I’m sitting by the snack table in the dark, shoveling handfuls of dry tortilla chips into my mouth. I wish I’d added salsa, but it’s too late now. I am way too committed to eating these dry tasteless chips. This is my life now.
I stare out into a big blur of people descending onto the dance floor. Dance floor. I use the term very loosely. It’s basically a large rectangular space near the back wall. The basketball hoops are raised toward the ceiling and covered with streamers and balloons to try and make us forget we’re in the gym. Stefan and the rest of the table are probably out there gyrating and selfie-ing it up. Everybody has their cell phones out, a sea of bright flashes as they take photos and videos and snaps and gifs and boomerangs to add to their stories in an attempt to manufacture the joy of prom. I should post a selfie of me in the dark by the snack table alone to really capture what it is like.
On the other end of the gym, they’ve started setting up the photo booth, which already has a huge line. Maybe that’s where everyone is at. Or they could still just be sitting at the table, waiting for me so they can get the tickets I don’t actually have. Even if I did have one hypothetical ticket, who am I giving it to? Stefan? Over my cremated body.
I still don’t get it. Why bother spending all this money and energy coming to prom, renting a limo, getting all decked out, asking someone out with an over-the-top Promposal, if you got plans to bail as soon as possible? Stefan’s Promposal involved getting his cop brother to stop Jasmine as she pulled out of her driveway, just so he could bring a pizza to her with the words Pizza Come to Prom With Me spelled out on it in pepperoni.
Ngozi thinks that’s a terrifying thing to do to a person of color, and she’s right. There’s nothing charming about it.
I take out my phone and play Mama’s voicemail on the speaker, since it’s just me and the tortilla chips anyway. It’s simple and to the point: “Hi, beta. It’s me, your mom. Anything you need from the store? Lucky Mamaji is picking up some Haldiram’s and a crate of Limca for the barsi. Okayyyy. This is your mom.” She always signs off with that, like I’m going to mistake her for a telemarketer calling me son and asking me to do errands.
Papa, on the other hand, has sent ten text messages in the past half an hour or so. None of them seem to indicate he knows I’m not actually at home, although he doesn’t use text messages the way normal people use them, so who knows. They’re both busy over-preparing for everyone coming to the house. We’ve never actually talked about Goldy being gone, can’t use the word death or alcoholic or cremation. But here we are having a barsi, a commemoration of his death. Which I’m expected to attend.
Papa only texts me about technical issues. I glance at the last several he sent:
“Your chacha emailed a pdf file but I can’t download it on my phone???”
“Also how to upload a photo to whatsapp?”
“ok figured out how to get pdf still don’t know how to upload photo to whatsapp?”
“What’s my apple id?”
“Chacha told me how to upload photo. Is password same for apple id and facebook?”
“Urgent response requested at convenience.”
Texting Papa back is a bad idea. But I do it anyway.
“Password is different. Your Facebook password is tandoorichicken65. Why do you need password for Apple ID? Don’t download any more apps.”
This is the kind of interaction me and Papa have whether I’m in the house or away, and most of our face-to-face conversations aren’t any better. In a parallel universe, I could have just told Mama and Papa I’m going to prom and not coming to the barsi. But we don’t do that in my house. We contort ourselves into all kinds of positions to avoid saying what we’re really thinking or feeling. I couldn’t even cry at Goldy’s cremation because of the usual idiotic reason: Makes me look weak. Papa’s favorite expression: “Stop acting like a pajama.” Translation: Man up. Like the rest of my aura projects old-school Punjabi film hero Maula Jatt and The Rock levels of masculinity.
I really wish Biji had a phone to text. I bet she’d love SnapChat. We can sit and crochet for ten minutes or all day, talking or in silence, and I always feel lighter. She doesn’t give a shit if I cry or want to tell her in my not-so-perfect Punjabi that I simultaneously hate Goldy and I love and miss him. With Mama and Papa, there’s always a lot of busywork to keep us distracted from talking about Goldy or anything else real. Reality is overrated anyway.
I look at my Insta and Snapchat and TikTok. Nothing. Just a couple random views, no reactions, no emojis, no likes. Like I don’t exist. I put my phone in my man-bag and consider the situation. Plus point: I’m here at prom on my way to making memories! Not a plus point: Stefan is going to come asking me for the tickets I said I have. Plus point: Stefan and his table of dweebs plan on leaving. Now the dilemma: How do I dig myself out of this lie? Maybe if I stay hidden long enough, they’ll just leave on their own and I can see who else is here. Pretty in Pink wasn’t all roses either, and it’s been like fifteen minutes. I just gotta give it time.
