thank God.

When he got to the kitchen, Ms. Farber was at the table clipping coupons while Mohan Lal cracked eggs at the counter. Mohan Lal was wearing a sleeveless wool sweater and a tucked-in button-down shirt. Siddharth was pleased to see him so crisp. His father seemed alert for a change, strong in a way that he hadn’t in months.

Mohan Lal told him they would be leaving before noon and then offered him an omelet.

“Sure,” said Siddharth, who headed toward the guest room. Arjun wasn’t there, and his bed was already made. Siddharth dashed back to the kitchen, where Ms. Farber explained that his brother had gone for a jog.

“But it’s freezing out,” said Siddharth.

“It’s forty-eight degrees,” she said. “You boys should take note and follow suit.”

You should shut the fuck up, thought Siddharth. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and moved toward the family room, but Mohan Lal told him to wait.

“What?” said Siddharth.

“Today we shall have a family breakfast.”

Siddharth contemplated saying a couple of things — that he didn’t like breakfast, and not everyone here was actual family — but he seated himself in the kitchen, staring down at the newspaper Arjun had bought from the gas station. An advertisement announced a special offer on a tour of Mallorca, which he assumed was in Mexico.

Ms. Farber offered Siddharth a bowl of fruit from the fridge, and he spooned the mixture into a quarter plate. He noticed that it contained bananas. His mother had always said that bananas were a big mistake in a fruit salad. They turned all the other fruit brown.

Ms. Farber brought her planner to the table and flipped through its pages. “Lots to do this morning, I better hurry.”

“There’s plenty of time,” said Mohan Lal. “Spend five minutes with the mirror, not fifty.”

“Really, Mo?” said Mr. Farber. “Now?”

Siddharth heard the front door open, and moments later, Arjun walked into the kitchen sweating and panting. Before greeting anyone, he downed two glasses of water.

“Arjun,” said Mohan Lal, “what kind of omelet will you have?”

“I’ll just have fruit,” said Arjun. He seated himself beside Siddharth and ate some grapes and bananas directly from the bowl. Mohan Lal placed a steaming omelet in front of him. Siddharth knew this one had been intended for him but chose not to say anything.

“I read your little article,” said Mohan Lal.

“Great,” said Arjun, shaking salt over his eggs.

“You don’t want my opinion?”

“I have an idea,” said Arjun. “Why don’t you write one of your little letters to the editor?”

“I want cheese in mine,” said Siddharth. “And no onions.” He turned the page and found the article in question: “Shattered Dreams of Democracy” by Arup Sengupta.

Ms. Farber tore out a check. “Honey, what did we say about the cheese?”

Mohan Lal beat some more eggs, and soon they were sizzling on the stove. “This professor of yours — I know his type. He’s nothing but a lefty — a leftist Muslim-lover. Such people only write half the truth.”

“Thanks for the input, Dad. Can I get some toast?”

“Let your professor have his opinions,” said Mohan Lal. “My only problem is that he has converted my son.”

Arjun slammed down his glass, and Siddharth jumped in his seat. “If I remember correctly,” said Arjun, “weren’t some of your best friends Muslims?”

“What rubbish are you speaking?” said Mohan Lal, placing an omelet in front of Siddharth.

“Mahmood?” said Arjun. “Shamim?”

“Those were your mother’s friends.”

“Bullshit. You went on vacation with them. You let them babysit your son.”

“I have no recollection of those events.”

“That’s worrying,” said Arjun. “I hope you’re not going senile.”

Ms. Farber peered at them over the rims of her reading glasses. “Guys, you know what my mother used to say? She said there’s no point in hurting someone you love over politics.”

“That’s the problem with this country,” said Arjun. “Everyone is so damn apolitical. That’s why our government can do whatever it wants, wherever it wants.”

Siddharth said, “If you hate America so much, then why don’t you go to India — or maybe Pakistan?”

Ignoring Siddharth, Arjun glared at Mohan Lal, who turned off the exhaust fan and brought an especially large omelet to the table. He gave a third of it to Ms. Farber and saved the rest for himself.

“Listen, son,” said Mohan Lal. “You don’t know what I saw — what I lived through. If you did, you’d be singing a different song.”

“How could I know? You’ve repressed it all. You can’t even remember what actually happened.”

