Police officers are frantically pacing around the lot. There are three cars and about six cops. They’ve handcuffed a few kids, but mostly they’re just barking orders and posing rhetorical questions. Sit down. Stand up. Don’t move. Move. Wanna go to jail? I definitely do not want to be here right now.
I’m sitting next to Mindii and Ngozi.
“Gonna do it,” I say out loud to psych myself up. “Just . . . gonna be rash and . . .”
“Do what?” Ngozi says. “Run past the cops through the car park like a dozy pillock?
“Wot’ve you done to Sunny? Thinks he’s Jackie Chan,” Ngozi whisper-yells to Mindii. Mindii shrugs. Ngozi’s eye catches a girl with beautiful brown skin, a yellow Afro, and a nose ring sitting across from us. She’s got squiggles carved onto a silver square on her headband, and a bright orange jumpsuit. She could be cosplaying anyone. A prisoner?
“Which Hokage are you?” Ngozi says to the girl, referencing the coveted title of Naruto, who this girl is apparently cosplaying.
The girl smiles brightly. “I am the Seventh Hokage. You are?”
“Chur.”
Yellow Afro has no idea who that even is.
“By the way, where’s the accent from?” she says.
“Issss g-global, innit,” I answer for Ngozi with a smirk.
Ngozi glares at me.
“Don’t make me look like a tit in front of Hot Naruto,” she whispers.
“I’m from Crawley, a town in West Sussex. On a street called Fitchet Close. It’s where Gatwick airport is,” Ngozi overshares with the girl.
“Ah. England,” the girl muses.
They both nod at each other like bobbleheads.
Unbelievable. I’m in the middle of a crisis and Ngozi is flirting. I’ve seen her flirt since ninth grade and it usually ends in absolute disaster. Her game has not improved one fucking bit. Now she thinks she’s some kinda expert.
“Ngozi,” she says, introducing herself.
“Aisha,” the girl says.
“H-h-hanji. Hello. I’m Sunny. A Virgo. My favorite food—” I say, interrupting their little bubble.
“Is red bean,” Mindii interrupts my interrupt. “So what’s the plan?” she says.
I scan the parking lot.
There’s got to be some way to make our great escape.
Bingo.
Raj is sitting at the end of the sidewalk. Past him is the ice cream truck, parked there in all its glory. I bet the spare keys are right where Goldy used to leave them. Under the mudflap.
I look at Mindii and nod toward the truck. She follows my eyes and knows exactly what I’m saying.
“Let’s do it,” she says, squeezing my hand. I’m so thankful she’s here.
“Not you too,” says Ngozi. “Tell this daft bastard he can’t just go clomping across the car park undetected.”
“Well. This is not something to make a rash decision about,” Mindii concedes. “But, if we strategize, we could totally go clomping.” Our fingers touch, and I clasp Mindii’s hand.
“Fine,” Ngozi says. “Both of you have completely lost the plot. With my help and Mindii’s help we might be able to pull it off. You just need a distraction.”
“No,” Aisha says. “You need a distraction who is non-threatening to the police.” The three of us look over at Stefan.
“Perfect,” Ngozi says.
“I kinda wanna get outta here too,” Aisha says.
Ngozi softens. “We could. You know. Leave together. Me and you.”
“Lit.” Aisha and Ngozi stop speaking to look at each other’s faces.
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m surprised my eyeballs are still attached to my face. Before I know it, Mindii and Ngozi wave him over. The cops barely bat an eye.
“That cop,” Mindii says to Stefan, “said you seem a little drunk.”
“I AM NOT DRUNK,” Stefan slurs as he stumbles over to the cops closest to us indignantly.
Oh man, this might actually work.
He’s getting closer and closer to the two police officers and getting more and more animated. The cops stare at him, totally confused, totally distracted. Not sure whether to quietly arrest him or make him a soothing cup of chamomile tea.
I make eye contact with Mindii. She tosses Ngozi the keys to her bike and points in the direction of where she parked. Ngozi covers her mouth with excitement as we stand up. There’s still a moment where we can sit back down, act like we were just stretching our legs. Stefan is slurring about white privilege not being real. His voice fades into the background as me and Mindii break out into a sprint, still holding hands.
We make it to Goldy’s truck.
I fumble around and find the keys under the mudflap just where he used to leave them. Sure enough, they’re here. I unlock the truck and start up the engine. The sound of ice cream music remixed with bhangra blares.
Shit.