I take my phone out again.
“Hey Siri,” I say. “Tell me a joke.”
I don’t remember when I started talking to Siri like she’s a real person, but it’s comforting having someone there whenever you need them, even if she just googles everything. She booms through the speaker of my iPhone:
“Mr. Spock actually had three ears: a left ear, a right ear, and a final front ear.”
I laugh loudly. “Oh, th-that was a good one, Siri. I’m going to use that one tonight.”
Under normal circumstances, I would be texting Ngozi. But what do I text her after bailing on her and knowing she is leaving for Berkeley? “Hi. Night going well? GREAT. Me? Oh, everything is fucked. Can you hook up tickets for the Snollygoster Soiree? Oh yeah, no, I’m still not coming. It’s for Chiseled White Boy Face, and his terrible friends. Yes, he still thinks All Lives Matter.”
“Hey Siri,” I say. “I c-could just lie to Stefan again and t-tell him he can pick up the tickets at Snollygoster Soiree. Or that I’ll have my people text the tickets over, and then just not do it. Right?”
She’s in the middle of telling me she doesn’t understand the question when I rudely interrupt. “Hey Siri. Send message to Ngozi.”
Siri makes her usual ding sound. “What do you want it to say?” she says. Another ding for good measure.
“So, a slight pickle. Send,” I say, dictating into the phone.
Siri sends the message with a whoosh.
I wait.
Nothing.
I try again:
“Do you have extra tickets to the Snollygoster Soiree? Paper or e-ticket is fine. A friend needs them. Two friends.”
First I get those ever-irritating ellipses. Then she finally texts back:
“You should listen to your heart.”
Such a petty move. I’d be impressed if she were doing this to someone else. Instead of ghosting me, Ngozi is replying with gibberish, perfunctory American fortune cookie–style non sequiturs. To me. To me!
I furiously tell Siri to text back: “Prom is awesome. Real great music. Food is top notch. Connecting with a lot of people I haven’t seen in years. Some people I friend-zoned that are trying to rectify that situation. You know how it is.”
I see the three dots appear, disappear, reappear.
Her message arrives: “Oh, why didn’t you just say so. No problem. I’ll leave 200 tickets with the butler next to the charcuterie in the foyehhh. What friends?”
I can’t say Stefan or Jasmine. Hate may be a mild way to describe her feelings for either of them.
I respond: “You wouldn’t know them.”
And then it comes: “Well. I barely know you.”
I shake my head and put the phone away.
I feel that familiar heavy sensation in my chest. I close my eyes, willing it to be something it’s not: gastrointestinal issues, tortilla-chip-induced heartburn, syphilis. Okay, not syphilis. Definitely not syphilis. It sounds so frivolous, especially when there are people all around me. Loneliness.
I pause for a few seconds, leaning against the table as the debilitating sensation pulses through me. My heart is beating fast. I close my eyes, run a finger over my kara, and breathe. I pull the phone out, hoping for the best. My thumb cramps up as I scroll through all my social media feeds again.
I look around the room and all I can see is potential for a magical night. Almost all of the movies I’ve grown up watching have a small hiccup in the opening. That’s all this is, right? A hiccup? Before I know it I will meet a girl who wants to break out of the friend zone with me. Or maybe there’s someone here tonight who I want to break out of the friend zone with. My eyes widen as I scan the room. I don’t recognize many people.
“Siri,” I beckon as I stretch my thumb and readjust my palm. “How do people get out of the friend zone?”
“Here’s what I found on the web,” she says, and lists some articles, including one with eight specific strategies from Men’s Journal.
I’ve seen so many Bollywood and Hollywood movies about this very premise. I look around the room, at the dance floor again, the weird bright light on the other side of the snack table, and touch my face as I consider my options. I reach into the bowl to scoop out more of the tortilla chips. There’s something in there. Something alive.
“Actually,” a voice—definitely not Siri’s—says as the warm and fleshy thing removes itself slowly from the bowl. I’m relieved it’s a hand, a human hand, a human hand attached to a living human body. But the voice continues: “The friend zone doesn’t exist. Kinda like the magical experience you think you’re gonna have at prom.”
I snatch my hand from the chip bowl in a panic, sending tortilla chips flying. A few Tostitos hit me in the face as I narrowly save my phone from death, and quickly place it back in my pouch for safety. How long has she been standing here? It occurs to me she’s not standing. She’s sitting.
