Cornered (4 page)

She deserves this. She deserves an entire year of it. I want Olivia to suffer, but I no longer have any desire to watch. I step back around the corner and stare at the wall of the corridor. I wish there was a rear exit, some way to escape. Then I hear a commotion in the café. A glass shatters, and Olivia squeals. Someone has knocked over her water. I don't need to look to know that Olivia must be soaked.

I can't wait any longer. I pull a twenty out of my pocket. I'll pass it to the waitress on my way out the door. If I move fast enough, I might go unnoticed.

But Olivia instantly sees me. Her spine straightens and her eyes light up. She's looking at me like I'm her long lost best friend. A smile starts to form on her lips, then it freezes. I can tell she's remembering everything she did to me. And I can see the horror on her face when she realizes that I must be NEMESIS—the last person left that she could turn to for help. I was Olivia's only hope. And now that hope is gone.

This is far too painful to watch. If it were one of my videos, I'd hit fast-forward. But I don't think I've ever captured a moment like this before—the instant a victim decides to give up. I can almost see Olivia's life leaving her body.

That's when I do something I've never done before. I drag a chair from another table and take a seat next to Olivia. It's three against two now. Us against them. I'll help Olivia fight this battle. Together, we might even win her war. But she and I will never be friends. I'd still love to kick her ass someday. That sort of punishment might fit her crimes. But no one—not even Olivia—deserves to be left all alone.

BY
S
HEBA
K
ARIM

I
T ALL STARTS
when I'm waiting for the bathroom at a house party. Of course, I'm not wearing my glasses. Contact lenses irritate me, so it's either see 20/20 and look like a dork or accept a little blindness for the sake of beauty. Plus, my eyes are my best feature: large and deep brown, framed by thick, long eyelashes. The rest of me I hate, especially my curls, which—no matter what expensive pomade or gel I try—refuse to behave. And my body, forget it. I have short legs and wide hips, and I hate dancing to bhangra at Pakistani weddings because my tricep flab starts jiggling ten times faster than the music.

I haven't had any alcohol tonight but walking around without glasses is a little like drinking, because sometimes I bump into things. Or, like now, I can't tell who's coming toward me until they're pretty close—though I can tell it's a guy, and that he's drunk from the way he's pressing against the wall as he walks.

The drunk guy enters my field of vision. Broad shoulders, cerulean eyes, light brown hair streaked blond by sun and salt. Oliver Jamison. The leaves have turned orange and red, but
Oliver is still tan from his summer of sailing. Oliver smiles at me. He does this at school too. Some of the popular kids act like you're not even there, but Oliver smiles at everyone.

He tilts his head toward the bathroom door. “You waiting?”

“Yeah.”

He sways forward a little, then steadies himself and looks at me. I hope he's looking at my eyes and not my mustache, which is growing back from the last time I got it waxed. “You were in my history class last year,” he says. “You sat underneath Ulysses.”

What he means is I sat underneath the big photo of Ulysses S. Grant on the Civil War timeline poster. “Yes.”

“Yeah. I remember. You always seemed kind of worried.”

Worried? I'd understand dorky, or attentive maybe, but worried? Is that what I seem like?

“What's your name again?” he asks.

“Shabnam,” I say. “
Shab
like rub,
nam
like numb.”

“What's it mean?”

“Morning dew.”

“Morning dew,” he repeats. “That's really cool. Morning is my favorite time of day. Best time to be on the water.”

“I hate mornings,” I tell him. “Because I have to wake up . . . not because mornings are bad or anything. I mean, mornings are great.”
Well done, Shabnam. Way to sound like a complete idiot.

“Shabnam.” He's still pronouncing my name wrong but I don't care because at least he's saying it. “What language is that?”

“Urdu. And Persian.”

“My cat is Persian,” he says.

“I've never had a cat. My mom's allergic.”

This time, Oliver doesn't respond—and why would he when I'm so clearly failing at conversation? I'm searching in vain for something to say that might engage him when I realize that he's smiling at me, so wide that not one but two small dimples appear on his cheek.

“Morning dew,” he says again. “Nice.”

And that's when Oliver moves forward, one hand braced against the bathroom door, and kisses me.
Kisses
me! I've only ever kissed two guys, and I don't know what to do. But Oliver makes it easy. He starts out soft, and I get up the courage to part my lips, and his tongue is touching mine, softly, gently. He tastes like beer and peppermint. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I'm worried he can sense how crazy fast my heart is beating. Then Oliver starts kissing me harder, and I stop thinking about anything except how good it feels.

The bathroom door opens and Oliver almost loses his balance. He moves away from me, his fingers still gripping my shoulder. Natasha is standing before us, hair swept up in a ponytail, high cheekbones shimmering with blush. The whole hallway smells like perfume, strong and sweet.

“Oli. What are you doing?” Natasha asks. She glares at me, and I remember how my best friend, Maggie, recently overheard her saying something about how Oliver was the last guy left on her list.

Oliver takes his hand off me and blinks a few times. “Hey,
Natasha,” he says slowly, as if he's not sure he got it right.

The fat diamond studs in Natasha's ears catch the light as she shakes her head, sighing. “Let's go, Oli,” she says, linking her elbow through his. He doesn't protest or even say bye when she starts to lead him away, toward the music and the keg and the kind of people Oliver is supposed to be seen with. When they're halfway down the hall, she turns around and looks back at me, and I'm glad I'm too blind to see her face.

• • •

The next morning, there's a strange man at our kitchen table. I'm about to go inform my parents when I realize it must be the uncle my father calls
Chacha jaan
, who they picked up from the airport last night. Chacha jaan is staring out at our leaf-covered backyard, his hands cupped around one of the fancy glasses my mother only brings out when we have guests.