I quickly lower the volume and look over at the two cops. And they’re looking back at the truck, one of them frozen in butt-scratching position, both of them slowly realizing what’s happening.
Raj is standing up now, waving his hands slowly yet angrily in my direction. Everyone starts scrambling to their feet, looking at us. I see Ngozi and Aisha strolling on down toward the bike as we pull out of the lot, onto the streets.
And we’re out of there.
It’s almost one in the morning and I am wide-awake, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Or maybe it’s the two cups of cha from a few hours ago? I have no clue where to even start looking for this Thor guy. I don’t even know where to look for G-Dawg. Someone must know.
Even though I’ve turned the volume all the way down I can’t escape its sound.
“This music is kind of catchy,” Mindii says.
“You hear it too? Good. It’s not just in my head.”
She laughs.
“Interesting seat belt.”
“Oh yeah. You gotta hold it,” I say.
“Yep,” she says, already holding on to the loose strap.
I bite my lip trying to figure out what to do. Should I exit, turn around, park on the side, and just run away?
The streets are suddenly filled with cars pulling out. The inside of Goldy’s ice cream truck is lit up with black lights, the freezer is making that familiar buzzing sound. “I sometimes think he’s still here,” I say. “During h-his sober b-bouts, me and Goldy used to sit back there and eat ice cream and listen to music.”
There’s a long silence.
“The ice cream truck music?” she says.
I look back at her and burst out laughing. I pull off to the side of the road, then start crying. Then laugh again. She lets go of the seat belt and holds me close.
“You must think I should be in a room with padded walls right now, huh?”
“I don’t think anyone should be in a room like that. Sometimes, everyone just needs a hug.”
I don’t feel awkward about saying any of these things to her, or acting like a fool. It’s a weird feeling, not feeling weird because I’m not being judged for it. Not even the silence feels awkward.
I start the truck back up and we get on the road. I look over at her and feel a little calmer. We come to a red light and I turn my head to see the glow of the Paradise Liquor sign, like a beacon in choppy waters, the only thing that’s lit on the entire block.
I don’t know who runs the place, but odds are it’s Punjabi-owned because that’s just how it is in Fresno. As long as it’s not some old-ass forty-year-old uncle working tonight, someone may know what party G-Dawg and Thor will be at. And as much as I don’t want to think about it, odds are Goldy has been here and bought the garbage that sent him right back to rehab, or that ended things completely.
It’s worth a shot. It’s the only thing I can think to do.
I take the U-turn and pull into the lot and park right in front of the store.
“So what’s the plan?” Mindii says.
“No fucking clue. Gonna throw some bottles, set some things on fire,” I say, getting out of the truck.
“Great,” Mindii says. “Glad I’m wearing the right earrings then.”
We open the door and walk inside. It’s bright with fluorescent lights. Bhangra beats are playing loudly, and the TV is on with the anime Afro Samurai playing. A Punjabi dude wearing a gold necklace and a “Thug Life” T-shirt rests his elbows on the counter. He has a sketch pad in front of him, fine-tip Sakura pens, colored pencils, and markers scattered on the flat surface next to the cash register. He’s a young kid around my age, with a heavy muscular build that makes him look older than he actually is. He doesn’t go to our school, but I know his face. Preet. He blinks real hard at me and scrambles to step back.
“We’re closing! We got cameras, man. The money is already out,” he announces forcefully. “And I’m armed. There’s a gang of people in the back. Oyyyyy, Chacha! Mamu!” he screams.
He is still scrambling behind the counter and unsheathes a flimsy-looking katana, aiming its blade at us both from ten feet away. We move behind a stack of chips and corn nuts.
“I-I’m just looking for Sunny,” I say. “I mean, I’m Sunny. I’m looking for a notebook.”
“What?” he says as the blade of the katana shakes.
“We’re not robbing you, dude,” Mindii says.
“Then why are you dressed like that?”
“What are you talking about?” I say, perplexed for a moment. Then I remember. I’m the weird one in this context. The fake beard. The boots. The Dafydd.
“Anyway, we don’t sell notebooks. Go write on your hand or something.” He is still aiming the katana at us.
Two guys emerge from the back, near the sodas and beers. I immediately recognize Jagpal Saini. He is technically an uncle, but he’s too much in denial of his age for anyone to ever call him Uncle Saini with a straight face. Looks like he’s forty, thinks he’s twenty-five, a bald spot on the top of his head, a few gray hairs in his stubble. Randeep is slowly walking behind him. He’s wearing a large football jersey, a small white turban, and an untrained beard that looks like it’s having way too much fun on his face. He’s only slightly older than us, around Goldy’s age. I know all of them from various parties I’ve been forced to attend over the years. Under normal circumstances, they would probably recognize me. Randeep used to hang with Goldy at these events back in the day.
