“I don’t get it,” Siddharth said. “I thought you’d be happy about Dad and Barry Uncle. I thought you were the one who didn’t want Dad to be isolated.”
“Look,” Arjun replied, “I don’t really care about any of that lawsuit garbage. But I do think Barry’s an imbecile. He’s an idiot. He’s even more simplistic than Dad.”
“Dad’s not simplistic.”
“They’re both freaking simplistic — simplistic fascists.”
He hated hearing his brother use such cruel words about their father. But they only had a few days together, and he didn’t want to waste a second fighting. He needed to change the subject, so he told Arjun that he was anxious about starting junior high. “I’m worried about all the homework. What if I don’t make any friends?”
Arjun told him to relax. Seventh grade was a big step, but junior high school students were more mature. “I know you have your thing against sports,” he said, “but if I were you, I would definitely run track. The track kids are cool, but they’re also smart. And you should definitely run for student council. It’s a good way to get noticed. And remember, the coolest kids are the ones with the best sense of humor. Make sure you laugh at other people’s jokes.”
Soon they were at the mall, and they headed to a shoe store. After Arjun tried on a couple pairs of running sneakers, he picked out some suede bucks for Siddharth’s first day of school.
“I’m not sure,” said Siddharth.
“Trust me,” said Arjun. “They’re cool.”
On their way home, they passed through the center of town, skirting the annual South Haven County Fair, where their mother had won ribbons for her paintings. From the car, Siddharth was able to catch a glimpse of the fair’s antique auto show, with ancient plows and tractors.
Arjun sneered. “This place is really so freaking hickish.”
Siddharth frowned. “It’s not that bad.”
“Trust me — it is.”
“Okay, so where would you rather live?”
“A million places. London. Bombay. New York.”
“Bombay?” He gritted his teeth. “That’ll be perfect. My big brother’s gonna live in India with his Indian girlfriend.”
Arjun slowed the car. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Siddharth realized he’d made a mistake.
“Don’t be a child. Tell me what you said.”
“Honestly, I was just joking around.”
“No you weren’t. Siddharth, we’re gonna have a problem if you don’t start talking.”
They paused at a stop sign, and he sighed. “I saw a picture of your girlfriend.”
“Which picture?”
“The one in your book.”
Arjun glared at him, then proceeded across Route 114. “You’re still snooping through my stuff. What are you, five?”
“I wasn’t snooping. . It just fell out.”
“Of what?”
“Your goddamn book.”
“Yeah, right. Grow up, Sid. You’re almost a teenager. You gotta stop acting like a child.”
“Yeah, I’m the child.” He stared out at the beige-colored fields of Miller Farm, where a few fat cows were lazing about. “I’m not the one who’s going out with an Indian girl. Who would do that? That’s disgusting.”
Arjun pulled over close to the old Miller farmhouse, where Sharon Nagorski’s great-uncle still lived. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Who the hell would want an Indian girlfriend?”
“You don’t know how stupid you sound.” Arjun shifted into park, then turned off the engine. “But I suppose it isn’t your fault.” He grunted. “You’re so brainwashed. And for your information, she’s not even Indian.”
“Right. I guess she’s Polish. Chinese maybe?”
“Just drop it.” Arjun started up the car.
“Is she from Siberia? Where was she born? Oh, I know — Mars?”
“Stop, Siddharth. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I’m a fool? You’re the one who’s screwing a freaking Indian.”
“You’re an idiot,” Arjun said, twisting up his lips. “And she’s definitely not Indian.”
“So where’s she from then?”
“None of your business.”
“Tell me.”
“She’s from Michigan, alright?” Arjun was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. “And her parents — they’re from Pakistan.”
“You’re joking.”
“Would you just shut up? And not a word to Dad.”
“What are you gonna do about it? Beat me up?”
Arjun reached over and grabbed the back of Siddharth’s neck.
“Ow!”
“No, but if you say anything, it’s over between us. I won’t even look in your direction.”
* * *
On the final night of Arjun’s visit, the plan was for everyone to go out to dinner and a movie. Siddharth was dreading the evening. He and his brother had made up, but since they had wasted some precious time fighting, he wanted to be alone with Arjun — or at least have it be a family affair, just the two of them and Mohan Lal. An hour before they were scheduled to leave, Marc claimed to have a stomachache and said he wasn’t coming, which eased some of Siddharth’s tension. At seven p.m., everyone else piled into the minivan and headed toward Pasta Palace. Ms. Farber had decided she didn’t care for the place, calling it loud and garish. But Siddharth still liked it, and it remained Mohan Lal’s favorite restaurant.
As they approached the center of South Haven, Mohan Lal told Arjun about the shady land deal that had led to the destruction of the Carter Family Horse Farm, which had been turned into a new complex of large luxury homes. Converting this type of agricultural land into commercial property was illegal, but Mrs. Carter, the town treasurer, was friendly with the South Haven mayor, Bob Swirsky. Swirsky had the town charter amended so that she could sell the land quickly, and for lots of money. Within a few months, Mrs. Carter had bought a brand-new six-bedroom home in Woodford. Bob Swirsky was driving around South Haven in an S-class Mercedes.
Mohan Lal said, “What a marvelous place that farm was. But corruption has a way of spoiling beauty.”
“Bob Swirsky?” said Arjun. “I think he used to be my bus driver. Always seemed kind of sleazy.”
“Ah, small-town politics,” said Ms. Farber. “Aren’t they just charming?”
Siddharth stared out the window at the new luxury mansions, which were still empty, not even up for sale yet. He didn’t miss the Carter Farm. He barely ever thought about those afternoons with his father and the horses. As far as he was concerned, they could destroy every single farm in town. If there were more mansions in South Haven, then they would be cheaper, and the Aroras would be able to afford one.
When they got to Pasta Palace, the restaurant was crowded as usual. The hostess, who had abundant cleavage and lots of hair spray, told them they would have to wait for at least twenty-five minutes. But Mustafa, the Pakistani manager, came over and said, “Sweetheart, these are my oldest customers. I think we can squeeze ’em in Beth’s section.” He slapped her on the ass, then kissed another customer on each of her cheeks.
Ten minutes later, they were seated at a cushioned booth. The clamor of conversation and clanking silverware had a calming effect on Siddharth, who made sure that his knee was touching his brother’s thigh. Arjun would be gone tomorrow, and he wanted to remain as close to him as possible for the next eighteen hours. Their waitress, Beth, had spiky hair and called everyone “honey.” Siddharth told her he wanted his usual, baked spinach ravioli, and Ms. Farber ordered soup and salad. She shot Mohan Lal a look when he ordered the veal parmigiana, and he changed his order to broiled scrod. She told Arjun that he was young still, and that he should try the veal.