Love is both a recurring theme in my life and the greatest pain in my butt.
My name, Neha (pronounced Nay-ha, btw), means love. I’m also the love advice columnist—aka Dr. Ishq—for the library’s teen blog here in Rowbury. My pen name, if you haven’t already guessed, means “love” in Urdu. And the great love of my life (not that he knows it, ahem), Prem? His name means “love,” too.
I know what you’re thinking just based on the fact that our parents cosmically decided to give us names that mean the exact same thing—we’re meant to be. Right? That’s what I thought too. But I don’t anymore.
See, I’ve been volunteering at the library for two years. Prem’s the photographer for the blog, so he’s here every day that I am. For almost two whole years, I’ve been smiling at him. Flirting (totally ineptly—I can dish out the advice, but my secret is that I can’t actually do it). Asking about him. And what have I got in return? Stiff smiles. Vacant responses. Averted eyes.
Prem’s only a year older than me—he graduated high school last year and is doing a gap year now—but his photographs have already won some major awards. He probably thinks I’m just some talentless hack with my advice column that’s read by all of 152 teens in Rowbury and a few across the country. And, as if his limitless talent wasn’t bad enough, he’s also such a kindhearted person.
I still remember the first time I saw him. Two summers ago, I was covering Rowbury’s music and food festival, Tunes and Spoons, for the (then brand-new) blog, when I came across a booth for Children of the City, a charity that raises money for underprivileged kids interested in the arts. Anyway, I was immediately drawn in by this Indian boy at the booth who was being completely mobbed by a seething crowd of young kids. They were pawing through his collection of pictures (of dogs and cats mid-sneeze), rapid-fire asking him a million questions, and pulling on his shirt to get his attention. Just seeing all that frenzied, kiddie energy made me sweat, but Prem talked to them calmly, smiling and patient. The kids’ parents were so charmed that they donated a lot of money. I heard later that Prem had raised over eight thousand dollars that weekend, more than Children of the City had ever managed to raise at one event. It’s no wonder he’s starting as their campaign and brand manager this fall.
Prem never saw me that day, but anytime I see him now, I can’t help but remember how he looked sitting there, his sun-dappled skin, his patient smile.
Kill me now. How am I ever supposed to get over my crush if he keeps doing stuff like that?
Okay, focus. I need to work on the newest letter that came in today.
Dear Dr. Ishq,
I love your column. I read it every week, and I have since you started. I think what inspires me the most about your advice is that it’s usually about more than love. You always try to improve the letter writer’s life, too, by helping them step out of their comfort zones. Anyway, all that to say I find myself in sore need of your help now.
See, there’s this person I really like. They’re perfect for me. We’re the same age, we share similar interests, they like to talk to me (I think? I’ve never been too good at reading those cues. Why isn’t there a handbook?). So what’s the problem, you ask? It’s me, Dr. Ishq.
Whenever I’m around this person, I completely freeze up. Like, it’s not cute or funny. I probably come across as an arrogant jerk or like I’m on drugs. Neither of which I’m going for, FYI.
So what do you suggest, Dr. Ishq? How does someone like me—a total control freak in most areas of my life—become such a jelly-filled doormat when it comes to the object of my affections?
You have an amazing ability to shake people out of stasis and into action, so please, please help me. I don’t want to lose any more time.
Desperately,
Ansella
I sit back and study the letter again. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading between the lines, at seeing what people are really like by the phrases they use.
Ansella, for instance, describes herself as a “control freak” and asks to be “shaken” into action. She wants to be taken out of her comfort zone, to stop being afraid.
To be completely honest, I can relate more than a little. Control freak afraid to step out of her comfort zone? Once I refused to set foot into an empty study room in which Prem was looking at his pictures because that amount of close contact might have caused me to spontaneously combust from desire. It might have been the perfect opportunity to laugh at his jokes and compliment his pictures and casually-but-calculatedly tell him a few photography facts I’ve memorized, but noooo. That was too scary. So what did I do instead? I worked on the blog’s SEO. S freaking EO. I’m not even kidding. So, yeah. Control-freak issues: check. Needs someone to shake her into action? Check. How many times have I wished I could have my own personal genie appear and somehow just magic me into taking a teeny, tiny step toward telling Prem how I feel? It wouldn’t be wildly overdramatic to say I completely, absolutely feel Ansella’s letter to my hollow, Prem-less core.
I flex my fingers and begin typing, using the same format I use for every response.
Dear Ansella,
Diagnosis: Self-defeating cowardice in the face of the possibility of great love.
Prescription: Four acts of bravery over the course of the next week. A grand ishq adventure, if you will.
Prognosis: Excellent.
I believe, Ansella, that you’re not a coward at heart. Not at all. It’s clear to me from your letter that you’re actually aching for adventure, for a chance to lasso what your heart desires and finally be free. I suspect you just need a nudge in the right direction.
