THE BACK ROOM OF THE FLOWER SHOP WAS A RIOT OF BRIGHT PINK AND CREAMY IVORY AND VERDANT GREEN. Snipped leaves and stems and thorns littered the floor while stripped flowers bloomed from buckets and vases. At the end of the counter rested a glass container, half filled with clear water, that hosted an array of hoa cúc, the golden blooming chrysanthemums. A symbol of money, health, and happiness, they were a favorite Tết celebration flower in Vietnamese culture.
Jackie preferred lotuses, the flowers of dawn that reached through the mud and grime to bloom, the allegory of beauty overcoming darkness. However, lotus stems were self-healing. Once a lotus was cut, the hollow stem closed so that no water could travel to the flower. Thus, the bloom wilted soon after being cut from the plant. Romantic in theory, but cruel in reality to cut a flower's tether to life.
Meanwhile, her mother was preoccupied with an array of dreamy pastel bouquets. Fragrant white roses and soft pink peonies created a delicate palette for wispy greenery while pops of deep purple and textured buds added depth, accented by ivory blossoms and powdery eucalyptus branches. The quintessential complement to the bride-to-be's consummate elegance. The beginning of a happily-ever-after.
With a sigh, Jackie inhaled the sweet floral scent that permeated the air and twirled around. She could almost imagine a wedding in France, dancing under starlight before her greatest love, surrounded by perfumed flowers. Rom-coms had stunning fairytale weddings and blissful endings. Accompanying the previous arrangements she helped Má prepare were the promises of romance's magic.
"Get your head out the clouds and focus." Despite the tinge of annoyance, Má's voice remained as soft and sweet as the flowers she crafted into her livelihood.
With a bowed head, Jackie collected a pair of scissors and a flower stem. As she rested her forearms against the counter, she trimmed the thorns off a rose. She brushed a finger against the bloom, the petals paper-thin and velvety like a kiss from nature itself.
"We need to finish these wedding arrangements before your father picks you up."
The scissors slipped from her hands and clattered on the ground. "Ba?"
In response, Má offered a sharp nod and turned to the flowers. "He misses you."
After her parents' divorce, Jackie spent the weekend at her father's house every month or so. However, she hadn't seen him for the entire summer, not since both remarried. Preoccupied with his new model family and high-paying job, Ba no longer had the time to care for the daughter of a failed marriage. Truth to be told, she'd never held a genuine conversation with his wife and kids despite the numerous visits.
Traditionally, Vietnamese women kept their surnames even after marriage. Má still had hers—Nguyễn—while Jackie took her father's. Trương. A simple one, one that ultimately tied her and Ba together. Even when he was gone.
Her stomach twisted, her blissful mood now soured. Mention of Jackie's father resembled a slow-acting poison that seeped through the cracks and crevices of her resolve. Retrieving the scissors, she gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes at the thorns. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Does it make a difference? You would've reacted the same way." In one smooth motion, her mother swept the chaos of leaves and stems into the wastebin.
After shoving the rose into a bouquet, Jackie stepped out the back door. She yanked out her hair ribbon and twisted the red silk around her fingers until the skin darkened into blue. Tipping her head to the sky, she pressed her back against the brick wall, its coldness seeping through her blouse. The remnant of summer heat clung to her skin, and beads of sweat collected on her lip.
The bitter, smoky scent of engine exhaust superseded the lingering floral fragrance when Ba pulled up in a shiny sports car. Sleek and smooth with a paint job so pristine the vehicle resembled a pool of ink. Jackie's lips twisted into a wide smile that bared her teeth.
When the car halted, she inclined her head and walked forward, hands clasped together. "Thưa Ba." The words of the polite greeting were stiff, her Vietnamese like tin men needing to be oiled.
With a smile, Ba opened the door for Jackie before sliding into the driver's side. She stumbled into the passenger's seat and crossed one leg over the other. The ribbon remained coiled around her hand, digging into her skin, yet she only gripped it tighter. The engine purred to life, and her father cruised down winding roads with towering palm trees and gleaming boulevards.
"How is your new school?" Ba's eyes, round and dark with hooded lids like her own, flicked to Jackie in the rearview mirror.
"Fine."
"How are your grades?"
"Fine."
"Have you eaten yet?"
"Má made bánh cuốn." Soft and delicate, the gossamer-thin sheets of rice batter had been filled with minced mushrooms and pork, each bite topped with deep-fried shallot bits. Despite protests that the cafeteria served food, her mother made a point of packing her lunch each morning. In Má's mind, pizza and fries were unacceptable.
Could her father's wife even cook Vietnamese food? With pale skin and blue eyes and yellow hair, Janet was white as can be. Born and raised in the United States. A bonafide suburban soccer mom who prepared unseasoned sandwiches for her kids.
Did romance protagonists eat the same bland meals Janet cooked? If Jackie was a romance protagonist, the typical food would be the first custom she'd change. Although, she would eat boring sandwiches if it meant winning a handsome love interest.