“This is what you do?” I sputter at the girl. “This is what you do?” I repeat. “Spy on people like, some, some kind of . . .” I struggle for the right word. “Badger. Or, like, another quiet woodland creature . . .” I trail off. Badger. I don’t even know where I was going with that analogy.
With that, I am out of outrage, although I have plenty of involuntary flaring of my nostrils.
The girl’s head turns and a bright light shines right in my eyes, obscuring her face. She switches the light off. I realize the light isn’t from a doorway or a spotlight. It’s coming from her head. She is wearing a headlamp, the kind you wear when you go camping, only a much lower wattage. In her hands is what looks like a book. A friggin’ book.
Her face comes into focus. Now I recognize her. Mindii Vang. I don’t know her know her, but I know her. You know. Like I’ve seen her around at different cosplay events. She hangs out with Ngozi and the crew sometimes. She was probably in a class with me at some point. I know she’s in the anime and manga clubs, solely because she’s always at the booth looking for people to join during club week.
“Are you,” I say incredulously, “reading? At prom?”
“No,” she says. “I’m trying to read, but some fool keeps distracting me with his addiction to his bright-ass phone and very loud existential crisis.”
“Oh boy,” I say. “And I thought I was having a shitty night.”
“You are having a shitty night. I am eating chips and trying to read a particularly riveting study called ‘Spirits Are Real: The Relationship Between Hmong and Japanese Spirits in Contemporary Anime and Manga.’ ”
“So friggin’ wordy,” I say. “Like what spirits?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get very far because some fool is being real loud. I’m right in the middle of this section on the complex nature of Hmong Dab and Japanese Yokai.”
“I don’t even know what to say if you think that sounds like a non-shitty time,” I say. I don’t tell her that I used to watch the Yo-Kai anime with Goldy as a kid. Or that the study sounds intriguing. There’s nothing intriguing enough to hide in the dark at prom with a friggin’ flashlight on your head, though.
“Why are you even here?” I say. “And talking nonsense about things you just don’t understand? Like the friend zone of all things. You should read a study called ‘The Friend Zone is Real.’ ”
“I can see you’ve spent hours of research on this with your phone. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend your girlfriend,” Mindii says.
“S-S-Siri is not my girlfriend! The friend zone is a fact. Movies center on its existence. Novels rely on it. I’m not gonna debate facts. What’s next, we gonna debate climate change?”
“Well, it was kinda cold last winter, which means global warming is definitely a hoax,” she says. There is a moment of quiet as I realize it’s a joke. “I bet the term friend zone was invented by some dude named Chad who poured his heart out to a girl and she rejected him,” she says. “So then he’s all, ‘does not compute. I need a way to not feel bad about being a shitty person and gaslighting my friend into having feelings for me.’ C’est voila. The term friend zone was born. Better term to use would be predator zone.”
The music has shifted into a slower-paced song, drowning out whatever response I would have had. I do see her point. But not a chance I would admit that. I blame the patriarchy. “Is Chad even a real name?” I say over the music.
“Or it’s the name of a very expensive cheese.”
“Sounds like a fungal infection.”
“Do you have Chad and don’t remember where you contracted it?” Mindii booms loudly. I realize she’s pretending to do an ad. It’s pretty funny. She’s pausing. Oh. She’s expecting me to finish.
“Then take this . . . uh . . . medicine, m-motherfucker,” I say, ruining the joke.
Only she’s laughing.
There are a handful of kids still on the dance floor, but most of them are making their way back to their seats.
“What’s the deal with the Snollygoster Soiree? Just go,” Mindii says. “Prom is a big bore. Trust me, I came here last year too. “
“You know nothing,” I say. “And who goes to prom two years in a row? You’re like that guy in Sixteen Candles.”
“Is that a boy band? Wait, why am I like someone in a boy band?”
“It’s a cult classic. It’s like one of the quintessential prom movies.”
“Sounds like I really missed out on not watching that obscure movie so I could understand this one reference. If you must know, I came here to chaperone my sisters. Not by choice. I’m always getting roped into doing shit that I don’t want to do. You wouldn’t get it.”
I would totally get it. I do get it. Of course, I’m not going to tell her that.
“Oh,” Mindii says.
“What?” I say.
“The deal with the Snollygoster Soiree tickets. And everything else. I got your number. So very interesting,” she says, sinking back into her chair, turning the headlight back on.
