Love, Hate and Other Filters(10)

“Not for her. She cheated on him,” Phil responds.

“True. But they were all searching for belonging. She was, too. Not that it’s an excuse to have possibly mind-blowing sex with a French dude …” My mouth clamps shut, but it’s too late. I can feel my face heating up once more; it started the moment the word “sex” slipped from my lips.

Phil chuckles and raises his coffee cup. “To not having random sex with French dudes.”

I lean in to touch the tip of my cup against his, then pull it away. “I feel like I should keep my options open,” I blurt.

Phil laughs, nearly spilling his coffee. His laugh is round and deep and makes his shoulders shake. The dimple in his cheek is back. I think I was making a joke; I think I wanted this reaction, but part of me isn’t sure.

It occurs to me that this is the longest time we’ve ever spent alone together in all the years we’ve known each other. Yet somehow I’ve stopped being nervous and started to have fun. I reach for Phil’s book to find a quote on identity.

Our hands touch briefly.

His skin is warm, a heater for my icy fingers. I hold my breath and tug at the book; Phil teasingly pulls it back.

My phone buzzes.

Violet! I curse silently, snatching the phone off the table before turning it over and pulling it closer to my chest, expecting a shouty caps demand for details.

You’re right. Senna is amazing. But I’d like your IRL color commentary. Next weekend?

It’s not Violet. It’s Kareem.

I run my thumb over the screen to wipe away an unexpected pang of guilt. I look at Phil and think of his fight with Lisa at the dance. I think of his sudden desire to be a good student. Overwhelmed, I seek refuge in The Namesake and turn to a dog-eared page—and a familiar line jumps out at me:

You are still young, free … Do yourself a favor. Before it’s too late, without thinking about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on his black boots, wrapping the long laces twice around the tops. Last night, he polished and buffed the leather, not that it’s necessary. Not that it matters.

He doesn’t like the way his fingers shake. It’s weak, but he chalks it up to adrenaline. He takes a breath to steady his hands. Satisfied, he takes a sealed envelope from the black gym bag on the floor and lays it across the veneered pressboard desk, making sure it’s straight. He surveys the sparsely furnished room.

Everything is in order. He steps to the door and wraps his clammy hand around the knob. Then pauses. The door still closed, he moves to the middle of the room. Looking out the eastern-facing windows, he falls to his knees, bows his head, and recites something like a prayer.





“Hey,” I say as I approach Phil’s table for another evening of tutoring. He’s been waiting for me for thirty minutes while I finished my shift at the Idle Hour.

Phil pushes a chair forward for me.

As I sit down, I see a slice of chocolate cake with two forks resting on the plate. I smile at Phil.

“Chocolate cake is like our tradition, so …” he starts.

“So two times officially equals tradition?”

“Well, football players are superstitious creatures of habit.”

“I thought that was only for game days.”

“It is,” Phil says, dimple bared as he grins.

“Well, who am I to flout tradition?” I look away. “Plus, you know, cake is pretty much my favorite thing,” I add, raising a forkful to my mouth.

“Cake, not barfi?” Phil asks.

I’m gobsmacked. I look up. My eyes widen. “The barfi? You remember that?”

“Of course. Though the name is kind of unfortunate.”

I laugh. “Tell me about it. Like, every boy in the class started calling me ‘barfy’ or making barf jokes. But when you took one of the sweets and ate it. It, like, shut them up. I never forgot that.”

I’m not lying when I say this. I was seven and made the colossal mistake of asking my mom to bring my favorite Indian dessert to school for my birthday. Phil eating the barfi might not seem like a big deal, but to a quiet girl who was shrinking into herself with every “barfy” shout-out, Phil walking up and taking one little square of almond paste and sugar and popping it into his mouth was a lifeline.

Phil looks at the floor for a second and then back at me. “I think I ate, like, eight of them. Total sweet tooth.”

I smile. He smiles. There is smiling.

I know I shouldn’t read into Phil’s memory. The fact is, barfi is a pretty memorable word. Also, fact: two days ago, Violet and I spied Phil and Lisa kissing, and apparently making up, in an alcove by art class. I guess sometimes a barfi is just a barfi. Except when you have my imagination. Then it’s … more.

“So you guys look busy today.” Phil’s voice snaps me back to the present.

“It’s a Sunday night bookstore rager. Not like there’s anything else to do in this town.”

“You really don’t like living here, do you?”

“There are things I love about it. My friends. This place. But I want to be in New York already. You know, a place where I can live and do what I want and not be the Indian girl or the Muslim girl. A place where I can just be me.”