Ms. Farber put away her planner and let her reading glasses dangle around her neck. “I’m always telling you the same thing, Mo.” She scrutinized her omelet. “Are those hot peppers?”

“Coriander,” said Mohan Lal, seating himself beside her. “Listen, your professor is crying about crimes against Muslims, but what about the Mussulman? Haven’t they raped? Haven’t they murdered?”

“This is different,” said Arjun, his fingers twisting the bristles of his beard.

“Different? You’re telling me a murder isn’t a murder? What strange leftist notions you’ve acquired at college.”

“Dad, when a government inflicts violence on a specific group of people — for no apparent reason — they have a name for it in the civilized world. They call it genocide. Rachel, can’t you talk any sense into him?”

In that moment, Siddharth saw his older brother for what he was: a traitor. He loved Muslims, and he hated America. He was more loyal to Ms. Farber than to their own father.

Ms. Farber closed her planner with a thump. “Arjun, your father’s a very learned man. And last I heard, this is a democracy.”

That’ll teach him, thought Siddharth.

Arjun stood up, his chair squeaking against the wooden floor.

“Sit down,” said Mohan Lal.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Rachel, you of all people should understand. The Muslims, they’re just like the Jews.”

She gave him a hard stare. “That’s hard to believe, Arjun. And a little insensitive.”

Arjun yanked the newspaper from Siddharth. “Here, read it for yourself.”

“Hey, I was reading that,” said Siddharth.

Ms. Farber placed her reading glasses back on her freckled nose. “Is this the one?”

Arjun was pacing around the kitchen. “No, it’s the other one about Hindu-Muslim violence.”

She clicked her tongue, then started reading to herself. Arjun interrupted and told her to read the piece out loud. “Siddharth should hear this,” he said. “He should know what his family is really all about.”

“You know, you and your father are actually quite similar.” Ms. Farber cleared her throat. “‘Shattered Dreams of Democracy’ by Arup Sengupta. During the first weeks of the year, the journalist Tiliptuma Sharma Sengupta — my daughter-in-law — was covering the so-called “Bombay Riots,” which have claimed the lives of thousands of individuals, some Hindus, but mostly Muslims. On the evening of January 18, she was looking on as a Hindu mob gathered in a busy commercial locality, home to printing presses and clothing stores. These shops were owned by Hindus, Muslims, Christians, and Parsis, an unsurprisingly eclectic mixture of people in one of the world’s most historically cosmopolitan metropolises.”

Siddharth was listening, but he couldn’t make much sense of what was being read. He had never been to Bombay. His relatives had told him that it was even dirtier than Delhi.

“The Hindu mob started chanting slogans about their motherland. A few men broke away, entering certain stores and pulling out various shopkeepers. Each of the stores they targeted had a Muslim proprietor, and the men who were pulled onto the street were also Muslims, though you wouldn’t have been able to know this by looking at them. They were wearing western—”

“Skip to the next paragraph,” said Arjun.

“Three Hindu men proceeded to throw tires around one of these Muslims, a young man named Hassan Khan, and they doused him in petroleum. My daughter-in-law struggled to get in front of the assailants, but the mob thwarted her efforts. The Hindu rioters then lit Mr. Khan on fire. As he burned to death, he begged for mercy, but not a single person came to his rescue.”

As Ms. Farber read, Siddharth found himself intrigued. The things she was reading seemed like something from a movie — not events that could happen in real life.

“My daughter-in-law ran toward a group of loitering policemen standing five hundred feet away. She implored them to intervene, but they ignored her, even after she had flashed her press credentials. Later, she tried to print an account of what she had witnessed in a major Indian newspaper, but her editor—”

“Enough!” snapped Mohan Lal. “Christ, I’ve heard enough.”

“Let her finish,” said Arjun. He seated himself on the kitchen counter.

“No,” said Mohan Lal. “We are having a family breakfast, not a seminar of your leftist propaganda.”

Ms. Farber removed her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “This. . Mo, did this really happen?”

“Of course it happened,” said Arjun. “It’s right there in the Times.”

“Yah, yah, yah,” said Mohan Lal, standing up. “That bloody paper is the gospel. Jesus, I can’t believe it — I’ve raised a bloody Congress-wallah.”

