Love, Hate and Other Filters(14)

Hina clearly wants more juicy details, wants to know which boy I prefer, but even getting near that thought makes my stomach lurch. I don’t know who the Gregory Peck is to my Audrey Hepburn; I have no idea if either boy is or isn’t. I check my watch. “Crap. Kareem will be here in an hour. I need to get ready.”

I hear Hina chuckling to herself as I bolt off the couch and run into the guest room.



Forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and changed into Violet-approved denim and silk, I slip into my black satin shoes. I put on a pair of dangly silver chandelier earrings and grab my sweater, then study my reflection. There is a lot of skin. My skin. I chew on my lip, hoping it’s not too much. For my final task, I dab on a bit of bronzer and a claret lipstick like I promised my mom. My word is my bond—at least about lipstick. Finally, I decide to go big and add eyeliner and mascara.

The bell rings. He’s five minutes early. How un-Indian of him.

Hina buzzes in Kareem and then disappears into her bedroom. I’m glad I’m not home. My parents would linger, inquire after Kareem’s parents, demand that we stay and chat over a cup of chai while insisting that the restaurant would hold our reservation.

I open the door.

Kareem is taller than I remember. Maybe cuter, too? I try not to stare into those sparkly dark eyes. He’s dressed in indigo jeans, a navy blazer, and a light blue collared shirt, the top two buttons unbuttoned.

“Hey.” God, I hope I’m not trying too hard, because that’s the exact opposite of cool. Eau de desperation.

He steps in and bends down. I think he’s coming in for a hug, so I move forward. Our heads bump as he tries to give me a kiss on the cheek.

Awkward. I step back, cheeks already aflame.

Kareem laughs. “Ah, there’s the blush. That took, what, fifteen seconds?”

“Ha, ha. Come on in.” At least I’ve provided the icebreaker.

“You look amazing, by the way,” Kareem adds casually. He steps forward and puts his hand on my forearm. If he’s trying to keep me blushing, he’s doing an excellent job.

“Uh, thanks …”

Thankfully Hina chooses this moment to appear from the back.

“As-salaam-alaikum, Auntie,” Kareem says. His respectful nod oozes tameez, proper Hyderabadi-boy etiquette.

Hina laughs. “Please, Kareem, call me Hina. No need to stand on ceremony with me.” Then she raises an eyebrow. “So, Geja’s? Going for dark, romantic, and sophisticated, are we?”

I’m going to die.

“Uh, yeah,” Kareem smiles. “I … we … uh … have a seven-thirty reservation, so we should probably get going.” He turns to me. “Are you up for a stroll? Nice evening for a walk.”

I nod and snatch my purse. I’ve already double-checked it for my mini-cam. I couldn’t leave home without it—in case I want to record any part of the evening or, more likely, hide behind my lens if things go from awkward to painfully bad. “I’m set.”

“Khudafis, Auntie—I mean, Hina. Thanks again for letting me pick up Maya here. Does she have a curfew?”

Hina shakes her head. “Not at my house. Have fun.” She kisses me on the cheek and winks as she closes the door behind us.



“One of us has to say something soon. Ideally a witty or brilliant observation,” Kareem says. We’ve been walking silently for almost ten minutes. I keep trying to think of something to say, but apparently I’ve lost the connection between my brain and mouth.

And that’s my cue. We haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet, but it’s time to draw on my trusty shield. I reach into my purse and pull out my tiny camcorder, switch it on, and focus on Kareem. Roll camera. I adopt my documentary voice-over tone. And action. “Kareem, where are you taking Maya tonight?”

“You’re referring to yourself in the third person now?”

I pull back to meet his gaze. “I’m the director. Kareem and Maya are the subjects in the movie. Go with it.”

“Fine.”

We’re both smiling and trying not to at the same time.

I pick up where I left off. “So what are your plans for tonight?”

Kareem straightens an imaginary tie. I love that he plays along; I also love that he can’t see how delighted I am. “I want to show Maya a good time, and so I chose Geja’s Café. It’s terribly romantic, but I fear that it might also be terribly messy—all that melted cheese.” He pauses with exaggerated drama and strikes a ridiculous pose. “I’m willing to take that risk because I’m the kind of guy that lives on the edge. You know, carpe diem. Suck the marrow out of life.”

“So you’re a Thoreau fan.”

“Nah, just pretentious.”

I stifle a laugh. “So besides tempting fate with melted cheese and literary airs of pretension, what else is in your risk-taking repertoire?”

“The usual: skydiving, Formula One, feeding sharks …” He pauses, either pretending to remember or remembering to pretend. “My mom does say I was an adventurous kid. A troublemaker. Mainly I was curious. Oh, and I loved pirates. Anything on the high seas that involved danger and swashbuckling—you know, big swells, treasure, damsels in distress. My mom loved it, too. She provided the pirate booty. She would put her banged-up jewelry and broken bangles in a small box and bury the treasure chest. I’d have to find it and dig it up. It was pretty awesome, actually.”