Like To Be You ✓

twenty seven

Before first period in school the next day, Meera shows pictures of her and her family while they celebrated Diwali. She looks beautiful in the shiny lehenga-choli she wears in the photographs, and I especially love the henna on her hands.

"We call it Mehndi in Hindi," she says, holding up her hands so I can take a whiff of its peculiar fragrance. "Henna is the Arabic term."

"The more you know." Zayne shrugs, leaning forward to catch a whiff himself. "I love this smell. I need to buy the plant now. And rub it all over myself."

"Why do you make everything so creepy?" Meera sighs, zipping open her bag and pulling out a small steel box.

"It's in my blood."

"Here." She opens the box to reveal little beige squares. "My mom made besan barfis at home. Try them, they're delicious."

Zayne's already grabbing two and shoving them in his mouth. I reach for one and take a bite, and then I'm transported to heaven.

"Tell your mom I love her cooking." Zayne moans, grabbing another.

Meera raises a brow in amusement. "Oh, she knows, which is why this box is for you. You guys can share. Return the empty box, though. That stuff's expensive."

Zayne gives her a grateful smile. "You're really sweet, Meera. Just like this barfi."

I smile at both of them and say, "I got you guys something, too, actually." I open my bag and retrieve a white box, giving it to Zayne, before removing another and handing it to Meera, whose mouth is hanging open like a gaping fish.

"Neil, I can't accept this." She mumbles, while Zayne throws his arms around my neck and hugs me.

"I love having a rich best friend!" He says, just as Tyler and his group of friends pass by us. I see his gaze flicker between Zayne and I before he looks away, expressionless.

"Neil, what the actual fuck?" Meera's voice is high-pitched now. "Are you for real?"

"Happy Thanksgiving, guys." I say. As Meera grapples about for words, Miranda, noticing the slight commotion, comes to a stop beside me, lazily chewing on her gum, and I say, "Hey, Fanta, Happy Thanksgiving," before tossing the similar box of AirPods at her. She nearly misses it, and clutches it at an awkward angle against her chest. 

Then she looks up from it, her raccoon-eyes wide and scary, and says, "Neil, what the bloody heck?" 

It's fun being rich, sometimes. 

x

"Alright kiddos." Mr. Blackwell drops a thick bundle of what most plausibly is our answer sheets and crosses his arms over his chest. "PTM's next week, and you need to come. Don't chicken out and send your parents only. It's your final year, and these grades will be sent to your colleges. It's a time of pressure, so it's imperative for both the parents and you students to be present. There'll be a small orientation in the auditorium, too." At this, the class groans. Orientations are all the same: the principal talks about stress and time management and blah blah blah, and then the suddenly inspired parents repeat it on the way back home. I prefer to call it a waste of a day. 

"Now." He snaps the rubber band binding the bundle. "Time for your results."

He begins calling out names and handing them over. When he calls my name, as always, there's a ball of tension in my throat. I need a 100 and nothing less.

"You could've done better." My knees tremble at the serious look he gives me. When I look up from the 100 scrawled on my paper, he's giving me a cheeky grin.