LET IT SPINSona Charaipotra
As I stare out the grimy New Jersey Transit window, the Raritan River glitters with snow, surprisingly beautiful as it follows the sun down into the city.
But it’s so crowded I can barely breathe. God, just let me fall asleep.
The train roars toward the tunnel as I’m drifting off. But I am acutely aware of someone watching me. You know, the kind of staring that you can actually feel. I open my eyes.
Jason. Should have known.
I’ve been seeing him on the train the past couple of weeks. I heard he’s at NYU, at Tisch, studying animation or production or something. Makes sense, considering. He’s always had that penetrating way of looking at you, so you can’t escape his gaze, familiar and ironclad.
It’s just like Saachi’s, that definitive take, done deal. The way she locks moments into place from her own perspective, sealing them up tight so there’s no room for you to share your version of history. Believe me, I’ve tried.
I know he recognizes me, catching my eye, waiting for me to make the first move. Well, why should I? Why can’t I be the one who’s pursued for a change? But that’s the way it goes with him. With everyone lately. And I’m over it.
At least it’ll give me something to tell Saachi. I can’t help the smirk settling on my face, unbidden.
So not worth it. I hear her voice in my head, clear and sharp, like it’s been there all along. Like it’s been there forever. It’s been months since I’ve seen her. Probably my fault. But I can’t help my grudge. Never could. Now dread roils in my stomach like bile, making me want to turn right back around on the next train to Jersey.
But there are some moments in life that we don’t get to skip. Usually the ones that leave scars.
Saachi was sixteen when she stopped talking to me. Not literally talking, but you know. Having those deep, intimate conversations you have with someone who’s loved you since you were six. I didn’t even know why.
But I could feel it, deep down, in my fumbling to fix things. In the echoes of that dark, disturbing nightmare, the one that struck every so often, the one I tried to push down and away. Always the big, grand backyard I spent endless childhood hours in, the swing set abandoned, the ground frostbit. A black-and-white sky, pale flowers spilled out over the milky picket fence. A moment I’ve lived a million times in my head.
I still can’t quite unravel what it means. Saachi’s long dark pigtails flying—cheeks still chubby, eyes pale and bright—as she coasts by on that rusted red tricycle. The vivid crimson a warning, a reminder, stark against the muted dreamworld hues. Then the fall, the wheels spinning endlessly, vicious and cruel like the circle of life and death. And blood on the concrete, shocking but familiar as yesterday.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear it, the call of moments past, lost. The Bollywood beats muted in the background, that comforting clink of glass bangles and ice in crystal glasses. The roars of lions long since tamed, smoke filling the room as the men shed fatherhood and other responsibilities to cackle endlessly at jokes I still don’t quite understand.
It’s always that familiar, strange laughter that wakes me up in a cold sweat, clammy hands still grasping, helpless and unsure. It echoes in my ears, loud and rough, spilling secrets once forgotten.
When we first met, I was barely a person. More my big sister Raina’s shadow, really, following her around as she led me by the hand, nearly disappearing in the presence of strangers. But Saachi saw me, claimed me, like no one else had—at least not at six—and it was like the first time I took a bath in the big tub, the bubbles enthralling and dangerous as it filled up and over, the delicious, looming threat of being swallowed whole.
That’s exactly what happened. We’d barely moved into the little chocolate chip house on Library Place when Saachi’s family—four doors down—invaded ours. Mama would spend endless hours whispering with Madhu Auntie over chai and pakore, reminiscing over lazy Delhi summers and complaining about day jobs. Our fathers split lawn work, Saachi’s brother, Veer, bearing the brunt of it really, as Subhash and Mohan bonded over stock trades, cricket scores, and the riots and injustices happening thousands of miles away, across oceans and continents. They became a united front, an army of two, basically the same person. Maybe not physically, but the same spirit. The same broken, often comical English, the same
urgency, the same happy, whiskey-soaked slur as they laughed late night over endless hands of blackjack and samosas.