Arjun jumped off the counter and stood a foot away from his father. “Why does everything have to be so black or white with you? And for your information, Dad, you didn’t raise me.”

Siddharth could see spit fly from his brother’s mouth. He could see his father’s lips quivering. He wanted to intervene but remained frozen.

“Yes,” said Mohan Lal, “I just sat there and watched.”

“You said it,” said Arjun. “You know, Mom was right about you. Face it, you weren’t cut out for parenting.”

Ms. Farber reached for Mohan Lal’s wrist. “Arjun, I know you don’t mean that.”

“Oh, I do,” said Arjun. “But actually, I’m grateful. Thanks to my mother, I’m not a fascist. If it wasn’t for her, I might actually believe that people should die because of their religion. Who knows, I might even believe that a person should die because of the color of their skin.”

“Now Arjun, your father doesn’t think any of those things,” said Ms. Farber.

Mohan Lal stepped closer toward Arjun. “No, my son understands me quite well. Arjun, I have learned one truth in my life.”

“And what’s that, Dad? Please — share your wisdom.”

“What I’ve learned is that a Muslim can’t be trusted. The only good Muslim is a dead one.”

Arjun gritted his teeth. He clenched his fist and raised it behind his ear.

“Arjun. .” said Siddharth. Tears dripped from his eyes.

Mohan Lal smirked. “Yes, my Gandhian son. Go ahead, hit your father.”

Arjun glanced at him, then clasped his hands behind his head. “It’s funny,” he said, his voice cracking, “you spend your whole life reading, Dad, and yet you’re still like a child. You’re still so fucking ignorant.”

“Then why remain in my presence?” asked Mohan Lal. “Why remain in my home?”

“Finally, we’re on the same page about something.”

“Talking like a man is one thing. Acting the part is another.”

Arjun stormed to the guest room and slammed the door. Siddharth let himself in and watched as his brother hurriedly packed his duffel. Arjun then ran through the house and out the front door. He stowed his bag in the trunk of his borrowed Honda. As he got into the car, Siddharth literally clung to him. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” said Arjun, buckling his seat belt.

“But you are home.”

“No I’m not. This isn’t my home anymore.”

“If you go, I’ll tell him about your girlfriend.”

“You think I give a shit?” said Arjun.

“I’ll tell him you’re on drugs.”

Arjun lit a cigarette. He started the engine and rolled down the driveway. His tires squeaked as he charged up the hill.

Siddharth sat down on the front steps, allowing his salty tears to coat his tongue. He remained outside for fifteen minutes, but his brother didn’t return. The only vehicle that appeared belonged to the postman.

9. Riot

“Kid, I know what we gotta do,” said Eddie B., chewing on cheese-flavored popcorn. “We gotta get her mailbox. We’ll wreck that shit.”

Marc shook his head, his lips curled in a disdainful grin. “What a bunch of losers. You don’t have anything better to do? Don’t you know any women?”

“Eddie, it’s not happening,” said Luca. He grabbed the popcorn and flicked his bangs to one side. “She’s on the other side of 34. It’ll take us all night to walk it.” His left hand was wrapped around the rubber penis he’d stolen from the head shop beside his father’s salon. Occasionally, he swung this object over his head, as if it were a lasso.

“We can take your mom’s shitter,” said Eddie, his orange eyebrows arching. “It’ll fit right in with all that white trash.”

“No way.” Luca whipped Eddie’s leg with the phallus. “Not tonight.”

Siddharth was only half paying attention to their banter, but the sound of his friends’ voices was soothing. The lights were dim, and he was lying on the shaggy multicolored carpet in Luca’s family room. The door that separated this room from the kitchen was made of plastic and slid open like an accordion, and the wall behind the television was lined with wooden panels. He returned his gaze to the television, on which a dark-haired man was groping a large-breasted blonde. They were on a bed with silk sheets that overlooked the sea. Eddie had rigged Luca’s cable box so that Playboy came in for free.

After Arjun had left, Mohan Lal poured himself a stiff drink and locked himself in his office. Ms. Farber cancelled their hotel reservations, then went to the kitchen and removed all of the silverware from the drawers, polishing each and every piece before putting it back. Siddharth couldn’t believe it. What kind of freak would clean at a time like this? And why did she think she could go into their cabinets as if she owned them? He had ambled to his bedroom and sat on the floor, tapping his head against the closet door. Something bad was going to happen. Arjun was going to skid off the highway into the Delaware Water Gap.