So here’s what I propose: Every day for the next four days, I want you to eat—alone—at a different restaurant. And not just any boring old safe restaurant you’re already used to. I want you to visit a restaurant you’ve never visited before, to try a cuisine you’ve never tasted. Bonus points if you’re nervous about it. Oh, and put your devices away. I want you to be focused on the flavors of the food in front of you, the world around you, and the feelings inside you.
Here’s the thing: As a culture, we’re conditioned to surround ourselves with friends and acquaintances. If we have to sit by ourselves—say, at a café or in the airport—we immediately whip out our phones or tablets. We’re afraid to just sit with ourselves. So I think starting by being brave enough to be by yourself will be a good launching point.
And why different cuisines? I believe great food and great self-esteem pave the path to great love. Eating foods you’re unfamiliar with is an instant connection to a culture you might otherwise not explore or even think about at all. And who knows? When you’re in that restaurant eating a food you can’t pronounce the name of, you may just realize you’re a lot braver than you think. You may just realize that the one you love is waiting for you to speak up.
So go forth, dear Ansella, and embark on your grand ishq adventure.
And here’s something new—I promise to take up the same challenge too.
That’s right. Dr. Ishq is going to eat at a different ethnic restaurant every day for the rest of this week, folks. Ansella, let’s begin tomorrow, Wednesday, and end on Saturday. As evidence that I’m really doing this too, I’ll post a daily blog—complete with pictures—each day of the week, starting tomorrow.
Why am I doing this, you ask? Because we can all use a little shaking up, a grand ishq adventure of our own. If you’re reading this and you think you might want to join in too, consider this your invitation. Get up out of your chair, pull up your fave restaurant app, and get going.
Let our adventures begin!
xoxo,
Dr. Ishq
I stare at the reply, a little disbelievingly. That’s not right. Where did that come from? Why did I say I was going to do the same thing as Ansella?
I put my finger on the backspace key—and then hesitate. The truth is . . . I think my subconscious knows something I don’t. I’ve felt stuck for so long. And now that I’ve graduated high school, I feel like the clock is ticking louder and faster. I need to tell him. I have to say how I feel one day soon, or we’ll both go our separate ways, and I’ll regret it forever.
It was all fine when we were in high school and time felt infinite and endless. But now . . . now we’re both adults. I’m going to college in the fall, and he’s got that job lined up with Children of the City. How long before he meets some golden-hearted, beautiful, smart, creative girl there? How long before he leaves the library for good, and my circle forever? Just thinking about never seeing Prem again—or worse, seeing his engagement photo in the paper six or seven years down the line—makes me sick. That’s some deathbed-level regret in the making. I can feel it.
And deep in my heart, I know we’re meant for each other. So why shouldn’t I take on the same challenge as Ansella? I wasn’t lying—my life really could use some shaking up. I’m not as worldly in the ways of love as my readers might believe. In fact, that’s so far from the truth I almost want to laugh.
I press publish on my reply and sit back. That’s it, then. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be eating at a different restaurant each day. And after that? Well, after that . . . we’ll see what happens.
I’m sitting on a park bench in Mallow Park, checking the blog on my phone. The outpouring of responses after I posted my letter to Ansella yesterday has been tremendous. I always knew the blog was popular with Rowbury teens, but since yesterday, “lurkers” from other parts of the country and even abroad have come out of the shadows to tell me they’re taking on my challenge. Apparently there are a lot of people out there looking to become braver.
It makes me feel better that there are all these strangers doing this with me. In spite of my swaggery persona on the blog, I’m pretty nervous. I just keep looking out at the Yarrow River, thinking. How am I supposed to sit at a table by myself in the middle of a crowded restaurant? How am I supposed to not check my phone or bring my laptop? What if people wonder what I’m doing?
And really, how is this going to help me get to Prem?
Maybe I should just nix the whole thing. Say I did it, but not really do it. I mean, it’s not like there are police for this kind of thing. No one’s going to check the CCTV cameras to find out if I really went where I said I went. Besides, no one other than staff even knows who I am. The blog is anonymous.
But no. I can’t be dishonest like that to my readers. It’s silly, but I have this bond with them that feels too sacred. Ansella’s out there in Rowbury somewhere, doing what I asked her to do. She might even be in the same restaurants I visit this week. If I see another girl sitting by herself, I’ll smile and nod, just in case it’s her. And if Ansella can do it, then so can Neha.
I’m watching a small family of ducks slice their way across the silken water when someone taps my shoulder. A familiar face smiles at me—brown skin; long, dark hair; brown eyes.
“Lila Manzano,” I say, remembering her name just in time.
