Lettie
I’m home in my bedroom, committing to memory the difference between endothermic and exothermic processes, when I notice Jay’s car pull into his driveway.
I haven’t told Jay about Riley’s dalliance at the Marriott Residence Inn. I could have sent him a text, but what if he ignored it? Text him again? Look like I’m desperate for his attention, which I am? For whatever reason, our paths simply haven’t crossed on weekend days when I’d have the best chance of running into him.
I race down the stairs, my footsteps pounding. Bursting out the front door, I leave Zoe somewhat perplexed while I dash across our lawn. I call Jay’s name, getting his attention before he disappears into his house.
He’s dressed like a metrosexual: a long-sleeved patterned shirt that could easily pass for a blouse, dark jeans, and polished loafers with no socks. He’s got his Ray-Bans on, and damn, that stubble makes him look like the hot guy on some new Netflix drama. He sends me a smile that makes my heart rattle.
“Hey,” I say, embarrassed I’m breathing so heavily. Definitely need to start working out more.
“Hey, yourself,” says Jay.
He doesn’t take off his glasses, and I wish he would so I could get a better read of him.
“How’s it been?” he asks. “How’s high school?”
I shrivel up inside. I hate that he says high school. It makes me feel like a stupid girl.
“Good, you know. Same old.”
“Right,” says Jay with a smile that puts a crease in his dimples. He goes for his Juul and takes a puff before languidly exhaling a cloud of vapor. I’m almost tempted to ask for a hit, but that isn’t me. My nerves feel on fire, but the feeling isn’t bad enough to transform me into someone else.
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
I despise the subtle shake in my voice. Maybe my hair is a mess. Maybe my all-black ensemble makes me look like I’m trying too hard to not fit in.
I’m worried Jay is judging everything I say and do. Every little blink and nod I make, any weird twitch, the awkward way I stand, or just how I think my body looks to him—all this makes me feel small and vulnerable. I hate our mismatched balance of power, how I’m so into him and he’s probably not into me at all. But none of this is going to keep me from telling him what I saw.
“I’ve found out more about the ‘Secret Life of Riley,’” I say.
Jay doesn’t look all that surprised, but I can’t tell with his sunglasses on. “So, tell me.”
I glance about nervously, as if Riley might be lurking right behind us. “I saw her going into a hotel with an older guy—probably the same guy from the other night, but I still didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Interesting,” he says without sounding interested. “Maybe we should talk. Do you want to come in?” He gestures with a thumb toward his house.
Inside …
I panic a little. Are his parents home? Is something going to happen between us? Is this it? The definitive moment of my youth that I’ll never forget and probably—maybe after therapy—come to regret?
I nod regardless. A parakeet is flapping inside my chest.
I follow Jay into his home. I’ve been inside before, but when the Weavers lived here, not since Jay moved in. It’s big and echoey, not at all what I expected. It’s so quiet in this house that I can almost hear the blood rushing in my veins. The walls are mostly barren, not much carpeting to dampen our footsteps. Nothing close to a personal, homey touch in any of the rooms I can see.
“My parents are a lot more into their work than they are into nesting,” he says.
“Oh, I see.”
I let it go as I make my way into a spotless kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances gleam as if they’d recently been delivered from the store. The granite counters are surprisingly free of clutter. I don’t dare open a cupboard, but I wonder if I’d find food in any of them.
“My parents are actually quite good cooks, but they’re so busy they don’t spend much time in the kitchen,” Jay says.
“What do you eat?” I ask.
“A lot of takeout,” he says with an air of indifference. “We don’t really eat together.”
For reasons I can’t explain, his revelation makes me feel profoundly sad for Jay, or maybe for the entire Kumar family.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Your mom was so eager to buy this house. Why get such a big place if you’re not even going to decorate it—or use it, for that matter?”
Jay shoots me a sideways glance before finally removing his sunglasses, which he slips into the pocket of his fancy shirt. “Do you understand your parents?” he asks.
“Good point,” I reply.
The lightness in Jay’s eyes transforms into one of longing or wistfulness, something that implies a suppressed sorrow. Seeing his vulnerability opens my heart a bit wider, a gap big enough for me to fall into.
I try to center myself by walking around the spacious kitchen that overlooks the Kumars’ meticulously maintained backyard. The grass out back is the lush kind of green that makes me think of Fenway Park, where the Red Sox play.