By the time the phone rang, Siddharth had been sure it was the police calling to say that his brother was dead. But it was Arjun himself. He was spending the night in Pennsylvania and would push on to Michigan in the morning. Ms. Farber had taken the call. She told Arjun that they’d been counting on him. She told him they were disappointed. She put down the phone without passing it to Siddharth, who imagined punching her in the face. Mohan Lal was the one who decided to leave for Atlantic City in the morning. Marc’s father was in upstate New York and Andy was in London, so Mohan Lal said the boys could stay with Barry Uncle. Siddharth said, “Dad, I’m sick of Barry Uncle. There’s no way I’m staying with him.” When Mohan Lal replied, “Fine, we’ll cancel the trip,” Siddharth thought he had triumphed. But Ms. Farber said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I put in a call to Mrs. Peroti?”

Marc was now on the Perotis’ brown La-Z-Boy, his arms imperiously splayed on its ample armrests. With his legs propped in the air, he looked like a reposing king. “Look,” Marc said to Luca, “you got dumped, and that sucks. And this Jeanette sounds like a real bitch. But trust me, only a few things are gonna make this better. You can get laid, or you can sleep for a couple of days. But the best thing would be to get really fucking wasted.”

Marc pulled a lever to retract his leg rest, then sprang up and headed to the opposite corner of the room. “Yo, check this out.” He grabbed his overnight bag and pulled out Siddharth’s ornate Indian slingshot, the one Barry Uncle had given him.

Siddharth tensed up. “What the hell’s that doing here?”

“It’s for Luca’s rectum,” said Marc.

Eddie laughed.

“Come on, put it away,” said Siddharth.

Marc dropped it to the floor, then extracted a rectangular bottle of liquor. It was green and had a deer on the label. He cracked it open. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking thirsty.” He took a swig and handed it to Siddharth.

He sipped the liquor, which singed the inside of his mouth.

“Pussy,” said Eddie. “Take a real sip.”

“Fuck off, Eddie,” said Marc.

Siddharth handed the bottle to Eddie, who drank some and passed it on to Luca.

“I know a chick,” said Luca. “I know a place where we can get a little pussy.”

“Where?” asked Eddie.

Luca pointed his rubber penis at Siddharth. “Ask him. I hear his little friend can suck a mean cock.”

“Who?” said Eddie.

Siddharth rubbed his neck and glanced down at the multicolored carpet. For the first time ever, he noticed that the rug’s different colors formed a design. It might have been a tree.

“Niggerski,” said Luca.

“Sharon?” said Eddie. “I thought she was a lezzie.”

“Nah. Siddharth here says she likes it up the ass.” Luca put the rubber penis near his rump and pantomimed the act of copulation. “Oh, Siddharth, give it to me.” His voice was high and screechy. “Fuck my hairy asshole.”

Eddie laughed. So did Marc.

Siddharth grabbed the bottle and downed a few glugs. The liquid passed straight into his throat and burned his belly. He gasped for air; his eyes were watering. “Yeah, I guess you would know how she likes it,” he said.

Eddie cackled, then slapped him on the back.

The door suddenly slid open, and Luca’s father barged in. Marc was quick to slip the bottle behind his back. Siddharth lunged for the remote, but Mr. Peroti got to it first. Siddharth sobered up quickly. He thought it was all over, that Mr. Peroti would get right on the phone with his father. But Mr. Peroti was smiling.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said. “You’re all a bunch of little goats.” His accent was thick, even worse than Mohan Lal’s. “Relax, everyone. Oh, look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?” Mr. Peroti seated himself on the sofa, dangling an arm around Eddie. “You boys can relax. I’m not gonna tell your parents. But you gotta promise me something.”

Siddharth nodded. He would promise Mr. Peroti anything he wanted.

“Just stay away from the drugs — otherwise I beat the crap outta yous. Oh, and no homo business, please.”

* * *

By twelve thirty, they had cracked open a second green bottle, and the words were flowing freely off Siddharth’s tongue. He yakked about Nirvana being better than Pearl Jam, about Michigan’s Fab Five being the best team that had ever existed.

