The Rearranged Life (4 page)

“Thank you, James.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You let me copy your chemistry homework.”

He knows when our eyes lock, he did a lot more than that.

“You just looked a little freaked out,” he admits.

“More like
totally
freaked out.” I grin. “But between that and last night… you’ve been a superhero. Like Superman or something.”

“You never know, I could be Bizarro.” His tone conveys he doesn’t think I’ll catch the reference.

“No, not alternate universe Superman. Real Superman.”

“You know comics?” He sounds impressed.

“A little bit. When I was younger and my family went to India, my cousins had copies of every Marvel and DC comic on earth. There wasn’t much to do, I had a short attention span, and my parents needed me to shut up and sit down.” I giggle as I unbuckle my seatbelt. “I should go. But thank you for everything. I can’t imagine many people doing what you did.”

“Well, copying homework isn’t that big of a deal. We’ve all done it,” he says, dismissing it pleasantly. He drives away after I’ve entered the building, and as I climb the stairs, thinking about superheroes and my parents’ homeland, the memory washes over me.

When I was little, my family took us to India every two years. My sister and I were done with school and endless weeks of freedom stood in front of us. To keep us in touch with our family (and away from the television), our mom flew the three of us to Hyderabad from the end of May until the middle of August. Somehow, the stifling 105-degree heat and power outages didn’t faze us. We spent hours underneath the banana trees in the garden, playing cricket and chasing lizards out of our veranda.

Anisha and I would spend the days before the trip make believing we were on our own, gallivanting across the world. We packed lunchboxes full of our Fisher-Price kitchenware and Barbie clothes to reenact the entire process. Deciding which clothes to pack was a big to-do, followed by creating pretend plane tickets out of construction paper. ‘Checking in’ our baggage on a makeshift conveyor belt (also known as Anisha’s bed) came next before we boarded the top-bunk aircraft. We would always pretend our flight was delayed, so we could trek across Europe while waiting for our next ride. In our minds, anything was possible. The world was our oyster.

In real life, our arduous 24-hour long journey always culminated with a twenty-something-person welcoming party inevitably waiting a few extra hours in the sweltering heat for our late arrival. Taxi drivers and auto rickshaw drivers ambushed foreigners shouting, “Ma’am, only ten rupees!” and would grab the baggage to load onto the car before anyone even had a chance to protest that they already had transportation waiting.

The welcome wagon would collectively exclaim how we grew up so fast and how we’re so American as they loaded our eight suitcases on top of a Fiat or an Ambassador car from the sixties. Then, a caravan of vehicles would weave through the intense traffic that seemingly had no laws, dodging cows and scooters loaded with four people at a time, before finally arriving at the family home… a safe haven for any child in a new environment.

The first few days of the trip were always spent visiting the homes of elder relatives, catching up and answering the, “Do you remember me?” questions that were unavoidably geared toward my sister and I, as if we would forget our blood relations within two years. We would smile and name their relationship to us to play their game, and prove that, yes, our parents did teach us something though we were far away. Amma and
Nanna
would beam with pride as our relatives declared in awe, “Even being in a different country has not kept them from knowing who their family is!”

The hustle and bustle of visiting would die down after a few weeks and soon my sister and I would be free to play with our cousins in the backyard garden from morning to night. We would spin thousands of rounds of Ring-Around-the-Rosie and run games of tag until our cotton clothes were soaked with sweat and our mothers would call us in for a bath–a rudimentary system involving a big bucket of cold water and a little mug to pour with. On days our parents worried about heat stroke, we would be confined to the small apartment. It was in those moments I would discover novels I’d never heard of and, encouraged by my male cousins, the Marvel and DC universes. I would devour all the comics they had and daydream about how cool it would be to be a superhero, saving people from dastardly villains and remaining humble about it.

Older now, I know better. The real villains are greed, corruption, and cruelty, sometimes in people you thought better of. Like the guy last night, whom I shouldn’t have trusted. Then there are people like James, superheroes in their own right, who do the moral thing even when no one is looking.

wish we knew who did it so I could kill him,” Sophia hisses, her eyes still red from our rehashing the events of last night.

She corroborates James’ story. She and Luca went for a walk, under the impression I was with my new friend and James was getting a drink. When they came back, James and I were both MIA. Thinking I left with my attacker and James went home, Sophia and Luca ended up at our apartment.