“Man, put your dumbass sword away, Preet,” Jagpal says.
“Is it Halloween?” Randeep says. “Are y’all gonna duel? You look like a Punjabi leprechaun.”
“Yo, that’s it! Is that a knitted beard? Where’s yer pot o’ gold?” Jagpal says, doing a very ungraceful and inaccurate jig. This is why nobody calls him Uncle.
“It’s crocheted,” I say icily.
“I don’t doubt you think there’s a difference,” Jagpal says.
I sigh heavily. “Of course there’s a motherfucking difference!” I shriek. “Knitting involves two pointy needles and if you drop a stitch that’s it, your life is fucked because the entire thing will unravel. Crochet is more forgiving and done with a single crochet hook. And that’s just the basic difference.”
Jagpal and Randeep look at each other. Then keel over with laughter.
“On second thought, you ain’t no leprechaun. You’re like that one dude who’s all, ‘Thou shalt not pass,’ ” Randeep says in a deep voice.
“Nah, son, it’s like this.” Jagpal clears his throat. “Thou SHALT not pass!”
“I’m not Gandalf from Lord of the Bhenchod Rings,” I say in exasperation.
I grit my teeth. “I’m Dafydd.”
They all stare blankly at me.
“I’m cosplaying.” I sigh. “I’m dressed up as a character named Dafydd.”
“Anyway, that’s not the line,” Mindii says.
“That’s not the line? Of course it’s the line. You know how many times I’ve seen the movie? That’s Gandalf’s most famous line,” Randeep scoffs.
“Well. I’ve read all the books and watched the movies,” Mindii says.
“You’ve read the books?” Randeep says incredulously.
“The big fat books? Like The Hobbit and shit?” Jagpal adds.
“Two nerd bros want to question my nerd status. What a surprise,” Mindii says, leaving them at a loss for words momentarily. “Yes, motherfucker. I have. And ‘Thou shalt not pass’ is not the line. Not in the book. Not in the movie.”
“What’s the line then?” Randeep says.
Preet lets out a snigger while putting the finishing touches on his preliminary sketch, a lone Sikh with robes and a mechanical eye, holding a spinning circular blade.
“In the book, it’s ‘You cannot pass!’ ” she intones, placing a bag of corn nuts and a bag of chips above her head to emulate Gandalf’s one-handed sword and staff. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from the pit of her stomach. “And in the movie, it’s ‘You shall not pass!’ ” she says even more dramatically.
“I don’t know. Is that right?” Jagpal says, turning to Randeep, then irritatedly at Preet as he continues sketching.
“Let me try it again. Thou shalt not pass!” Randeep booms, using two Oreo packets near him as props.
“That sounds right,” Jagpal says, and halfheartedly adds, “You cannot pass.”
“Oyyy meditating bandar!” Jagpal yells at Preet. “You’re constantly barking in my ear from morning to night. Now I’m getting my ass handed to me and you’re quiet like a digestive biscuit. Say something, fool!”
Preet closes up his sketch pad and starts putting his art supplies away. “You’re not enunciating, that’s why it don’t sound right. It’s from The Fellowship of the Ring.”
“Damn,” Randeep says.
“Oh ho ho. I’m not enunciating? Go on, Sir Ian McKellen. Let’s hear your enunciation skills, professional actor,” Jagpal mocks.
Preet steps away from the cash register, grabs some chips, and smashes them together in the air violently. “Go back to the Shadow!” Preet says super loudly. It’s almost comical how serious he’s taking these lines.
“You cannot pass!” they all say in unison.
I look at Mindii, Preet, Jagpal, and Randeep behaving less like professional enunciating actors, and more like professional bandar. Dafydd doesn’t look anything like a leprechaun or a wizard.
Mindii opens up the bag of chips she was holding and makes slow crunching sounds as she eats.
I exhale. “Well, so glad you find all this funny.” I change my tone from awkwardly conversational to a tone most fight-y.
I clear my throat. “I am looking for my brother’s notebook. It’s super important and was stolen like half an hour ago. G-G-Gaganpreet. Goldy. Gill.”
“Yeah,” Mindii chimes in, her mouth full of chips.
It feels so strange saying the name on his birth certificate like that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him called Gaganpreet, not even when my parents were extra pissed at him.