“Yo, you don’t know shit about shit,” said Eddie. “Those guys are a bunch of ghetto-ass punks.”

“Yo, that’s racist,” said Marc.

Siddharth brought up his recurring worry about memories — that there was no point in having them because they just made you sad.

“Yo, what you been smoking?” said Luca.

“He’s right,” said Marc. “My grandfather — he has to wear a diaper. He’s not, like, Oh, I’m so glad I can remember a time when I could wipe my own fucking ass.”

Siddharth soon realized he had never been this drunk in his life. He couldn’t stop smiling and wondered why people weren’t drunk all the time. “Guys, I need to tell you something.”

Everybody looked at him expectantly.

“Fuck Jeanette,” he said. “Fuck her, and fuck our fucking parents.”

“Yeah, kid,” said Luca, putting an arm around him. “Tonight’s your night. Tonight we’re gonna get you a mailbox.”

“Hell yeah,” said Siddharth.

Eddie and Luca started their talk of shitting houses, bragging about a dead squirrel they had left on the front seat of a neighbor’s Corolla, a fire they had once started during leaf season; it had gotten so big that a truck had to come from another town.

“Whatever,” said Marc, annoyed. “You guys are a bunch of shit talkers.”

“Don’t believe me,” said Eddie. “My dad’s only a volunteer fireman.”

“What about you, Marc?” asked Siddharth.

Marc looked stunned for a second, but then smiled. “What was that, Sidney?”

“I said, what about you? What have you ever shitted?”

“It’s shat.”

“Huh?” said Siddharth.

“It’s not shitted, it’s shat. Learn how to speak fucking English. And I got better things to do. But trust me, back in the day, these hands got pretty dirty.”

“Shit talker,” said Luca, waving his rubber penis.

Marc took a swig of booze. “Ask any Woodford cop. They still keep a picture of me on the dashboard.”

“Stories are stories,” said Eddie. “I’d like to see it with my own two eyes.”

Marc told everyone how a couple of summers ago, when his parents had first separated, he used to sneak out with Corey Thompson, and they would break into rich people’s houses. They played these people’s video games. They ate their food and ordered pornos on pay-per-view. “Right before we left,” Marc told them, “one of us always took a shit — right there in the middle of the floor.”

“I hate Corey,” said Luca. “White-trash motherfucker.”

“Freaking hilarious.” Eddie clapped his hands and keeled forward with laugher.

Siddharth turned to the television, where a naked woman was jogging down a beach at sunset. The boys passed the bottle around, and someone said it was time to get to work.

“Fuck that,” said Marc. “I got no enemies in South Haven.”

“Well, I do,” said Luca.

Eddie smirked. “Niggerski?”

“Hell yeah,” said Luca. “Fucking dyke.”

Marc said, “Sidney, isn’t she your friend?”

He shrugged, then reached for the bottle. As far as he was concerned, the only friends he had were sitting in this room with him right now. As far as he was concerned, loyalty was a myth. It was a bunch of bullshit that changed depending on the moment.

“Yo Luca,” said Eddie, “tell ’em what she said.”

“Screw you, Eddie,” said Luca.

“Yo, we were on the bus, and Luca was ranking on someone up front, calling them a fag.”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” said Luca.

“Let him speak,” said Siddharth.

“So Niggerski stands up, her lips all quivering like a total spaz. She says, Luca, takes one to know one. We all know you’re gay. The whole bus starts cracking up.”

Luca batted Eddie over the head with his penis.

Eddie grabbed hold of the rubber dick. “Watch it, or I’m gonna ram this up your butthole. Oh wait, you’d probably like that.”

All four of them were in stitches.

* * *

They strolled down Luca’s street, Red Fox Lane, sucking on cigars with plastic filters. The others were telling jokes, talking shit. Siddharth was wobbly and warm, so he took off his gloves. He wished he had listened to Marc, who had said it was too hot to wear a jacket, but he didn’t want to part with the red-and-green Columbia parka that Mohan Lal had bought him after one of their recent squabbles.