It was only natural, then, for Raina and I to adopt Saachi, to make her the other sister.
While Raina developed an instant crush on Veer, who alternately tortured or ignored us, Saachi became our American ambassador, tasked with explaining everything from Halloween (“dress up, but make it scary”) to boy bands and school politics.
Raina always wanted to be the boss of me, but Saachi was mine to lead—if just for a moment—before I became the one to follow. And she was lovely. How could I not adore her? Long, silky black hair, skin pale as moonlight, and she looked just like her father—the same fat, pink lips, melted chocolate eyes, that small nose, and no jawline at all. Not a pretty little girl by any standard, yet entirely feminine. Delicate, like a doll.
A walking, talking, breathing doll that followed me around and hung on my every word. Being someone’s sun is fun, at least for a little while. Though I knew I was hardly worthy of worship, with my little-boy looks, my hair cut close like Daddy’s, and those awful toy guns, I let her believe in the awesome powers she thought I possessed, all the while ignoring her own. I wanted to be just like her. Even though I pretended the opposite.
It got to the point where it was Saachi-and-Raina-and-Ruby instead of
It got to the point where it was Saachi-and-Raina-and-Ruby instead of Saachi and Raina-and-Ruby.
Not that we minded. Or at least I didn’t.
Except when it came to boys.
Nearly sweet sixteen, and never been kissed. This was it. My chance. If I’d just take it.
For as long as I could remember, I’d had my heart set on Jason. Citrus and cinnamon, golden hair and ocean eyes. He wanted to be a lawyer and was on the debate team with Saachi, but also helped with the sets for drama, doing woodwork and painting. I’d volunteered to do makeup, so we hadn’t quite connected. Yet.
That fall, the start of sophomore year, he volunteered to be in my chem lab group. And I knew. That he liked me back. Or could, possibly, if nudged. Maybe for once, I could actually be the one who made someone’s heart beat just a little faster. The way his eyes twinkled, the hiccupy way he laughed at my jokes in chem class, the pink climbing up and settling into his pale cheeks as he leaned close, our hands touching as we passed beakers and poured out the hydrogen peroxide and sulfur. Just this once, someone could actually like me back.
But Saachi was forever the third wheel, shushing us and scrawling in her notebook as Mrs. Greco droned, reminding us to measure carefully. Saachi was so focused on stimulus and
reaction, talking about science the way I talked about movies or makeup. Smitten. And it totally distracted Jason from my inept attempts at flirting, foiling my every move.
That day—like every day—I’d missed the point of the experiment, of course, fixated instead on the roses our chem lab teacher handed out as she continued her lecture. “Careful to avoid the thorns,” Greco warned as Jason and I worked to tape the flowers into the cups. Saachi focused on measuring out the sulfur, her eyes eager and faraway. They lit up with heat as she struck the match, a little cloud bursting forth. The petals drained of color, instant and shocking, as the smoldering scent of flowers burning filled my nose and mind.
“Quick,” Saachi ordered, snapping me back to attention. “Dip them in the hydrogen peroxide. Now!”
Jason blushed as he watched her soak the pale roses in the liquid, their color reviving. Like bringing the dead back to life.
“Magic,” he’d whispered then.
He didn’t hear me when I agreed.
That night, I paced, worried. It was now or never. I had to make my move.
And I officially had nothing to wear. Wendy’s party started in an hour, and I was nowhere near ready. In times like these, I’d wished more than ever that Raina and I could be like real
sisters, the kind who shared clothes and shoes along with secrets. But I’d outgrown her—in every department except for boobs, of course—long ago, and it burned in me like a hardly secret shame.
I avoided full-length mirrors—didn’t even keep one in my room. They revealed curves in all the wrong places. Pretty face, yup. And I knew how to work it, accentuate and highlight, to make myself stand out. But the rest of me? Sigh. Lately, I was all about oversize T-shirts or long, flowy dresses. Made me stick out like a sore thumb at school. Then again, so did everything else.