She feels guilty. She starts to cry when I fill her in on what James said, and can’t be comforted. I’m surprisingly calm. The tears from my meltdown at James’ have dried me out. When Sejal won valedictorian over me, something we’d both made incessant visits to the guidance counselors about, there was a short period of moping before I realized the time spent with my family was worth not joining an anti-drunk driving club. The sting of the loss remains, but I could reason why in the grand scheme of things, I wasn’t defeated. It would be the same now. I feel it in my bones. I vow not to let anyone get my drink ever again. I swear up, down, and sideways I’ll be smarter next time. I tell Sophia and myself that I’m safe, and it’ll never happen again. And nothing did, thanks to my very own superhero.

“How did James handle you being there?” She chomps into a cheese pizza, cross-legged on our living room floor.

“He was gentle.” I run my fingers over my palm, remembering his light touch as he pulled me off the floor and the humor he used to defuse the tears.

“And he’s the same guy who helped you with your chemistry homework? It’s like fate.”

“I don’t know about fate… but it’s something.” I refuse to betray that I inexplicably feel the same way.

“How could you have not noticed that face? He’s smoking hot!”

I laugh with her, indulging her ‘Nitwit’ jokes and pretending I’m as oblivious as she says. But even I can’t shake the feeling that something big is coming.

When Monday arrives, and I go on my run, it doesn’t escape me that I have my class with James that morning.
Don’t be silly
,
you aren’t going to be with him, so don’t try to get his attention.
I put on a touch of makeup, highlighting my eyes, under the assumption he won’t look at me. I choose my favorite blue sundress and silver flats because they are pretty, overlooking that Sophia says the dress makes my legs look longer. I ignore the fact that he might be in the same room as I sit in my usual seat. I’ve all but forgotten about him while I answer e-mails and look at my planner for what to study tonight, my eyes darting to the swivel chair next to me only to see if it’s occupied.

“How’re you feeling?” James sets his books down, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“I’m… okay. I’m getting through it, thanks to you. How are you?”

“Other than waking up late and running like hell to get here?” His cheeks and hands are flushed.

Is the rest of him flushed too? God, Nithya, stop it
.

“Doing well.”

“I didn’t notice you come in. You were stealthy,” I play it off cool and avert my eyes.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Do you know you get a really manic look on your face when you concentrate? I don’t know if it’s funny or terrifying.”

“You aren’t the first to tell me that, sadly.” Sophia calls it my inner tigress–the ferocious focus of an animal about to pounce on its prey.

“So, you’ve been called a nut job before? I should probably switch seats…” He pushes himself back and half-stands.

“Well, you’ve sat next to me twice now, and I haven’t hurt you. Yet,” I say, hoping he doesn’t leave. “But class is just beginning.”

“If that’s supposed to be comforting…”

“I guess since you’ve saved me twice, I can spare you this time.”

The professor turns on the mic and clears his throat, and we stop to listen. I sneak a glance at James. I’ve already noticed the big things, like the way his clean-cut, dark brown hair is tousled just enough to make my fingers long to run through it. Like how he appears more childish than manly when he smiles. His eyes, undoubtedly his distinguishing feature, crinkle with his laugh. While he’s watching Professor Griffin, however, the subtle things stand out, like how he rests his head on his interlocked hands when he listens intently.

When I’m not expecting it, he turns to me, and I snap back to my notes, turning pink. The wrong page is on display, and I’m caught red-handed. I swear, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him grin.

“Have you started cramming for the exam on Wednesday?” James asks after class. “Do you want to study together?”

“I started two weeks ago,” I tell him sheepishly.

“Wow, now I feel like a moron.” He incorrectly perceives my paranoia as eagerness.

“I’m really bad at chem. I need all the time I can get.” I stifle a laugh at his expression.

“I’m kind of awesome, if you want me to help you out.” When I raise my eyebrows, he exhales. “Maybe that was cocky.”

“Yeah, maybe a little.”

“I have a 98, though. Let’s not pretend that isn’t something to be cocky about.”

Freshmen are warned that this class is coming in three years and spend those six semesters dreading its arrival. He has every right to be proud.

“I need to check my homework grade,” I mutter anyway.

“Are you doubting my abilities?”

“Me? Never!” I smirk. “Then again, how do I know you aren’t failing? What if you just landed me an F on that assignment too?”

“Oh, you mean the one you cheated on?” He counters my insinuation about his idiocy with a jab at my moral high ground and I stick my tongue out, the only mature way to retort.

We face off, our amusement concealed, until I realize I need to walk to the other side of campus for my next lecture.