She’s the youngest member of the Manzano family that owns the pastelería here on Pepper Street along Hungry Heart Row. Actually, some people believe the Manzano pastelería serves magical food. I posted on my blog about it once, when I did a rundown of all the supposedly magical restaurants on Pepper Street. Lila’s part of the lore too. Apparently she shows up when people are most in need with exactly what they desire. My gaze drops to the basket she holds in her hands.
She smiles. “Hello, Neha,” she says in a soft, musical voice. I can’t remember ever having told her who I am, but obviously I must have at some point. A long strand of hair blows in her eyes, and she smooths it away with one small hand. “I have a delivery for you.”
I look down at her basket and back into her eyes. Something smells amazing in there.
“But . . . I didn’t order anything.”
Lila smiles, reaches into the cloth covering whatever goodies are in the basket, and pulls out a concha. The top of the pastry is a swirl of colors—deep purple, inky blue, pink, green, gold. It reminds me of the galaxy, and I stare for a moment, mesmerized, before I take it from her.
My mouth begins to water. “This smells incredible,” I say. “What do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house,” she says, already turning away. “Enjoy.”
I want to argue, but the urge to bite into the pastry is nearly irresistible now. I’ve never had Mexican pastries before. But first . . . I pick up my phone from the bench and take a picture of the gorgeous creation. Then, putting it back down, I take a big bite and close my eyes. My mouth explodes with flavors and sensations—sweet, yeasty, warm. In another three bites, I’ve eaten the entire four-inch ball of dough and am licking my fingers.
I look up, but the park is empty. Surely Lila couldn’t have disappeared so quickly? I stand up, squinting in the sun, and really concentrate. But no—she really is gone.
A light breeze tugs at the hem of my sundress, and, bemused, I sit back down on the bench. I guess that counts as my first day, eating a cuisine I’ve never eaten before. Mallow Park isn’t exactly a restaurant, but it works, I think. And now that I’ve already done my first day, it’s weird. I don’t feel so afraid anymore. In fact, I’m almost eager to go find a restaurant to eat at tomorrow.
Smiling, I reach for my phone again and begin to tap out a blog post.
I sit at a table inside Manijeh’s, the Persian restaurant on Hungry Heart Row. It’s lunchtime and surprisingly crowded, with people lined up outside the door. I guess it was lucky I got here early and nabbed one of the last few seats.
The air is redolent with spices and that salty smell of meat that makes my stomach growl. I purposely had a very light breakfast so I could really tuck into the food here. Manijeh’s is one of the best kept secrets in Rowbury. People from as far as DC come on the weekend, just hoping to get a taste, although not many people in Rowbury seem to have caught on yet. My hatred of waiting in lines is so intense, I’ve never even tried to get a table before.
“What can I get you, Neha?” Laleh says, her pen, notepad, and trademark smile at the ready. Laleh’s almost nineteen, but we went to the same high school. Her family runs this place.
“That’s one of the hardest questions I’ve gotten today.” I make a face and stare at the menu, and she laughs. “Okay, how about . . . a plate of the chicken kebab, the ghormeh sabzi, a plate of tadeeg, and a glass of doogh?”
Laleh scribbles on her notepad and then slides it and her pen into her apron pocket. “Great choices. You’ll be full for days.”
“What I’m counting on,” I say, patting my stomach.
“So hey, what are you doing with your last summer before you head to college—where are you going, again?” She asks this question with a glimmer of longing in her eyes, and I remember hearing that Laleh had wanted to go off to college when she graduated too. I wonder what happened, but don’t know her well enough to ask.
“Rowbury University. And just working at the library,” I answer. “Nothing glamorous.” It’s not a secret that I help out on the library’s website, although, of course, exactly what I do there is. We figured people would be more likely to write in if I stayed anonymous.
“My parents have all these plans to take me home to India, but I think we all know it’s never gonna happen. They’re both too busy with their web-design consultation business.” I sigh.
Laleh makes a face. “I get that,” she says, looking over her shoulder at the restaurant. “Family businesses. They suck up a lot of time, don’t they?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Speaking of, I better get back. That line’s not getting any shorter or better tempered. Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Your food should be out in about fifteen minutes.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Laleh.”
She waves and makes her way to the kitchen in the back.
Fifteen minutes. That’s a long time to just sit at a table, isn’t it? I look around. I’m tucked away to one side of the restaurant, but even so, I occasionally feel another customer’s assessing eye on me. Are they judging me? Wondering where my friends are—or even pitying me for not having any? My hands slide automatically into my bag to get my phone out, and then I remember the rules: no phones. Aaaarrrgh. I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and stare straight ahead like a weirdo.
Then, with relief, I remember that I have my makeup bag on me. Perfect. I’ll touch up my . . . eyebrows. Yes. I’ve wanted to do that for a while, and I’m right by the window, which means the light’s perfect. I pull out my makeup bag, get out my little compact, prop it open so I can see the mirror, and then go to town with my eyebrow pencil.
