Ginny and Noah

Embracing the Simple Things

Ring...ring...ring, my alarm clock screeched as I rubbed my pomegranate, bloodshot eyes and placed my abnormally hard contact lenses in each eye. As if I were a zombie (I probably was one in my past life), I leisurely walked to the kitchen where Mom was making French toast out of old Panetone Noah's mother gave us for Vesak the year before. (I know Noah's mother hates us, but you never give Panetone to someone, ever, because fruitcake is a food of suffering.)
"Morning, Ginny," Mom gently put out as she dredged the thin slices of Panetone in a homemade custard. "Did you sleep well?"
"Do I look like I slept well?" I exaggerated as I rubbed my eyes some more. I took a large sip of the orange juice that my pita left for me in his special cup. Pita is Hindi for "father", so because my father is from India, I call him that. (Another reason I call him "pita": It's fun to say. Go ahead, say it.)
My parents are divorced so I don't really get to see my pita very often, but when I do, we always try to have fun so I can take my mind off my stepfather. My stepfather, who I call Mr. Light-Headed when I write, is one of the most obnoxious people in SoHo (Now that I think about it, maybe he is one of the most annoying people on planet Earth.) First of all, he treats my mother (and me for that matter) like trash by talking back and being snobbish. (Story short- he treats us like crap.) Mr. Light-Headed also thinks he's the smartest man ever to live.  (Heard of Einstein, buddy?) And he got a 77 on his IQ test. I don't understand why my mother decided to marry him, but whatever...
"Ginny, I forgot. You have go to school with Noah today. His mother is out of town for the South Beach Wine & Food Festival, and his father is working an early shift at Blue Cow. And you know his parents won't let him go on the subway by himself." The Blue Cow is an upscale burger joint in Chelsea, where practically every chef in Chelsea and SoHo works. And the food, out of this world. (Noah always says he wishes could marry the Double Jalapeño Popper Burger.)
I quickly ate my French toast and drank all my orange juice before going to my wee room to change into my hideous school uniform. Because I go to a Buddhist school (My mother and father are both Buddhists from the Indian Subcontinent.), my uniform resembles the everyday attire of a monk. It's a thick burgundy sweater, tucked into a macaroni and cheese orange A-line skirt, fasten with an orange silk obi-like belt, and black Mary Janes with long white socks. Once I figured out how to fit my ginormous head through the sweater's head hole, I grabbed my backpack and headed upstairs to Noah's apartment where he was waiting for me by the door.
"You look nice today," Noah complimented with a flirtatious grin.
"Oh, shut up. I wear the same thing every day. And I didn't even have a chance to comb my hair. I looks like a robin tried to build a nest with it."
"I was trying to be nice."
"I know. I'm sorry, but I'm just so cranky. It's that time of month again- period month. Great, another pair of underwear will go to waste. Now which one will it be?"
We continued the walk silently until we caught the R train going downtown.
Noah pulled his mathematics textbook, notebook, and happy birthday pencil out of his "man purse" (his version of a backpack) once the train started moving.
"Babe, can you do my homework? It's only 9 pages of advanced algebra, 25 problems on each page."
"First of all, never call me babe. We are both skolios. I'm a girl and you're a boy, so the only way I could ever like you is if you were trans or nonbinary. And second of all, do your own homework. I have my own work to worry about now because Mr. Chakraborti assigned our class a project on suffering and I have no idea what to do for it." Maybe I can do it on fruitcake, I thought. Or Noah's mother.
The subway car came to a complete halt, as we stood up from our seats and walked towards the nearest exit. And then, we did nothing we had ever done before. Noah grabbed my hand and held onto it as if I was important and he could trust me. After walking a block, we were at our private school, The Anathapindika Academy for Buddhist Studies, in Queens. Noah started sweating once we reached our school, so I knew I had to snap him out of it.
"We haven't even started school yet and you're sweating like someone's about to murder you," I said with a serious tone as I put my hair in a ponytail. "And it's 45 degrees Fahrenheit! This is marshmallow fluff compared to actually being inside the building and dealing with the teachers. And taking tests. Embrace the marshmallow fluff while it's here. Embrace the simple things while they last."