“That’s the only thing that makes this bearable,” she said. “She would always have you.”
A sliver of guilt slid through my heart. If I’d gone to the museum with Chloe, she wouldn’t be sitting here worrying about Olivia. I would have known something was wrong when no one showed up. I would have dragged her out of there, and the only problem we’d be trying to solve tonight would be whether to tell Cristian’s girlfriend about his three “special baby girls.”
“I have to think it through.” Chloe twisted a thick strand of hair around her finger, her classic stress move. “The police might show up any minute to throw me in jail.”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” I said. “No one is going to prison. The lawyers will clear all this up and then we can get back to living our lives. And even if they can’t, there is no way I would let you go to prison alone. You need someone to have your back in the joint or you might get shanked in the shower. It has to be someone hard, tough, and street-smart. Someone forged in the hell of being the only girl in a family with three boys.”
As I’d hoped, Chloe finally smiled. “You’ve been watching too many shows with Rose.”
“We’ll have to beat a few people up when we get there,” I continued. “We have to show our dominance; otherwise we’ll appear weak, and that’s when they take your stuff and turn you into somebody’s bitch.”
“I’m nobody’s bitch.” Chloe finished her glass and slammed it on the counter.
“Now we’re talking.” We were a little bit tipsy. Good thing Olivia was sleeping over at a friend’s house. She didn’t like to see her mother acting anything other than parental.
“I would look terrible in an orange jumpsuit.” Chloe grabbed the bottle and drank straight from the top. “It’s not my color.”
“That’s because you were never meant to wear it.” I didn’t mention that I looked great in orange. It made my skin glow and set off my dark hair.
“I’ve never shanked anyone before.” She pushed herself up, her forehead creased in a frown. “I don’t think I could do it.”
“I got you, babe,” I said with the confidence of someone who’d spent their childhood playing cops and robbers with her brothers and having pretend sword fights with sticks.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said, half to herself.
“Of course it’s going to be okay.”
I said the words, but I didn’t believe them.
Six
Chloe and I walked into my parents’ house the next morning just as Nani was rolling roti, smoothing a small ball of dough over a marble base. My grandmother spent every Saturday preparing a big meal for the weekly family lunch on Sunday and every Sunday complaining about how tired she was after doing all that cooking.
“Howdy, ladies!” Nani said. “Pull up a chair. Get ’em while they’re hot.”
“You’re not a Texas cowboy,” Dad said from behind his newspaper. He liked actual paper when it came to the news. He didn’t like my slightly abrasive grandmother. Dad usually made himself scarce when Nani was around. He must have been taken by surprise. To say they didn’t get along was an understatement. Nani was not the kind of person to keep her views to herself and she hadn’t liked my dad from the day they met. My mom was supposed to marry a doctor or an engineer. She’d married a suit salesman instead.
“I’ve been watching Westerns at the gym,” Nani said. “It must have rubbed off.”
Nani was my mother’s mom, but she shared my dad’s obsession with fitness. Lean and slim, she worked out twice a day and had the biceps to show for it. Her jet-black hair—a result of cheap boxed hair dye—was a contrast to her softly lined face, but there was no hint of senility in her dark brown eyes.
“I love warm roti.” Chloe reached for the freshly fried flatbread, and I slapped her hand away. Although she’d spent as much time at my house as she had at home when we were kids, she still didn’t recognize a trap when she saw one.
“We can’t stay.” I sensed an impending storm and even one roti would lead to an invitation to sit down for a meal. “I’m just here to change because I spent the night at Chloe’s, then we’re heading out for coffee.”
“Don’t forget we’re having a special dinner tomorrow night,” Mom said, tucking loose strands from her graying hair behind her ear. “Be home by six p.m.” She gave me the smile she used on her students when she was giving them a pop quiz. She had her usual English professor look going, with thick purple glasses, a beige sweater pulled over a white shirt, a colorful scarf, and an artsy necklace. Work. Casual. Party. Business. My mother dressed the same for every occasion.
“Oh, and by the way . . .”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. My muscles tensed, ready to run.
“Nani got a call from Annika Auntie.” Mom and Nani shared a look that screamed trouble. “Annika said she heard from Meera Auntie who heard from Satya Auntie who heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that you were at the police station last night.” Mom raised an eyebrow. Nani looked over her shoulder. Dad lowered his newspaper. Chloe shoved a warm piece of roti into her mouth.
“That’s very interesting.” But not surprising. Nani was the center of gossip in our local South Asian community. Chicago. Naperville. Burr Ridge. Lombard. Downers Grove. Evanston. Oak Park. She knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who would tell her what was going on no matter the time of day or night.
“They said you were talking to Riswan Dev,” Mom continued when my immediate response was not forthcoming.
Chloe handed me a piece of roti. I stuffed my mouth so conversation would be impossible. Anything to avoid having to answer the question I knew was coming.
“Do I hear wedding bells?”
Gah!
“He’s my cousin,” I said between chews. “Did you forget that part?”
“He’s a distant cousin.” Nani threw a roti into the pan, and it sizzled in the oil, sending up a scent so delicious, it made my stomach rumble. “At your age, you can’t be picky.”
Dad lowered his newspaper and peered over the top. “Is he the lawyer?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Lawyer is okay. I approve. Just let me know the date. Don’t get married during Fashion Week.”
“Most parents would be concerned if their daughter had been spotted outside Chicago’s 18th District police station in the middle of the night,” I said, bristling. “They’d wonder if I’d been hurt, attacked, held up, even assaulted. Maybe I committed a crime. Did you think about that? I could be a criminal.”
Mom and Dad shared a laugh. Even Nani joined in.
“Not you,” Mom said. “You’re not the type.”
“What type is that?”
“You’ve always been a good girl, Simi. Yes, you’re impulsive, easily distracted, and overanxious, but you’re a team player—a follower, not a leader. You encourage others, but you never reach for the stars. It’s not a bad thing. Lots of people walk that middle road, but you won’t find any criminals on it. That kind of person is willing to take risks and cross lines you would never cross.”