The moon was strong but it was foggy out, so the few streetlights were surrounded by little halos of moisture. The lawns they passed resembled cowhide, splotches of icy white mixed with puddles of mud. He could hear water dripping from every branch, from every tailpipe of every car. Snowmelts roared like rivers in the sewers, and Siddharth thought back to the river at the state park in Hamden. When he was seven, he had gone there with his parents, and his mother had suggested they try out a hiking trail. Mohan Lal was resistant but eventually relented. They ended up getting in over their heads, walking two challenging miles over cliff and rock. Siddharth had been miserable and scared, but it was all worth it when they got to the top. The sky was so crisp that they could glimpse the Knights of Columbus building in New Haven. They could see all the way to the sound, a faint sliver of Long Island on the horizon.

Siddharth hoped his father had made it to Atlantic City okay. He was angry that Mohan Lal hadn’t bothered to call but assumed it was Ms. Farber’s fault. She was a freak. She probably wouldn’t let the poor man take a break from banging. All the people who were supposed to take care of him were freaks, but in that moment, it seemed like the biggest one was Arjun. Siddharth was fed up with all his fucking Gandhi talk and his fucking Pakistani girlfriend — the way he complained about America and cars. Everything would be much better if it weren’t for his brother.

They stepped off the road and cut into somebody’s backyard. The grass was breathing steam, and it suddenly seemed as if they were in a movie. Siddharth thought about Platoon, picturing Charlie Sheen with a machine gun. But no, this was more Stand By Me. He wasn’t sure if he was Vern, the chubby one who whined, or Wil Wheaton’s character, who was smart and knew how to tell a good story. Eddie picked up a large rock and chucked it at a birdhouse mounted on top of a wooden pole. He slapped Luca five, and they both cheered.

Marc hung back, dangling an arm around Siddharth’s shoulder. “Fucking morons.”

Siddharth laughed, then grabbed the green bottle from him and took a swig.

Marc finished it off before throwing the empty onto a covered swimming pool. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Siddharth. “But I gotta ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think my brother’s a druggie?”

“Arjun? I wouldn’t worry about him. I’d say he’s an upstanding young man.”

Siddharth wasn’t sure if Marc was being sarcastic or not. He grabbed the slingshot from him, the one that Barry Uncle had given him. He shot a stone at a stop sign, and the lights of a nearby house flicked on. The four boys broke into a run.

* * *

By the time they reached Sharon’s, Siddharth was wondering if he would ever again regain control of his mind. He needed a bed. He needed sleep. A ragged old sofa sat on Sharon’s lawn, about ten feet away from a stripped-down postal jeep. He took a seat on it, watching Luca and Eddie smoke their cigars on the driveway. When he closed his eyes, the darkness spun. He thought about Sharon. He wondered if she was still with her father or back at home. Regardless, she deserved what was happening. She was a downer, and she was nosy. She rubbed her boyfriend in Siddharth’s face just to make him crazy, even though this so-called boyfriend was probably nonexistent. Siddharth thought about the things she had said to Luca on the bus. She was a hypocrite. They were all a bunch of hypocrites — not just her, but Ms. Farber and Mr. Latella, and especially Arjun.

Suddenly, he could see himself kissing Sharon’s breasts, sucking on them like the muscled man had just done to the blonde on Playboy. He saw himself lying over her body on a beach. He tried pulling down her dress, and when she didn’t let him, he had to yank it off. A crow cawed. He opened his eyes and observed the house across the street. It was a huge, modern home, completely the opposite of Sharon’s. The place even had a three-car garage, which meant that whoever lived there was rich — whoever lived there was happy. A For Sale sign sprouted from the house’s front lawn. In that moment, he glimpsed a pleasing vision of the future.

Despite what Arjun had said, Mohan Lal’s book would make them millions. Mohan Lal would no longer need Ms. Farber; he could get someone prettier and younger, maybe a blonde — or maybe no one at all. Father and son would buy that house and live in it by themselves. That way, Siddharth would have a friend right across the street. A girlfriend. Somebody who had known him when he was happier. Or they could move into an even bigger house somewhere else. In a different town, where nobody knew him at all.

He remembered something Ms. Farber had said yesterday, when they still hadn’t heard from Arjun: “Mo, you can’t let other people control you — not your friends, not your family, and definitely not your children.” Hadn’t Sharon said something similar once? These two females were both insane. They both wanted to separate him from the people who truly loved him.

The sound of glass shattering, then voices.