“N-no. No,” I say eloquently. “I got your number. You don’t got my number. Wait. What do you mean?”
She laughs. “You don’t have the tickets. So now you’re a headless chicken.”
“You’re so weird,” I say. “A headless chicken? Because I’m dead?”
“Do you know anything about chickens? Headless chickens run around panicked trying to fix things and be on their way, even though they are fucked. Because,” she explains very slowly, “they have no heads.”
“No,” I say being instinctively argumentative. Even though she does apparently have my number.
I’m about to say something to cut her to the core, ridicule her for reading in the dark alone with a fucking camping headlight, not having a date, being a dorkus maximus. If only I could come up with something.
The double doors to the gym open, letting in a burst of ugly fluorescent light as Mr. Graham, the economics teacher, steps into the hallway.
Just as my brain is about to unleash some witty insults in Mindii’s direction, I hear Stefan’s voice. Jasmine is behind him.
“Ayy yo, if it ain’t the urinator,” he says, running a hand through his very blond hair. I attempt to do the same. So awkward.
“So,” he says, unwavering. “I need those tickets to Snollygoster Soiree. Like now.”
There is no logical reason I couldn’t have just said “I don’t have the tickets” five minutes ago. And no reason I can’t say it now. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t owe Jasmine or anyone at that table anything. In fact, in two weeks, I’ll probably never see them again.
But instead of all that, I nod my head, and say, “Word. Word. No doubt. No doubt.”
Mindii knows there are no tickets. I know there are no tickets. I have a feeling Stefan knows too, but he wants Jasmine to clearly see that I am lying so when he starts humiliating me in front of her, it’ll seem totally justified. I’m gonna become the number one trending laughingstock in about two seconds flat.
I make a big show of unhooking the pouch from my belt.
I see Mindii stand up, the big, fat dissertation she was reading in her hand. ”Those tickets are mine, actually,” she says.
“What?” Jasmine says.
“What?” Stefan says.
“Hain?” I say. When I’m surprised, Punjabi comes out first.
“I SAID THOSE TICKETS ARE MINE, ACTUALLY,” she screams at both of them, and grabs the pouch from my hands. All four of us are suspended in time. I’m mesmerized by Mindii’s dress, a pale, shimmery blue, but it’s probably weird to say something about it now. She moves in closer and is looking right at me. It’s unnerving, yet I’m not averting my eyes like I do with Stefan or most people. It feels strangely comfortable. It might be the dorky headlamp still attached to her forehead. Her eyes are large and brown, her hair twisted into a knot in the back, two braids in front with blue beads keeping them from unfurling, her face an imperfect circle.
Stefan has this dumb expression on his face, like he’s calculating a math problem.
“Peace. Mindii out,” Mindii says, my pouch in hand. With that, she throws a peace sign and casually pushes past the double doors and walks out of the gymnasium.
Holy shit, I think. That’s no simple blue dress.
“Was that dress brambleberry?” I say out loud. “Like a floaty, brambleberry blue? Like the color of the berries found in the wild inverted forests on the outskirts of the Malmesbury Academy? I thought it was just blue this whole time.”
Is she in cosplay? As Safia Brambleberry?
Jasmine stares at the door in disbelief. “What the hell just happened?” Her eyes bounce between me and Stefan.
Focus, Sunny.
“Mindii just stole the extra tickets I was going to give you,” I say.
We all stare at each other for a beat.
“Well,” I say, my voice rising a little more. “I’m going to go urinate.”
“What is with this guy and his bladder? Didn’t you JUST go?”
“Interesting thing about urine,” I say, “is that it contains high levels of salt, which is why the Army Field Guide recommends you not drink it if you get stranded in a desert.”
Stefan looks at me, flaring a very quizzical nostril in my direction. They both look at me. Stefan looks at Jasmine because he desperately wants to say something.
“Because of the salt,” I reiterate.
It’s not the best exit line, but I am ecstatic that for once I’m not humiliated at the hands of Stefan. That he got his ass handed to him. That usually happens in Act Three of most movies. And we’re definitely only in Act One. Now I just have to get my pouch back from Mindii.
Why on earth did she save me, though? And where did she go with my . . .
I gasp as I remember my life is in that crocheted pouch. My phone, cash, student ID card. I take another gulp of air. My series of rash decisions notebook. She didn’t save me. I just got jacked. A blast of that hot Fresno heat smacks me in the face as I sprint to the parking lot in my tight pants.