I feel myself relaxing as I work. No one’s even looking at me anymore. All they’ll see anyway is a girl doing her makeup—boring. And then, suddenly, I see his reflection behind me. My eyebrow pencil digs into my eyebrow as our eyes meet in the mirror. This is . . . like, a mirage, right? Some trick of light or something?
But then I turn and realize it’s no trick. It really is him. Prem.
“Hey,” he says, his black hair flopping into his eyes all sexily.
I immediately close my fist around my eyebrow pencil and hope to God my eyebrows don’t look patchy or weird. So sexy. “Oh, um, h-hi?” With my other hand, I sweep my compact quickly into my makeup bag and put it in my purse.
“I thought that was you,” Prem says. “So you like Manijeh’s too?”
“I do,” I say immediately. Then I feel my cheeks flush. “Um, actually, I don’t know why I said that.” Except I do. I was trying to impress him. “I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard good things, so . . .”
Prem grins in that easy, confident way of his, and my heart squeezes. “You’re in for a treat. And an unhealthy addiction to the tadeeg.”
I laugh, but it sounds more like Bugs Bunny choking.
“Oh, while I’m here,” Prem says, sliding into the seat across from me. Aaaaarrrrghh. I’ve forgotten what to do with my face. And my hands (one of which is still clutching the stupid pencil, the point of which is now beginning to gouge a tiny hole in my palm). And my eyes. “Do you know where the key to the storage room is? You know, back at the library, I mean?”
I can’t help but smile to myself. He’s asking me for the key? This has to be a ploy to talk to me. Everyone knows Henrietta, the head librarian, is the one who knows all the—
“Henrietta left for the day, but I thought you might know where the spare is. Since you’ve worked there the longest.”
Oh. Right. So maybe this isn’t a ploy. The smile falls off my face.
“I actually don’t know,” I say, surreptitiously brushing my face with my closed fist. I’m pretty sure I can feel an eyebrow hair there. It must’ve dislodged earlier, when I jabbed myself with the pencil. Gross. “Sorry.”
“Oh, damn,” Prem says, deflating a bit. “I was really hoping to get into storage before the end of my shift. I leave at two.”
“What do you need in the storage room?” I ask, eager to keep him talking and in my desperate little love-starved orbit.
He shakes his head and crinkles his nose in that adorable way of his, and I almost die right there on the table. “Just a print of one of my photographs of the Yarrow River. My roommate’s always loved it, and I thought . . . Jordan’s been going through a tough time lately, so.” He shrugs, as if he’s embarrassed to have said so much, to have cast himself as a caring friend.
Dead. I am d-e-a-d. Why, Prem, why? Why must you be talented, hot, and sensitive? Do you not possess a shred of mercy? Suddenly I want to run back to the library and bust that storage room door down, just to give him everything he wants. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say instead.
“Ah, no worries.” He waves me off. “I’ll catch Henrietta later. I guess I’ll get my lunch.” Then, frowning, he leans in closer. “You have a—” He gestures to my cheek.
I swat at it. “Did I get it?”
“No, you . . . here, let me.” He leans forward and, very gently, brushes my cheek with his fingers. I stare into his eyes the entire time, my heart trip-hammering, my brain completely melting into sludge. Prem is touching me. Prem’s skin is touching mine. Prem’s mouth is close enough to kiss. He leans back and holds out a finger. “See? Eyelash. Make a wish.”
I look at his finger. It isn’t an eyelash; it’s a thick eyebrow hair. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Really?” I ask, still not completely able to believe that I hadn’t just fallen asleep and stumbled onto this amazing dream.
“Really. It’s against the law to not make a wish on a fallen eyelash, you know,” he says, raising his eyebrows all mock seriously.
My heart thuds out a rhythm, and the rhythm is: I. Like. You. I. Like. You. “O-okay,” I say, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. Then, closing my eyes, I make a wish and blow.
When I open my eyes again, Prem’s staring at me. I’m staring at him. We’re both staring at each other.
This is my chance. This is it; it’ll never be this perfect again.
“So, I—” I begin, not sure what to say, but not wanting this to end, either. This is part of being brave, right? Maybe I could tell Prem about my challenge to myself. Maybe I could ask him for restaurant recommendations. Maybe he’ll go with me—
“So. I’ll, uh, see ya,” he says at the same time, his bigger voice swallowing mine. And then he pushes his chair back, stands up, and is gone.
My perfect chance is gone. I’ve wasted it.
I don’t get to marinate in self-pity too much longer before Laleh comes back with my gigantic platter of food.
My stomach grumbles immediately and insistently. “Wow, thanks. This looks delicious!”
She grins. “Best Persian food in this part of the country. Enjoy!”