My father took me to a game once. I don’t know why we never went again, but I remember having fun that day. Did I tell him I had a good time? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why we never went back. Somewhere in me is a tiny ache—one that wishes I were closer with my dad, like maybe Jay wishes he could be closer with his family.
Without asking permission, I find myself moving from the kitchen to the dining room. My hands brush over a highly polished table that could double for a mirror. “Have you ever had a single meal in here?” I ask Jay, who’s now standing behind me.
I catch his amused reflection in the table’s shiny surface. His laugh is rich and warm. I smell pastry and coffee. It takes a moment to realize Jay is the source of this enticing aroma. I’m liking it—a lot, too much probably.
Some crystal glasses and a lovely vase stand on a buffet table that’s flush against a wall beneath some windows. Something else catches my eye, the only picture I’ve seen in the house. It’s in an ornate silver frame. When I go to get a closer look, I see the picture is actually of the Kumar family posed for an outdoor portrait, many years ago, when they were all much younger.
Mandy looks utterly gorgeous in her figure-flattering wrap dress, her blond hair getting the best of that day’s sunlight. Samir Kumar stands quite rigid. His smile is appropriate, but something in it is not quite genuine. Jay was a super cute kid—no surprise—and I’m guessing he’s about four in this photograph. There’s another boy in the picture as well, standing next to Jay. I’d say this boy is around two years old.
“That’s my brother,” Jay tells me, as if he’s reading my thoughts.
“Is he in college somewhere?” I ask, thinking he’d be around that age by now.
“No,” Jay says. The light in his eyes goes dim. “He’s dead.” He says this with an utterly blank look on his face, not a trace of sadness or regret.
This is unsettling.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him in a soft voice that I hope conveys my sympathy.
“He died about four months after this picture was taken,” Jay tells me, still no emotion in his tone.
I want to ask: How? What happened? But I can’t seem to find the words.
Jay doesn’t need a sixth sense to guess what’s on my mind. “He drowned,” he tells me. “Fell into a pool at my uncle’s party.”
“Oh, my god,” I say. “That’s horrible.”
“I was there,” Jay says. “I was told not to go to the pool—my mother said I’d be in very big trouble if I did. But I didn’t listen to her. I went anyway, and Asher followed me to the water. I had my feet in the shallow end. Asher went to the deep end of the pool. He leaned over and fell in, sank right away because he couldn’t swim. I couldn’t swim, either, and I didn’t really understand drowning, not at that age. I kept thinking I would be in big trouble for coming to the pool without permission, so I tried to rescue my brother instead of going for help right away.
“But what was I going to do? He’d already gone under. I just walked around the edge of the pool, calling for him. I must have done this for a minute, maybe two, before I realized I was doing nothing to help. I could see Asher’s body still as could be, flat on the bottom.
“Finally I went to get my parents. My father was the first into the water. He dragged Asher to the surface. He came up gasping for breath. Asher’s face was blue. I remember my father screaming at me: ‘Jay, what have you done? What have you done?’”
Jay goes quiet. It feels like the heavy pause in a pivotal moment during a climactic scene in a play, only this is no act.
“He performed CPR while my mother called 911,” Jay continues. “My uncle had to do the talking. Mother was too hysterical to speak. I can’t remember many details, but I’ve seen therapists who have helped with my recall—or maybe all they did was implant false memories. Who knows? My recollections certainly don’t come from my parents. We never talk about this.
“The paramedics arrived in five minutes, but Asher still wasn’t breathing on his own. My father gave him to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, pleading with my brother to come back to him.
“They managed to get a heartbeat in the ambulance, but by then his brain was too badly damaged from lack of oxygen. My parents took him off life support a week later. My mother insisted we donate his organs, though my father was against it. There is nothing in Hinduism, my father’s religion, that would have prevented the practice. He just couldn’t stand the idea of his son not being whole anymore, of him being … given away.
“In the end, my mother won out. We still get Christmas cards from people whose lives Asher saved. This was a long time ago, Lettie.” He says this as if that should make what I just heard more bearable, which it doesn’t.
I don’t know what to say. I’m so beyond sadness, I’ve no words to offer. This is new emotional territory for me. I want Jay to cry or at least look upset. I’m certain he’s bottling up all his feelings.
