From Twinkle, with Love
Page 30

“True,” Papa added. “She wakes up at noon and has lunch directly!”
But before I could say anything salty about how would he know because he was more concerned with the schedule of his kids at his job, Dadi came in with a silver tray completely buried in biscuits from the Indian store. “Sahil,” she said. “Would you like some biscuits? We have kaju pista, chocolate bourbon, Butter Bite …”
“Dadi,” I said, shaking my head. “He came over to invite me to breakfast that his dad’s making. I don’t think his parents would be too happy if he ruined his appetite here.”
Dadi’s face got all soggy like a piece of notebook paper left in the rain. “Oh …”
“No, no,” Sahil said, hopping up from the couch and going over to her. “These look delicious!” He stuffed three in his mouth, gobbled, and swallowed them in record time. Then, looking around with a mischievous grin, he said, “Teenage boy’s metabolism.”
Everyone burst out laughing. Everyone in my family liked him right away, even Mummy and Papa, who were generally suspicious of boys. And how could they not? Sahil is like gentle sun on a winter’s day. You automatically want to turn your face to it and soak it up.
Well, I left because I needed to get my shoes from my room and I’ve been in here a while, so I’m gonna go now. More later.
Love,
Twinkle
Sunday, June 14
Sahil’s room (craziness!)

Dear Ava DuVernay, We drove up farther north of the city, where some of the richer kids in school live. I kept glancing at Sahil as we drove; it was like my eyes were magnets and he was Iron Man. I’d never noticed before how the hair on his arms ranges from a deep black to a reddish brown, or how his fingers are just the right amount of big and gentle-looking. Occasionally he’d catch me looking and grin at me.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a few minutes. “You can’t deny it, T. You and me? We’re like … like Dracula and his castle. Meant to be.”
One thing that made my heart race was how Sahil could be so adorkable around me sometimes, tripping over his shoes and stuff, and other times, he was so smoothly, dashingly confident. He wasn’t afraid to take control, to tell me how he felt. It’s like his personality was an aphrodisiac made specifically for one Twinkle Mehra.
I snorted to cover up how off-balance he made me feel. “You are such a dork.”
“You know you’d miss it if it was gone.”
I laughed. He was joking, but his words tugged at my heart as thoughts from last night filtered into my brain. After what we’d shared at the carnival, I knew losing Sahil would leave a gaping hole in my life.
I blinked back to the present moment as we pulled past the gates of Sahil’s subdivision. It was pretty fancy, with big houses with outdoor fireplaces and big front yards and pillars and stuff. Things you never would see in my neighborhood, unless you counted Mrs. Wilson’s rotting “deck” made of two by fours, which she began to put together herself but never bothered to finish. Mrs. Wilson is a little flighty like that, which is why she sometimes pays me to go knock on her door and remind her to clean her hamster cage. She doesn’t own a hamster. Yes. I have many questions too.
Sahil turned down a street and pulled up a driveway to this sprawling gray house with giant windows. “Oh my God,” I said. “You have four garages?”
Sahil winced. “Yeah … but they’re all really small?”
We both laughed together.
“Come on,” he said, pulling into one of the garages and shutting off the engine. “Let’s go inside so you can meet the parental unit.”
Sahil’s house was just as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside. There were statues and pots and paintings all over the place, with spotlights shining down on them like in a museum. “Oh my God,” I said again, walking over to a metal plate on the table with what looked like little vines etched all over it. Dadi had a similar one in her “room” (just a big laundry closet Mummy and Papa converted for her when she insisted I should take the second bedroom, which was too small for two beds). This one was much bigger, though, and looked like it was made of real silver. “Your house is so cool.”
“That’s from India,” a female voice said.
A tall white woman in a gray tunic and white leggings was smiling at us. Her eyes were green and her brown hair was pulled back into an untidy bun. An oversize watch hung loosely from her wrist. She was beautiful in an earthy kind of way, like she enjoyed messy things that made you sweat—gardening and rock climbing and stuff. “I love it,” I said.
“You must be Twinkle.” She came forward, still smiling warmly, and clasped one of my hands in both of hers. “Sahil’s told us so much about you—”
Sahil cleared his throat theatrically.
“… your directorial skills,” his mom amended, laughing. “I’m Anna.”
I laughed too, even though my cheeks were flushed. What would Anna Auntie say if she knew I was crushing on both her sons? I bet she wouldn’t be so welcoming. “That’s nice to hear. Sahil’s been a great producer.”
I followed her into the kitchen, where a man stood at the stove with a dish towel over one shoulder, flipping pancakes. He was almost as dark-skinned as me, with thick glasses and a balding head. “Twinkle!” he called jovially. His voice had just a bit of an Indian accent coating his American one. “How are you? My name’s Ajit. I’m Sahil’s father!”
“I’m fine, Uncle,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Uncle!” He beamed at Anna Auntie and poured more batter onto the griddle. “What did I tell you? Indian kids, best manners in the world!”
Anna Auntie rolled her eyes good-naturedly, like she’d heard this a million times before. “Yes, dear, I know. Our kids aren’t so badly behaved themselves.”
“But being only half-Indian, my manners are only half as good,” Sahil said. “But I did manage to call your parents Uncle and Auntie in the nick of time.”
“That would explain why they were so obsessed with you.” I turned to Anna Auntie. “My entire family loves Sahil. They usually don’t even like boys.”
Sahil took a mock bow and his mom flapped her hand at him. “No one likes a show-off,” she warned.
“Except Twinkle’s parents, apparently,” he said, carrying a glass carafe of orange juice over to the table. Was a carton too trashy? We didn’t even have carafes at my house. If I asked for one my parents would probably laugh until they cried and then say, Why don’t we just burn some money for fun?
“I think it was more your charming producer demeanor,” I said, just as Ajit Uncle brought over a platter of pancakes. I stared at him. Papa would never serve us, and especially not wearing a frilly apron around his waist. I hadn’t noticed it before because he’d been behind the stove. It had hummingbirds and hearts on it. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t be rude in my staring. I mean, he’d just complimented me on my manners and everything. It was cool to see an adult man not caring about society’s artificial rules for masculinity, though.
We all sat, with Ajit Uncle and Anna Auntie taking seats across the table from Sahil and me. Two chairs at the head and foot of the table sat empty.
“So … is Neil here?” I asked, trying not to be too obvious about why I was asking.
“He’s at his friend Patrick’s house,” Ajit Uncle replied. “He’s at practice so much that he tries to see them as much as he can!”
“Wish he felt the same way about spending time with us,” Anna Auntie added, laughing. “Right, Sahil?”
Sahil, I noticed, had gone still. He wasn’t looking at me as he poured himself some milk. Right. That whole sibling rivalry thing. “Yep,” he said with forced heartiness.
I took a bite of the pancake and almost fainted. “Oh my God,” I said, after I’d swallowed. “This is … You should open your own restaurant!”
Ajit Uncle laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”