“Oh, I will—believe me.” I take a picture of my plate to post on the blog later and then, without preamble, dig in. I’ve always found putting food on top of my feelings is a much more pleasant way to deal with any kind of crisis than actually, you know, dealing with the crisis. And in this case, I don’t think you can really blame me.
The chicken kebab is moist and fragrant; the chicken chunks fall apart when I bite into them, and the aromas of turmeric and parsley flood my senses. I have to close my eyes to take in all the flavors—spicy, salty, meaty. The doogh is equally delicious; I swear I’ve never drunk something so creamy, so minty, so refreshing. For the few minutes that I’m eating, I actually forget that whole awkward interaction with Prem. All that exists is the food in my mouth, my ecstatically exploding taste buds, and me.
I sit back when I’m finished eating and sip the last of the doogh, my stomach pleasantly distended under my shirt. But the food endorphins (foodorphins) are fading. My head begins buzzing with discomfort again, and I feel heat creeping back into my cheeks. People are definitely staring at me. No one here is eating alone; this is the kind of place you come with your friends or family. What do they think about me, sitting alone at my table clearly intended for two? I can see the thought bubbles rising up from their heads: Did she get stood up? What’s wrong with her? But I force myself to take my time with my drink. This is part of growing up, facing life full in the face. So I messed up with Prem earlier, but that doesn’t mean I have to mess this up too. Finish your meal, I tell myself. And don’t even think about getting your makeup bag out again. Be comfortable with just being.
But no matter how comfortable I force myself to be, I can’t help but feel exposed, open, raw. This is harder than I thought. I wonder how Ansella is faring.
For my third date with myself (I refuse to think about how pathetic that sounds) I go to the Indigenous Gastronomist, or the IG, as it’s commonly called on Hungry Heart Row.
The IG is this massive, high ceilinged, open restaurant with really cool accents—like that giant painting of a buffalo herd hanging on the wall. The copper pendant lights above the bar and the exposed pale-brick walls all add a kind of modern-rustic, romantic charm that makes it a popular spot for couples on date night.
I was hoping to avoid all the happy people with hearts in their eyes by going on a Tuesday night. I’m sorry to say I misjudged.
In sharp contrast to all the happy couples, though, I catch snippets of a very heated argument between a middle-aged woman and someone who seems to be her daughter. They’re off to the side, each of them wearing half aprons, but the daughter’s face is flushed and her voice is ringing higher and higher, while her mother darts nervous glances around the restaurant and makes hand motions that clearly mean Keep your voice down. Yikes. Prickly.
The waitress, smiling stalwartly in spite of the growing commotion, says, “Follow me, please!” I dutifully do, and she seats me at a small table for two right in the middle of the restaurant. There’s a crimson rose in a bud vase, and a candle flickers on the table, setting the mood. I smile and tell her it’s a great seat, even though I wanted the one in the back, by the bathrooms, where I won’t look like a complete loser.
Still. I look around surreptitiously while holding my menu in front of my face. There are quite a few couples here, but at least all of them seem to be completely focused on each other. No one’s even noticed me. I relax a little and begin to peruse the menu. There’s so much yummy food here, and all of it is farm-to-table, which—
“Neha? Is that you?”
I jerk my head up to see Eleanor Fields, who was also in the senior class at Rowbury High. I hesitate to say we went to high school together, because I’m sure the Rowbury High Eleanor-the-class-president-and-homecoming-queen knew was quite different from the one Neha-the-writer-nerd knew.
Eleanor is one of those people I want to hate, because everyone thinks she’s gorgeous (tall, white, thin, blond—all markers of classic beauty in the US, amirite?), has an easy-to-pronounce name, a family who owns a million malls across the country, and she graduated with a 4.0 GPA. She’s also one of those people who’s impossible to hate, because, in spite of all of that, she’s a really nice person. She always made an effort to go out of her way to talk to me.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile and willing it not to wither as I take in the fact that Eleanor’s here with a gorgeous, college-aged guy, and three other equally hot, equally well-dressed couples, all of whom are regarding me and my empty table with a mixture of pity and derision. “How’s it going?”
The other three couples take a seat at the table directly across from mine. Oh great. Now I’ll have to listen to them laughing and having a good time while I sit here without even my phone to keep me company. Why did I say I’d do this, again?
“Great, great,” Eleanor says, walking over on her six-inch heels, her glittery clutch held in front of her. Noooo. Go away, Eleanor. Go take your seat and just pretend I don’t exist like any other popular person would do. She tosses a strand of blond hair over one shoulder. “We’re just doing a couples’ date night, you know, before college starts up.” She smiles. “You’re going to Rowbury University, right? Full scholarship?”
“Yeah,” I say, touched that she remembered. “And you’re headed off to . . . Boston University?”
“Harvard,” she corrects easily, without any arrogance. “I guess I should get ready for some freezing-cold winters.”
She laughs, I laugh, and then there’s a slightly awkward pause. “Well, I should head back to . . .” She points behind her at the table, where her friends are waiting.