“What the fuck?” Eddie’s voice.

Siddharth turned to Marc, who was now holding the Indian slingshot. He had just cracked the glass on the lamppost on Sharon’s front lawn. Siddharth burped, tasted the pesto Mrs. Peroti had served them for dinner. Sweat drenched his arms and legs. He burped again and thought he might vomit. No, he had to take a dump. He rose from the sofa and walked toward Marc. A set of headlights approached, and Marc told everyone to shut up. Siddharth felt a hand on his back. The next thing he knew he was eating wet earth. “What the hell?”

“Shhhhh,” said Marc. “Stay down.”

The car slowed but didn’t stop.

Marc puffed on his cigar. “Luca, whatever you’re gonna do, do it quick.”

Eddie and Luca stomped on their stogies and walked over to Sharon’s mailbox. They gripped its wooden stem and started grunting and heaving. The box yielded, and they placed it in the middle of the road. Siddharth couldn’t stand it anymore. If he didn’t go now, he might do it in his pants. Marc told him to be a man and wait.

“What if I can’t?” Siddharth threw his cigar on the ground and crushed it with his shoe.

“Just drop trou and go for it,” said Eddie. “Watch.”

Eddie sprinted over to Sharon’s front steps, undoing his belt on the way. Siddharth wanted to look away, but instead he watched as Eddie squatted down and defecated. He recalled an aunt’s house in a dirty town near Delhi. Meerut or something. She had one of those hole-in-the-ground toilets, and whenever he had to stay there, he got constipated.

Luca and Marc were cracking up. Siddharth started laughing too, and he was laughing so hard that his bathroom attack vanished. Eddie ran across the street and pulled out the For Sale sign, placing it on top of Sharon’s mailbox. Luca tugged at the Nagorskis’ smaller newspaper mailbox, easily uprooting it. He pulled out a water bottle from his backpack, which was filled with gasoline meant for his father’s tractor. The bottle gurgled as he poured it over the pile, the noxious stench of gasoline infiltrating Siddharth’s nostrils.

The boys formed a semicircle around their makeshift hearth. Luca pulled out a Zippo from his windbreaker, flipped it open, and spun the top. Sparks flew, but it wouldn’t catch.

“Pass it here,” said Marc.

Luca handed it over. Marc sucked on the lighter, but it refused to yield a flame.

“Are you kidding me?” said Eddie. “Yo, Kaufman, I know you got matches.”

“Just used my last one,” said Marc.

Siddharth wondered if this was a sign. Maybe this wasn’t supposed to happen.

“This is like blue balls,” said Eddie. “Sidney, can’t you just rub two sticks together?”

Siddharth noticed that Marc was the only one still smoking. “Hey, guys,” he said.

Luca said, “Sidney, don’t pussy out on us now.”

“Listen,” said Siddharth, “we can use Marc’s cigar.” His head was pounding, and everyone was staring at him.

“What the hell you talking about?” said Luca.

“Marc’s got his cigar still,” replied Siddharth. He wished he hadn’t said anything. But now he had to finish what he’d started.

Eddie said, “So what’s your point?”

“All he has to do is get it going and throw it down.”

“Will that work?” asked Luca.

“It works in the movies,” said Siddharth. “Here, give it to me. Marc, gimme your stogie.”

Marc handed it over.

He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He took a strong drag, and the cigar’s tip glowed cherry red. When he threw it onto the pile, nothing happened at first. But then there was a subtle boom. A blue flame spread across every inch of wood, every centimeter of plastic and metal. There were crackles. Some clicks and hisses. Soon, tall orange flames shot toward the sky. They were mesmerizing.

Siddharth closed his eyes, allowing the heat to soothe his cheeks and forehead. It felt so good, better than lying in front of the television with a blanket — better than lying in his father’s bed and listening to him snore, better than watching his mother’s hands sketch a landscape. When he opened his eyes, Marc’s face was a warm shade of red, as if he had just returned from the beach. Siddharth looked over his friend’s shoulder and saw two headlights approaching, then flashing red and blue lights atop the car. He didn’t want to ruin this moment, so he didn’t say anything about the cops.

“Holy shit!” Marc yelped. “Holy fuck.” He grabbed Siddharth’s sleeve and yanked him toward the woods.