I rifled through the options on the bed, tossing aside dresses and rompers. Nothing was quite right. I had to be perfect. I was still pondering options when Raina knocked, pushing the door open before I could say “Come in.” The way she always did.
“I thought you might look pretty in this.”
Raina was holding up an embroidered blue kurti—one she’d bought in Agra when we visited the Taj Mahal last summer. She’d gone all swoony at the Taj, telling everyone and anyone that tragic-but-timeless love story of Shah Jahan and his wife Mumtaz Mahal, reputedly the most beautiful woman in the world. “Can you imagine?” she’d said over and
over. “The whole thing cost more than thirty-two million rupees—and it took more than twenty thousand men to finish the job. If only someone loved me that much.”
I rolled my eyes. Somebody, of course, meant Veer, even though she’d never said it aloud. Boring. I preferred my love stories straight out of Bollywood films—complete with song and dance. Though neither of us had any experience in that department ourselves. Tonight, that could change. Would change. I could feel it.
Raina held the shirt up to my chest. “The blue really pops against your skin,” she said, nodding to herself in approval. “And I can do your nails. Gunmetal?”
I wished then that she would come with us to the party—even though she was a junior and Fridays meant SAT prep. Raina had never been one for parties and painting faces. She was too busy with college applications and the school paper. I opened my mouth to ask her again, but she shook her head, holding up the polish with a grin.
Half an hour later, I was ready. Half-tucked cobalt kurti and a too-short denim skirt Papa would hate, a paisley scarf belted through the loops. My hair cascaded in dark waves down my back, and I’d finally pulled off that deep kohl cat’s eye I’d been practicing for weeks. My lips shined with a rosy gloss, lush and kissable.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wiggled my toes as Raina finished the last one, and they sparkled up at me, shimmering and perfect.
It was already cold for September, but to show off Raina’s efforts, I’d have to wear those strappy silver chappal. I couldn’t hide this art. Plus, they’d go well with the kurti.
“There.” Raina grinned, satisfied. “You look beautiful.”
I grimaced. Not really. But Raina always said so anyway.
“Are you excited?” she asked, a hint of longing in her voice.
My stomach rumbled. “I could go,” I said, hopeful, “or I could stay. We could make popcorn and watch a movie.”
Raina almost gave me an out. But then the doorbell rang. “That’s Saachi,” she announced, standing. “You better move.”
Ever the chaperone, Saachi frowned, an eyebrow arched as I walked up the driveway. “You look, uh, nice,” she said, taking in my strappy chappal and the bright blue of the kurti.
She was wearing too-crisp jeans and a black button-down top she might have borrowed from Madhu Auntie, along with the same black leather loafers she wore to the endless debate meets she made us sit through. A mini-adult, dressed for the office. I didn’t say a word. It
was the first time I’d managed to convince her to come with me, and her company was the only reason Papa had said I could go at all. “Come on, we’re late.”
The sun was settling in as the two of us walked to Wendy’s house, the sky blazing orange and pink, with undertones of purple taking over. Raina’s absence rattled like forgotten keys, making me want to run back and call the whole thing off. But we were there before I could hesitate. A deep bass thrummed low and heavy, beckoning us toward the house, fairy lights crisscrossing the dusk like stars as we headed toward the backyard, lured by the scent of meat and chlorine.
Saachi paused, turning to face me, her mouth firm and serious. Another proclamation, I could hear it coming. She’d been looking at me like that since we were six, like she was my mom about to warn me not to cause a scene, and not the actual baby of our little trio. “I think we should make a pact,” she said, determined. “If either of us feels uncomfortable, we leave.”
It was just a party. A big party. Maybe a life-changing one. If we ever actually made it inside. I sighed and nodded. But it wasn’t enough.
“Pinky swear,” Saachi said, smiling, and for a minute, I saw a flash of that big, gap-tooth grin that made me love her in the first place.
I lifted my little finger, a streak of silver glinting at its tip. “Pinky swear,” I promised.
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