“Sure,” I say, waving. “See you later.”
Eleanor half turns and then looks back at me, hesitating. “Unless . . . You’re welcome to join us if you’re not waiting for anyone,” she says, looking at my single place setting. “My friends would love to get to know you more.”
“Oh, no . . . that’s okay. Thank you, though.” I smile to show I really appreciate her offer. And I do. Eleanor’s got class.
“Okay.” She waves one last time and walks over to her table.
I order the fragrant bison meatballs in a tart cranberry sauce to start, and then move on to other mouthwatering things—the roasted-vegetable platter sprinkled with just the right amount of herbs and pepper, and the honey-roasted rabbit, which practically falls apart on my tongue. It’s all really, really good, but I can’t help but think that something feels very slightly off. I can’t put my finger on it, but I immediately wonder if the heated fight between the mother and daughter had anything to do with this.
And as I ponder that, eating alone while Eleanor and her friends laugh and chatter and twinkle together, the funniest thing happens—I begin to not care at all.
I don’t care when people look pityingly at me, probably wondering if I’m going to cry (the assumption being, of course, that I’ve been stood up). I don’t care when couple after couple is led to their seats, where they sit holding hands or gazing deep into each others’ eyes.
I realize this is brave, what I’m doing, sitting here, experiencing a cuisine I’ve never experienced before, by myself. And I realize it is doing something positive for my self-confidence. Because what does it say about me, that I’m willing to do this? That I’m willing to face the raised eyebrows? That I’m willing to do what I advised my reader to do?
Only good things. Only brave things. As I pay my bill, I’m smiling to myself.
Today’s Ansella’s big day. I had a message from her on the blog this morning.
Dear Dr. Ishq,
It’s Saturday. The day I finally take that big step and tell the object of my affections how I really feel. And it’s all thanks to you. If you hadn’t pushed me to take the grand ishq adventure challenge—which I’ve enjoyed immensely—I would never have done this. No matter which way this goes, I’ve changed for the better. And for that, I’m so grateful to you.
I have another favor to ask: Would you consider coming to Mallow Park at one o’clock today before I take this big step? It would mean so much to me. I’ll be the one on the bench by the Yarrow River wearing a yellow hat.
Ansella
I talk to Henrietta after I read the e-mail. We have a long chat, during which she keeps saying she thinks it’d be a good idea for me to “foster self-efficacy” by meeting Ansella. Going up to this reader and seeing the good I’ve done in the world, she says, will “greatly bolster your shaky self-concept.”
Henrietta has a PhD in philosophy and a masters in library science (the first black woman at her university to get that distinction), she looks like Halle Berry, and she’s married to a judge who looks like Idris Elba. Sometimes I feel like the world’s biggest underachiever.
Anyway, I finally say, “Henrietta, I’ve always been anonymous. I think my readers really need to feel like I’m this nameless, faceless, omniscient person who’ll never lead them wrong. I don’t want to shatter that illusion for them. What if Rowbury teens everywhere go into an existential crisis because they realize I’m just as human, just as fallible, as them?”
Henrietta looks at me, her mouth twitching a little. “Thank you for that impassioned speech. I can see this means a lot to you. But just think about it, will you?”
I sag in my seat. She isn’t taking me seriously. She doesn’t get why I don’t want to do this. Things with Prem are at a complete standstill. I need to know that this one thing in my life, this thing I’m so good at, will stay good. I don’t want to meet Ansella and completely ruin everything.
Sighing, I stand. “Okay, fine. I’ll think about it.”
Henrietta smiles. “Hey, Neha. You already know you helped her. If you meet with her in person, you can really see the effects of what you’ve done, right?”
“I guess,” I mumble as I walk out. Except I don’t. I really don’t need to see it. But who am I to argue with Henrietta?
* * *
After I clock out at the library, I head down to Pepper Street. I’ve been saving the best for last. Today I’m going to eat at the nameless carinderia run by an eccentric woman people swear is a witch. Apparently, her recipes are all really spells in disguise, able to infuse the eater with great confidence. I’m not sure if I believe that, but I’m willing to try it because her food is said to be so delicious, people talk about it for weeks after eating there.
As I walk past the hardware store, my messenger bag banging on my thigh (regular-size bags always hang really low on me, thanks to the fact that I’m vertically challenged), I think about Prem. Not a surprise, really, because I’m constantly thinking about him. This standstill we’re at now . . . what if it’s completely artificial? What if it’s just because neither of us is being brave enough to take charge?
I mean, I know it’s not just me. We did have a really . . . electric connection the other day at Manijeh’s. I think about Ansella, about to be brave and do something really, really scary, even without me there. She thinks I’m her mentor. But what kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t take my own advice? Eating alone has been really good for me, but isn’t it time to face my real fear? Isn’t it time to take matters into my own hands, to tell Prem how I feel before life leads us down divergent paths?