Then I make a bunch of assumptions that might be totally inaccurate: Jay still blames himself for Asher’s death. He’s never gotten over the trauma. He believes his father has never forgiven him, which is why Jay can’t forgive himself.
Now I think I get why brilliant Jay—who can hack anything, who is making an app that I’m certain will make him rich—got booted out of college.
He is suffering, and now I’m suffering with him.
I don’t really know what comes over me. One moment I’m standing two feet away from Jay and next thing I know I’m pressed up against his chest. I run my fingers up and down his arms in a caressing way. At first I want to comfort and hold him, but as I touch Jay, empathy starts to turn to desire. My body heats up, and I’m filled with an intense need to kiss him.
I move my mouth toward his, and before I know what’s happening, our lips are touching. I feel Jay’s resistance at first, but a second later his mouth opens and our tongues meet. He pulls me into his body. My breasts flatten against his chest. I kiss him harder and I’m not thinking at all anymore. I’m lost—completely gone in this moment, utterly absorbed by tenderness and passion.
I’m ready, I say to myself. I want this. I want him.
Just when I think we’re going to find a couch or a bed, or sneak down to his basement lair and take things further—and damn it, I want to, I really do—Jay’s mouth closes tight. His lips press together. We’re not kissing anymore; it’s more like I’m pointlessly pressing my face against his.
He pulls away. I feel crushed. I’m crestfallen and utterly confused. I’m sure these feelings are apparent.
“Lettie, no,” Jay says, his soft voice conveying much tenderness. “We can’t.”
I’m beyond mortified. I’m not sure how to describe this profound sense of rejection and embarrassment. I feel so stupid and foolish, about two inches tall. I wish I could blink myself out of this room or into another dimension where I never tried to kiss Jay Kumar. I want to speak, ask him why, but I’m too busy dying inside.
Thankfully, Jay comes to my rescue. “I like you, Lettie. I would very much like to kiss you.”
I’m struggling not to cry. I don’t think my dignity could take another blow.
“It’s the age thing, isn’t it?” I ask him, the shake returning to my voice. “I’m not freaked out by it. I’m seventeen. I can consent and you won’t be in trouble.”
I never thought when I went to kiss Jay that I’d be making a reference to statutory rape, and yet here we are.
I go to kiss him again, but Jay’s arms hold me back. Usually I just shut off the caring switch when I experience rejection … or else I try to explain it away. Bad grade? It was the teacher’s fault. Didn’t get some academic honor? Blame the stupid organization. Not invited to a party? Didn’t want to go anyway. Rejected by Jay Kumar? Try again. The last time I was this determined to get something, I wanted a hamster.
“No, it’s not our age difference,” he says. “I like you too much for us to do anything, that’s all. I can’t allow that.”
Jay touches my arm in a way that makes me believe his words, but I still can’t make sense of them. “I don’t get it,” I say. “If you like me, then why not?”
My heart continues to thunder in my chest, but I try to put on a brave face.
Jay takes a step back. His expression is thoughtful.
“Do you know the story of the frog and the scorpion?” he asks.
Definitely not where I thought this might be going, but okay, I’m in. “No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“There was a river too wide for the scorpion to cross,” Jay begins. “The scorpion comes upon a frog who can easily make it to the other side and asks if he could ride on the frog’s back. The frog doesn’t hesitate to say no. ‘You will sting me,’ the frog tells the scorpion. But the scorpion assures the frog that he will not. ‘If I do so, we will both drown,’ the scorpion says. The frog gives this some thought and eventually agrees to ferry the scorpion to the other side of the river.
“At the halfway mark, the frog feels a powerful sting in its back. Poison makes the frog’s legs stop moving. Soon they’re sinking. ‘What have you done!’ cries the frog. ‘Now we will both drown. Why would you do this?’ The scorpion replies as they both die: ‘It’s my nature.’”
Jay takes a step back, a signal that his story is finished.
“Is that it?” I say, feeling a spurt of anger. “That’s a terrible story. Poor frog! What are you trying to say, that it’s in your nature to sting like a scorpion?”
Jay smiles in a way I find a bit unsettling. He rolls up the sleeve of his fancy shirt to show me his forearm, on which I see a black ink tattoo of a scorpion.