“Let me guess,” he told Arjun, locking himself in the bathroom with the new cordless phone, Ms. Farber’s most recent purchase. “You’re doing this to impress your girlfriend.”
“Don’t be a child,” said Arjun. “I’m doing this because I believe in justice. Look, I have a week off in February. I’ll definitely see you then.”
“Whatever.”
“Siddharth, what did I tell you about trusting people? You gotta trust me. I’ll see you in February.”
Over dinner that night, Mohan Lal said he was glad Arjun was putting his money where his mouth was, but that he hoped this charity nonsense wouldn’t interfere with his studies. Ms. Farber said that Arjun was setting a great example, and she thought that the four of them should plan something similar for the summer.
“Fabulous,” said Marc, who then made a gagging sound.
“Siddharth, honey,” said Ms. Farber, “I know this is disappointing, but it actually might be for the best.”
“The best for who?”
Ms. Farber explained that an old friend from her Manhattan days was finally getting married, and that the wedding was being held in Atlantic City on the final weekend of Arjun’s February vacation. “Mo,” she said, “Arjun could watch the boys. We could turn it into a little vacation.”
“Vacation?” said Mohan Lal. “You think my book will write itself?”
“Jeez, Mohan,” she replied. “God forbid we spend a night alone.”
A few days later, Ms. Farber booked a two-night February package at a boardwalk hotel, which included four meals, a live show, and thirty dollars of tokens for the slot machines. Siddharth cringed at the idea of her and Mohan Lal being alone together in a hotel room, but he calmed himself with the thought of having his brother all to himself. Besides, February vacation was still two months away. A lot could happen between now and then. Ms. Farber could be hit by a bus, or perhaps move to Indonesia. No, that would be bad. That would be bad because Mohan Lal would have to grieve for another woman.
* * *
The next morning was the second-to-last day of school before Christmas vacation. The sky was bright blue, but the temperature hovered around freezing. As Siddharth headed to the bus stop, he couldn’t free his mind from thoughts of Atlantic City. He had once gone there when he was seven or eight, for one of Mohan Lal’s marketing conferences. On the first night there, they went out to a fancy restaurant, where the waiters pulled out their chairs and brushed away their crumbs. He had loved all the luxury and attention. He ordered mussels for dinner, even though his mother said he wouldn’t like them. She was right, but to prove a point he had eaten every last one and said they were great.
Siddharth reached the top of his street, pausing in the middle of the quiet intersection to wait for Timmy Connor. He placed his foot on a frozen puddle, causing it to shatter. When they were small, this area would often freeze over completely, and he and the Connor brothers used this ever-present patch of ice as a makeshift skating rink. Surrounded by sand and salt, the puddle now looked like a miniature ocean, complete with its own beach. During the Atlantic City trip, while Arjun had bathed in the ocean, Siddharth remained on the shore building a sand castle. As he stood there now, waiting for Timmy, the memory was still so vivid in his mind. He could taste the bitter mussels. He could see his Velcro sneakers, the silk scarf his mother tied around her neck when it was windy. But what was the point of these memories? That weekend was gone forever.
Looking up, he saw Naomi, Timmy’s mutt, trotting toward him. Siddharth’s mother used to keep a water bowl for Naomi by the Aroras’ front steps. The dog nuzzled up against him, and he scratched below her jaw. The tip of her left ear was oozing blood; a few gnats were swarming around it. “What’s wrong?” asked Siddharth. “Where’s Timmy?”
The dog wagged her tail and offered him a paw.
If he waited any longer, he would miss the bus, so he started walking. Naomi remained by his side. He saw that many of his neighbors had placed Christmas candles in their windows, and a few had put up menorahs. This year, Ms. Farber would light a menorah at the Aroras’, and she would buy him a compact disc player for Hanukkah. His neighbors’ lawns were blotched with snow, so he stuck to the street to avoid ruining his suede shoes. As the road curved to his left, he passed an enormous oak. The tree stood in front of a tiny brick house, which a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses had recently purchased. Naomi abruptly halted and started barking.
“It’s just a tree,” said Siddharth, patting her head.
The dog’s ears pointed outward, and her tail shot up in the air. She started pacing back and forth, growling.
“Naomi, you’re gonna make me late.”
But her barks got louder and sharper.
Suddenly, a large falcon leaped from the oak and shot upward. As Siddharth watched the bird fly circles above their heads, another image from Atlantic City surfaced. During the trip, his mother had visited a boardwalk psychic who claimed that his dead grandmother was always watching over them — manifesting itself in birds. The psychic said that the presence of any unusual avian life might actually be a sign from Siddharth’s grandmother, and at the time, this notion gave him chills.
He resumed his journey, but with his eyes glued to the winged missile hovering in the clear blue sky. Yes, his mother might have sent the falcon. She might actually be inside of it, he thought. If the bird were actually her, he would apologize to it for so many things — for not drawing regularly or thinking of her more often. He would say sorry for that time she had wanted him to spend a night with his grandfather and he told her that his grandfather was old and boring and smelly. Naomi started barking again. The falcon nosedived toward the earth and grazed the grass, then shot back to the sky. It was now clutching something in its talons.
As it flew toward the main road, the bird released whatever it had hunted. The object crashed on the hood of a parked burgundy Taurus, then bounced to the ground. Siddharth anxiously jogged over to the car and was dismayed to discover that what had fallen was nothing but a crunched-up can of beer. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he mumbled. He stuffed the can down a sewer drain, and it made a plopping sound upon hitting the sooty water. Naomi approached him, once again wagging her tail and panting.
“Go home,” said Siddharth. She wouldn’t budge, so he threw a stick at her. He recalled what his father had said on the ride home from Atlantic City: birds were just birds, and the psychic was a goddamned liar.
* * *
During homeroom, the principal got on the PA system and told everyone to make their way to the gymnasium in an orderly fashion. Today was the band’s annual winter concert, which meant that Sharon would be performing. Siddharth had a vague recollection of her complaining about her mother not being able to attend the event.
He walked down the hall with his only homeroom friend, David Marcus, who was telling him about an upcoming ice-fishing trip. Siddharth was only half-paying attention. He still couldn’t get over the fact that David was shorter than him and not as funny, and yet he had somehow managed to bag a decent girlfriend.
By the time they reached the gym, it was already abuzz with the animated chatter of several hundred students. The basketball hoops had been cranked up, and the bleachers were out, behind a dozen rows of metal folding chairs. Mrs. Oliver, his blond math teacher, directed him and David to these chairs. He turned around and spotted Luca on the bleachers, sitting beside his skinny new girlfriend, Jeanette Horiuchi, who was part Japanese and part Italian. He had lost many hours counseling Luca about this volatile relationship, doling out advice he’d gleaned from the television.