If Ansella can do it, I can too. I don’t want to look back on this and regret it. I’m tired of standstills. I wipe my suddenly damp palms on my jeans and take a deep breath. Yes. I’m gonna do it today. And maybe this food can help me.
* * *
In the carinderia, I wait patiently in line, looking at the comments on my phone. So many people have said they’re excited for Ansella to take the next step, and I respond to tell them thanks.
I’m not going to tell anyone about my own plan to confess my feelings to Prem. If he says he doesn’t feel the same way, I’ll need some time to crawl away and lick my wounds. Besides, Dr. Ishq is supposed to have all this stuff figured out. People don’t want to hear about my love failures.
Then it’s my turn to order, and the old woman who’s rumored to be a witch looks at me, her gimlet eyes sparkling, her wild and wavy hair about a foot thick on each side of her head. “Boy trouble?” she asks before I can even say a word.
I blink and slip my phone into my pocket. “How did you—”
“Soup Number Five,” she says, nodding. “That is what you need. It is an aphrodisiac, you see.” She smiles at me like she’s got a secret, and I find myself smiling back.
“Okay then. Soup Number Five it is,” I agree, handing over some cash.
I take a seat by the window and wait for my food. It’s not awkward, sitting here alone, because a lot of other customers are also eating by themselves while they read or play on their phones. I people-watch, the hustle and bustle of quick-stepping young folks with dogs on leashes or (slower) retired men and women running errands reminding me of a swarm of busy ants. I wonder what they’re thinking about as they walk, whether they’re lucky enough to have someone they love waiting for them at home.
“Your soup.”
I look up to see a young, familiar Filipina girl setting a bowl on my table. We probably went to high school together. “Thanks,” I respond, and she waves to me and disappears back into the kitchen.
Picking up my spoon, I dip it into the broth, making sure to get pieces of the small, fatty meat. I close my eyes and eat my spoonful, marveling at the rich, savory flavors. It’s like beef broth, only heartier, and the meat has this really interesting texture. Before I know it, I’ve devoured half the bowl.
“You like Soup Number Five?”
I look up to see Lola Simeona, the old woman from earlier, standing by my table, watching me. “Oh, yes,” I say, patting my mouth with a napkin. “It’s delicious! What is this meat? It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. And I feel more . . . energetic already, sort of like I can take on anything.” Like Prem.
She smiles knowingly. “Yes, yes, Soup Number Five is magical.” After a pause, during which her smile morphs into what can only be described as a mischievous grin, she says, “The meat is bull testes.”
I stare at her for a long moment as her words filter into my brain. I set my spoon down carefully and take a sip of water. “Bull . . . testes?” I ask in the most neutral way I can.
“Yes! It’s an aphrodisiac!” She pats my shoulder and walks off to another table. I think I can hear her cackling.
I look down into my bowl. I just ate a bunch of chopped-up bull balls. For a moment I wonder, in a very detached way (is this what being in medical shock feels like?), if I’m going to throw up. But then the moment passes, and I realize they’re really delicious. And Soup No. 5 works. I can feel the potent mixture wending its way through my system, infusing my blood with confidence and desire. I eat another big spoonful.
And that’s when I look out the window and see them.
I blink several times, because I’m not sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. Maybe it’s some weird hallucination caused by whatever’s in bull testicles. Maybe I’m under-caffeinated. The bull testes lodge in my throat like a block of stone.
It’s Prem and a girl with chocolate-brown hair and pale skin. They’re over at the falafal stand across the street, both of them laughing at something. Prem’s eyes are crinkled in that way I adore, his black hair mussed and falling in his eyes. His arm is around the girl, and she’s leaning into him in this incredibly comfortable way, like she knows him really well.
I swallow and look down at my bowl. My blood, on fire just a few minutes ago, now feels like it’s been doused with whatever that foamy stuff is in fire extinguishers. Even bull testicles can’t help me now.
So we weren’t at a standstill after all. Prem just . . . Prem just doesn’t feel the same way I do. And obviously I can’t do it now. I can’t tell him how I feel when he clearly . . . he clearly likes someone else. So all that connection I thought I felt? I was wrong. I was stupidly, totally wrong.
My phone dings, and, ignoring the rule of the grand ishq adventure challenge, I pull it out of my pocket. I have another twenty-two messages on my blog, all from people telling me that they’ve been doing the challenge themselves.
STEMGirlinSF says it’s made her more confident than she’s ever been. FilmFan2020 says she and her boyfriend have both been doing it separately, and it’s boosted their relationship because it’s infused their lives with adventure. ComicBoyR says he’s found so many great restaurants and cuisines his art feels like it’s blossoming as a result. And on and on and on the messages go.