Chacha jaan is completely bald, but he has a big beard—a thick, black, menacing arc of a beard—extending from ear to ear. He's wearing a
shalwar kameez
and polished leather sandals. He reminds me of the mullah who hosts a religious advice show on one of the satellite Pakistani channels my parents subscribe to. The mullah sits at a desk and answers the callers' questions, which range from “If you change your clothes do you have to perform your ablutions again?” to “What happens on the Day of Judgment?” to “Can men wear gold?”

I'm contemplating skipping breakfast altogether when Chacha jaan notices me and jumps a little, some of the water
spilling from his glass. Then the surprise on his face changes to something else, sadness maybe, and he sets his glass down and smiles at me. “You are Shabnam?” he asks in Urdu.

“Yes.
As-salaam alaikum.
”

Wrapped around his neck is a red scarf decorated with green Christmas trees, and he uses one end of it to wipe the water from his
kameez
.
“Wa alaikim as-salaam. Kaisee ho?”

“I'm fine,” I tell him, in English.

My mother joins us. She's also wearing a
shalwar kameez
, which she often wears at home, except today she's draped her
dupatta
over her head in a gesture of modesty. “
As-salaam alaikum!
You'll drink chai?” This is a rhetorical question because of course he'll drink chai. All Pakistanis do. Then my mother says in chirpy Urdu, “Your coming here has made us very happy,” and she means it—the only relative my mother's ever been unhappy to see was Daadi, my father's mother, and even then she hid it well.

Before I can leave with my bowl of cereal, my mother grabs my arm. “Did you say
salaam
?” she whispers.

“Yes. I have to go do some work. I have a big paper due tomorrow I haven't finished.”

“You shouldn't leave things until the end,” my mother says, but she doesn't argue.

As I'm heading to my room, my father opens the front door and steps into the foyer, the Sunday
NewYork Times
tucked in his armpit. He's wearing plaid pajamas and a white undershirt. He has a basketball-sized gut and the dark tufts of hair
sprouting from his shoulders are starting to turn gray. I hate it when he goes outside without a shirt on.

“Did you say
salaam
to Chacha jaan?” he asks. With my father, it's never
hi, how are you,
but
did you do this, why don't you do that. Be respectful, say
salaam,
get into a college that will impress everyone and secure your career. Don't go around in the company of boys, because, even though we know you are a chaste girl, someone from the community could see you and get the wrong idea.

“No, Abba, I didn't say
salaam
,” I tell my father. “I told him to get lost.”

My father frowns. “No, you didn't. Why do you think that's funny? What's wrong with you? Can't you be normal?”

I respond by continuing up the stairs.

• • •

Natasha finds me at my locker. She's dressed like a school girl, with a short pleated skirt and a white button-down blouse that shows off her a-little-more-than-two-handfuls cleavage. There's an expensive silk scarf tied around her neck, like those air hostesses who wear the small, round hats. Standing next to her makes me acutely aware of each excess hair and inch of blubber on my body. I was hoping she might forget about the weekend, but she's glaring at me so hard I'm too nervous to look back at her. I'm also too nervous to look away.

“I saw that shirt at Target,” she says.

I'm wearing a black cotton long-sleeve v-neck. I wore it because it has tiny eyelets so it's a bit see-through but you can
only tell if you're really close. And I thought I might run into Oliver today. “So?”

“So Target is for socks. And period underwear,” she says.

“Oh.” I wonder what she'd say if she knew that pretty much all my underwear is period underwear. I don't own sexy underwear; no one sees it anyway, plus my mother would freak if she found out I'd bought some because why would you own sexy underwear unless you were planning on showing it to someone?

“What you did Saturday night is pretty messed up,” Natasha says. Her expression is still mean but her voice is totally calm, which somehow makes it even worse. “Oli doesn't even remember what happened, you know,” she continues. “I can't believe you took advantage of him because he was drunk.”

I'm too stunned to defend myself. Could it be true? Was the best kiss of my life with someone who doesn't remember?

“You're not so unattractive,” she says. “I'm sure there's someone out there who'll kiss you when he's sober. So go find that guy, and stay away from mine. Understand?”

She waits for me to nod—say
yes, I understand
—but I'm still reeling from her comment about Oliver not remembering, about me taking advantage of him. The bell rings. Her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms. “Unbelievable,” she says, and before I can correct her, she tosses her head and walks away.

• • •

Oliver is leaning against his car, talking on the phone. I don't
know whether to walk right by him, which would mean a potential encounter, or avoid him completely. Ultimately my body decides by moving in his direction. I'm so nervous my heart is drumming inside my chest and my ears are filled with air. I watch my feet step on the asphalt, too nervous to look at him, but then he says hi, and now he's all I can see.

“Hi.”

He tucks his phone into the pocket of his perfectly faded jeans. “We should meet properly. I'm Oliver,” he says, extending his arm, muscular and tan and brushed with dark golden hair.

“Shabnam.” Considering the last time I met him his tongue was in my mouth, this formal introduction seems a little weird, but I'm grateful that he's acting cool. It's helping me maintain mine. But then I accept his hand and our fingers intertwine and my entire body starts tingling with heat.

He lets go. “About this past weekend. I drank way too much. I wasn't exactly thinking straight. I'm not usually like that. Had a rough day. Not that that's an excuse. So, I'm sorry if I offended you. I hope you don't think I'm a jerk.”

A jerk for what? Being drunk or kissing me? Does he remember kissing me? Does he remember how good it felt like I did? Or was Natasha telling the truth? But I'm too shy to ask this, so I nod and tell him, “It's okay. Don't worry about it.”