A hush falls over them all and the only sound is Mindii crunching the last of her chips.
“Goldy was a good dude,” Jagpal says.
“Yeah. He was cool.”
“That dude knew how to party,” Randeep says ruefully, like this is a compliment. “I remember this one party. Four beers and I was buzzed. Goldy downs a full bottle of Johnny Walker. Are you hearing me? He just straight chugged it. The most baller thing I’ve ever seen.”
“No soda. No water. Solid Punjab da puttar,” Jagpal says.
“Well. He’s dead now. But glad he entertained you with his party tricks,” I say sharply.
They’re silent.
“You’re his little bro,” Jagpal says.
“That shit was tragic, man,” Randeep adds.
“Which fool’s party are you talking about?” I say, ignoring the bullshit sympathetic tone of his voice.
Don’t say Chotu. Don’t say Chotu. Don’t say Chotu.
“Chotu,” Randeep says.
Foibles. Foibles. Motherfucking. Foibles.
“That boy’s an alcoholic, man,” Jagpal says. “Ayy, Preet, that’s the party you’re going to, right?”
“Word,” Preet says.
“Goldy was an alcoholic too,” I say.
“An alcoholic? Goldy? Nah, man. I know alcoholics. Goldy was only like that at parties. That’s just being Punjabi. Like what’s it called. Drinking socially and shit,” Jagpal says.
“Social drinker,” Randeep says.
“Chotu’s definitely not a social drinker,” Preet clarifies. “Unless by social drinker, you mean a complete alcoholic, falling over and shit.”
I’m about to smite this pajama and his whole store, Punjabi genes and all. Before I have a chance to react, Mindii bulldozes past everyone and grabs another bag of salt and vinegar chips and two orange sodas, putting them down on the counter.
She looks at them.
“I’m not paying for this shit. Give me a bag though. Where can we find a big chesty guy named G-Dawg?” Mindii says.
“And a Sikh guy dressed as Thor? He’s the one who stole Goldy’s notebook,” I say.
“Wait. Thor? Isn’t that the guy Goldy was going out with a while back?” Randeep says as Preet puts the chips and orange sodas into a large paper bag.
Preet shrugs his shoulders.
“When you. When you . . .” I sputter. “Say going out? Do you? Goldy . . .”
It takes them a minute to understand what I’m saying.
“Sometimes people are gay,” Preet says.
“I know that!” I explode. “Why do you nobodies know that.”
“I’m gonna let that slide because you’re upset,” Jagpal says.
“We are not nobodies. We are somebodies,” Randeep says.
“But you’re being kind of a dick,” Preet says, taking a pencil and tucking some stray hair back into his turban.
“And possibly homophobic. I can’t fully tell based on the context, but it’s leaning that way,” Randeep says.
I am genuinely disturbed, shocked, a little nauseated, and feeling kinda light-headed. Of course I knew he was gay. I’m his brother. When he came out to me I thought it was a special moment. But. What the hell? He told these bird brains? Does everyone know? Did he tell Mama and Papa?
“It’s kinda common knowledge. Some people are dicks. Some people are like supportive and stuff. And some just don’t care.” Randeep looks over at me.
“Who else knows?” I say.
“I don’t have a guest list. There wasn’t like a coming-out party.” He shrugs.
“He wasn’t advertising or nothing, but not like hiding either,” Jagpal says.
I really thought I was the only one who knew.
“Chotu’s throwing this gamer party. G-Dawg will be there,” Preet says. “Maybe this Thor guy will be with him if they just left.”
“These kids with their terminology,” Jagpal says. “Gamer party? It’s called video games. I’m telling you, you’re addicted to that screen. At least my generation had to wait for our modem to make that khhhhhh sound to connect to the internet.”
“How many TikToks did you make today?” Preet barks.
“That’s different!” Jagpal retorts.
“You going to the party now?” Mindii says.
“I’ve been ready for an hour,” Preet says, looking right at Jagpal and Randeep.
Preet rolls his eyes.
“Just go with these nice people. I’m going to sleep,” Jagpal says. “You’re gonna get wasted and spend all night there anyway.”
I look at Mindii and she has that expressionless face.
“Can’t believe this shit,” Preet says as they usher us outside and start locking up. He grabs one end of a duffel bag and points at the other. I reluctantly pick it up. Damn, that shit is heavy.
“I guess we’re continuing the rash decisions,” I say to Mindii.
“Who would have thought,” she says. “Stefan and his caucacity were the key to keeping this night of rash decisions going.”