During the first two days of school, he timed it so that he was a solid five hundred feet behind Timmy on the three-quarter-mile trek to his new bus stop in front of the rickety Miller farmhouse that belonged to Sharon Nagorski’s great-uncle. When he got to the top of his street on the third day of school, however, he found Timmy waiting for him. He was standing there with his faithful mutt, Naomi, wearing white jean shorts and a black tank top. His hair was spiked, with little lines shaved into the sides of his head.
They greeted each other with a handshake and walked in silence, kicking a gray stone back and forth to each other. As they neared the farmhouse, Timmy finally spoke: “Yo, what’s up with those people who are always over at your house?”
“Which people?”
“That woman. The one who’s always with that tall kid.”
“Marc Kaufman? He’s my best friend. She’s his mom.”
“Kaufman?” said Timmy. “Wait, I’ve heard of Marc Kaufman. Isn’t he, like, nuts?”
“Nuts? He’s really nice, actually — really cool.” He tensed up, preparing for an avalanche of further questioning.
Fortunately, Timmy changed the subject, telling him that his brother Eric was dating a hot senior. “They haven’t done it yet, but he’s doing her up the butt.”
“Gross,” said Siddharth.
“Why, you gay or something?”
“Nah. I’m just more of a pussy man myself.” He looked over at Timmy and was relieved to see he was smiling.
“Yeah, me too. But he doesn’t wanna get her pregnant.”
* * *
Even though things were going smoothly with Timmy, Siddharth still dreaded seeing his ex — best friend, Chris Pizzolorusso. He had slept over at Chris’s house at least a dozen times when he was younger, and his mother had been friendly with Chris’s mom. After the accident, Chris had tried to be nice. Every time he called, he said, “I’m here if you wanna talk.” Siddharth had found that shit suffocating, so he cut himself off.
For the first week of seventh grade, he glanced down whenever he passed Chris in the hall, or took refuge in the lavatory upon spotting him at lunch. One day, as he was squirting ketchup onto his fries in the cafeteria, he felt someone touch his shoulder. He turned to find Chris standing there with a smile on his face. He had braces now, and was much lankier.
When Chris started going on about a summer fishing trip to Lake George, Siddharth loosened up. He even made a couple of jokes, saying how their new English teacher must do her hair in the morning by sticking her finger in a light socket.
Chris laughed, but then suddenly got serious. “Yo, I gotta ask you something.”
“What?” said Siddharth, grinding his teeth.
“Those shoes — are they, like, suede?”
“Yeah. Yeah, they are.” He breathed out in relief. “Of course they’re suede. I don’t wear that fake-ass shit.”
“Dude,” said Chris, “I gotta get me some of those.”
* * *
The person he most dreaded seeing was Sharon Nagorski, and when he spotted her in the back corner of his first-period English class, he made a plan: he would have his father call up his guidance counselor and get him transferred to another class.
His English teacher, Mrs. Wadsworth, was a tiny elderly woman with a bloated belly, which made her appear pregnant. She had a crown of jet-black permed hair, but her curls were so thin that the purple dye stains on her scalp were visible underneath the flickering tube lights. On the first day of school, Mrs. Wadsworth recognized his surname while taking attendance. “Arora?” she said. “I have fond memories of an Arjun Arora. Would you by chance be his son?”
“His son?” said Siddharth. “Uh, he’s my brother.” Several students laughed. He wasn’t sure if they were laughing at him or with him. He recalled Arjun’s observation: The funniest kids are the coolest ones. “If he was my father,” Siddharth continued, “he would have had me when he was, like, seven. They’d probably put him in The Guinness Book of World Records or something.”
The class erupted with laughter.
“Well, he was a beautiful writer,” said Mrs. Wadsworth. “I’ll be expecting great things from you, Mr. Arora. And no funny business, because I know your mother too. My husband was a veteran of the Second World War — God rest his soul — so I had the privilege of making her acquaintance.”
Siddharth stared down at his desk, telling himself that most of the other kids didn’t know a thing about him or his family. And the ones who had known probably didn’t remember. But he felt a pair of eyes on him and turned to find Sharon looking in his direction. Her hair was much shorter, and a little darker, and pimples now marred her cheeks. She offered him a faint smile, but he ignored it, returning his attention to the front of the classroom.
Later that week, they were going over their first reading assignment in English class, Jack London’s “To Build a Fire,” which Siddharth hadn’t liked as much as Call of the Wild. He stared out the window during the classroom discussion, and Mrs. Wadsworth slammed her book on her table to get his attention. She demanded that he tell her about the story’s principle theme. Siddharth said, “The theme? I dunno — like, winter sucks.” Various students snickered, which made him feel good, but when he saw Sharon covering her mouth and grinning, he felt a real rush. He didn’t know why, but he liked making her laugh. He wanted to make her laugh even harder.
Another time, they were reading a short story by Kipling, and Mrs. Wadsworth singled him out to ask if the story rang true. He said, “Ring true? I don’t even know what that means.”
“What I mean is, does this story’s description of India seem authentic to you?”
“Authentic? How am I supposed to know?”
“I’m quite certain you’ve been to India before. At least your brother was a well-traveled young man.”
He turned to Sharon, who was smirking, which made his chest tingle. Sharon’s smile made him feel gutsy. Strong. “If this was really India,” he said, “then the characters would be complaining about how bad it smells. They’d probably say something about their stomach hurting, because if you eat anything there, you get really bad diarrhea.” He turned to Sharon, who was laughing so hard that she snorted. He felt like he had won some sort of victory.
The pair also had fifth-period science together, and during the second week of school, when their teacher, Mr. Polanski, told the students to pick a permanent lab partner, Sharon asked him to work with her. He didn’t really know anybody else in the class and said yes. By the end of the month, they were speaking on the phone at least once a week to complete their lab reports.
At first he dreaded these phone conversations, fearing that she would bring up what had happened between them. But Sharon never mentioned their fight. She didn’t mention Luca Peroti, and talking on the phone with her — an actual girl — began to make him feel good, even if she was still a pariah who had lugged around that stupid trumpet case. In some ways, Sharon had changed a lot since sixth grade. The most noticeable thing was that she was quieter now — more serious. She never wore skirts or dresses anymore, just black jeans or black tights, and baggy sweatshirts that fell below her waist. But he could tell that her breasts had gotten bigger, and he liked the way she decorated her eyes. They were always outlined in black, and her eyelashes seemed longer. They seemed wetter than everyone else’s. He occasionally wondered if she’d be more game to put out for him than the popular girls, but he always repented this line of thinking. Luca wouldn’t let him live it down if he hooked up with a freak like Sharon Nagorski.