A Few Hundred Poppies

8. Deshi Weddings Pt. 1 : Holud Night

"Call me West," I mimicked him, feigning a squeaky voice. "Bloody jerk!"

Fuming vehemently, I rode DiCaprio home. West had come to school yesterday after skipping the first three days of the week and had asked for permission to sit with us at lunch, from EVER, not from me, as if we didn't have a heart-to-heart a few days before. Proceeding to climb in beside me (which earned me equally suggestive looks from Lee, Art, Troy and Ever), he barely acknowledged my existence and instead blabbered on to Ever about basketball strategies. And then, after school today, even after I'd called after him twice, he'd brushed past me. So it's official: Just West is ignoring me.

Sticking the dull key into the doorknob, I kicked my shoes off, leaving them to lie wildly in the foyer. I climbed the steps to my room - two at a time. As I plunged face-first into my bed and clutched the kolbalish tightly in my arms, I felt like crying.

Sitting upright, I grimaced at the sight of the gorgeous forest green lehenga sprawled on my bed, sent by the bride's mother for me to wear tomorrow night so that all the girls could wear the same outfit. By the looks of the embroidered details on the lehenga, it was apparent that these relatives of mine had both taste and opulence.

I'd once read in a book that if you stood in the sun with a clove of garlic under your armpit, you'd get a fever. Maybe I should try my luck with garlic tomorrow?

Bailing out would be escapist, I supposed. I glanced at the mirror across the room. The reflection stared back at me with passive, watery eyes which made me pity myself and a double chin beginning to jut out courtesy of all those unaccounted for pizza slices. Gazing at my lap ruefully, I was quick to reach for my phone when it buzzed in the netted pocket of my teal bag.

- A surprise for you tomorrow. Be there or be square - W

The text from a private number made me gaze in wonder at the iPhone screen chipped in a corner as the keyboard clicked with each letter of my reply.

-Not even gonna ask how you got my number

-You suck

West left me seenzoned. Geez, I don't get him at all.

My fingers itched to dial up Sharmaji for a couple of kaju katlis. Sharmaji, owner of the only Indian shop in Edelweiss, had grown so fond of me - a regular visitor and connoisseur of Sharma's Sweetmeat - over the past few years that I got a generous discount nearly every time I went there or ordered something. I think it was partially because I was the only one besides his wife and children who spoke his native language. Again, brown privilege.

After Sharmaji had written down the order for two kaju katlis and a laddu with an extra topping of slivered almonds, chewing absentmindedly on my lips, I remembered what West had said earlier this week about the need to be brave. I realised that I'd never really needed to be brave before (except the time a ginormous spider got into my room and I'd screamed bloody murder, but this wasn't a spider).

My phone pinged again.

'Be brave.'

I marveled at the coincidence - it was as if he'd read my mind. Weirdly enough, for a moment, I felt as though I wasn't alone in all of this.

I decided to try my best to follow Pinterest's advice: to be soft & have courage.

-

From the back seat, I checked my reflection for a final time in the Uber's rear-view mirror. I'd conditioned my hair and had let it cascade down in shiny curls to its full length, nestling just above my waist. The chocolate lipstick I wore was classy enough to smooth away the faint scrunches on my forehead that I hadn't even noticed.