I set my phone down on the table. The grand ishq adventure, I realize fully for the first time, is not just about me or Prem or even Ansella. It’s so much bigger than that. It’s about daring to do what you’re most afraid of doing, knowing that it could very well result in spectacular failure. It’s about looking life right in the eyes and deciding to embrace it—all of it, good and bad—because to do anything less would be a waste of its gift. It’s about being brave, whatever that means to you, however you define it.
I eat another big spoonful of Soup No. 5 and pat my mouth with my napkin, staring off into the middle distance. Something’s shifting. I feel a swell of confidence as a bell of epiphany rings through me. I know what I’m going to do now. I’m going to meet up with Ansella after lunch, to wish her luck. Because she needs me. And because I need to see her shining, hopeful, courageous face. And then I’m going to tell Prem how I feel, even if it means being utterly rejected. Because I am Dr. Ishq. And because my life is too brilliant to waste on cowardice.
* * *
I arrive at Mallow Park right at one o’clock. My heart is racing, half in sympathetic fear for Ansella, and half because I’m terrified for myself. I texted Prem and asked him to meet me here in twenty minutes, but he hasn’t responded yet. I don’t want to think about whether the brown-haired girl has anything to do with his silence.
As I walk farther into the park, I can see the Yarrow River glittering like a big sparkly blue ribbon in the distance. And on its shore, sitting on the same bench I was sitting on when Lila Manzano handed me the concha, is someone in a bright yellow ball cap. Their back is to me, but I head over in that direction, smiling.
“Hi,” I say to her back as I approach. “Ansella?”
She turns. But the person’s not a she at all. Suddenly I find myself face-to-face with . . . Prem.
I stop short as he stands, unfolding himself, his eyes careful. “P-Prem? What, um, what are you . . . doing here?” I glance at his yellow hat, confused. “Where’s Ansella?”
“I have a confession,” he says, biting his lip and taking a deep breath. “Um, do you want to come sit?” He gestures to the empty spot on the bench.
I walk over, my legs feeling like rubber, my brain screaming a million things at me, none of which make sense right now. He sits after I sit and turns to me so our knees are almost touching. “What’s your confession?” I ask finally, thinking how the glittering reflection of the river sparkles so prettily against his brown skin.
“Neha,” he says, and takes another deep breath. I take one too, feeling nervous. He looks directly into my eyes. “There is no Ansella.”
I frown. “Yes, there is,” I say, beginning to pull out my phone. “I had a message from her today.”
“No, I mean . . .” Prem exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “Um, I’m Ansella. It’s a play on Ansel Adams’s first name.”
My hands still, my phone forgotten. “You . . . you wrote to me on the blog?” Prem, as library staff, knew who Dr. Ishq was, of course.
“Yeah. I didn’t want you to know it was me, though.”
“Why not?”
Prem glances down at his feet for a long moment. Then, looking back up, he says quietly, “Because I’ve liked you for almost a year now. In private, in secret, without knowing how I was ever going to tell you how I felt. You’re . . . you’re a little intimidating, you know.”
“I intimidate you?” I ask, trying not to laugh. My heart’s singing a merry little melody that goes something like Prem likes you! He’s liked you for the better part of a year! La la la la la!
“You’re Dr. Ishq,” he says, shrugging. “The love expert. The one with all the answers. On the blog, you always know precisely what advice to give, how to fix any love problem. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t tell how you felt about me.”
“But . . .” I clear my throat. “I saw you, just a little while ago at the falafal stand. You were with a girl. . . .”
“Jordan?” he asks, frowning.
“Jordan? As in, your roommate?”
He nods. “I was eating the last meal in the grand ishq adventure challenge, and she stopped by to thank me for the print. I finally got Henrietta to help me access the storage room and left it for her at our place.” Then, reading the expression on my face, he smiles gently. “She’s, ah, like a sister to me. Very annoying, but someone I care for in a very fraternal way. Her dad fell ill recently, and I just wanted to do something nice for her.”
I see the truth in his eyes and relax. Feeling suddenly shy, I look down at my hands. “So . . . you like me?”
He leans in just a touch closer. “I like you,” he agrees. “A lot.”
I look up at him, smiling a little. “I like you, too.”
He stares at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Really?”
“I’ve liked you for a long time. Actually, I was going to . . . to tell you how I felt today. Even though I was sure you were going to shoot me down, because I thought you and Jordan were an item.”
“Why?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why would you tell me if you thought I liked someone else?”
“Because . . . because I want to live bravely. I want to wear my heart on my sleeve, even if it means I’m going to get hurt. I want to be the girl the Dr. Ishq readers think I am.”
Prem grins. “Oh, you are,” he says, putting his hand on mine. “You already are.”
And then we’re both leaning in at the same time, and this time there’s no mistaking it—the electricity is undeniable. We’re about to embark on our very own grand ishq adventure.