Biting her lip, Jackie fiddled with the red ribbon in her hands and remained quiet. Better not to risk a possible argument. Since Má expected her to act pleasant and agreeable, she would obey so her mother didn't lose face.
Jackie opened the door and stepped out. Slathering a giant grin on her face, she swung her school bag over her shoulder and strode to the house. The welcome mat glared at her from its place on the floor, and she planted a foot over the black block letters. In seconds, Ba moved to her side and turned the key in the door.
The interior was spotless, every stainless surface gleaming under the light streaming through the many windows. In contrast to the lavish Aster mansion, the decor was simple and modern with sleek glass tables and stark white couches. It smelled clean and clinical as though polished with bleach. After slipping off her shoes, Jackie retreated to the guest bedroom where she usually stayed and set her school bag at the foot of the bed. She hadn't packed for an overnight stay, so she'd have to call Má to drop off spare clothes.
Peals of squealing laughter wafted through the air when Janet's children ran over to hug her father. They too possessed pale skin and shining blond curls similar to little porcelain dolls. The model all-American family, a pretty picture frame Jackie would never fit into.
She tied the ribbon around her ponytail and burrowed beneath the sheets, her cheek pressing against the cool silk of plush pillows. Maybe she could hibernate, spend the weekend in the sweet release of dreams, and pretend her father and his Butterbread family no longer existed.
. . .
While balancing on a precarious plastic stool, Aarav leaned over and wiped down the bathroom mirror with a towel. A sharp squeak split through the air and he cringed. He hissed and breathed in and out through his mouth in order not to smell the sharp chlorine scent of Clorox. When the glass gleamed and the towel stained black, he stepped back and set the bottle on the janitor's cart.
A couple of steps away, Iris Saetang scrubbed at the stall doors with a soapy bristle brush. The graffiti ink smeared and bled into the white frothy suds. Somehow she made the stained janitor's apron appear glamorous, and her manicure was miraculously intact. If only Aarav could say the same for himself: his glasses were askew and his dark circles were more visible than ever.
Aarav grumbled and adjusted his sleeves. "These volunteer hours better be worth it."
Iris wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead and straightened her shoulders. "The satisfaction of doing a good deed isn't enough?"
"I'd choose a different job than this." With a snort, he hauled the cart to the door and Iris followed him out. If Madison was the spawn of Satan, Iris was Mary Sunshine incarnate. A human lightbulb like those murder victims said to light up the room.
After peeling off the blue latex gloves, he chucked them in the trash and retrieved the folded form from his pocket. His phone dinged with a series of texts from his mother, informing him that dinner began in fifteen minutes and demanding he come home. The second the janitor signed off the hours on his volunteer sheet, Aarav grabbed his phone and keys and drove off.
He was welcomed home by the scent of heavy spices. White styrofoam to-go boxes littered the counter while dishes boasted an array of Indian foods: Andhra kodi kura, chicken marinated in spicy masala and garnished with coriander leaves; bhindi, deep-fried to a crisp and seasoned with spices and garlic and coconut; gongura mamsam, lamb meat infused with spices and topped with fried red chilies. Bowls of steaming rice marked each place at the dinner table.
"Wash up and change." Amma leaned over to rearrange the silverware and crystal glasses, her nose wrinkling. "You reek of cleaning chemicals."
Better cleaning chemicals than cigarette smoke. A miracle how his mother never caught on to the habit.
After smuggling a boorelu from a hidden box, he headed upstairs to his room while chewing the rice flour dumpling. He savored the sweet and nutty taste of coconut and chana dal stuffing. Laid out on his bed was an ironed green dress shirt and a pair of pressed black slacks. Aarav changed and after tossing his clothes into the dirty laundry hamper, ran a comb through his dark hair.
His bedroom was a disorganized array of toppled books and strewn papers and crushed coffee cups. In the corner stood a bookshelf overflowing with script and plays, and his bed was a mass of tangled sheets and blankets. Sidestepping an annotated copy of The Bell Jar, Aarav plucked the cups from the carpet and chucked them in the trash. If not for the nearing arrival of dinner guests, Amma would've knocked on the door and demand he clean his room.
The doorbell rang, no doubt from their extended family. He peered through a crack in the door while acerbic aunties burst through into the living room with cousins and uncles in tow. His sister Aadhira showed off a series of somersaults and handstands while relatives clapped. If Aarav skipped dinner like usual, no one would notice with Aadhira to entertain them.
"Aarav!" His mother's sharp voice sliced through the boisterous chatter with ease.
Of course, there was no skipping precious family time—not with Amma around. At least his relatives would return to India come Monday morning.
Rolling his shoulders back, he straightened and lifted his chin. As far as anyone knew, he was his parent's model son. Smart, obedient Aarav. Trustworthy and reliable Aarav. Staring into the mirror, he spread his lips into a smile. Shit, too fake. He attempted once more, ensuring that the corners of his eyes crinkled. Close enough.
When he descended the steps, Amma was herding all relatives into their seats with a serene smile on her face. Only when everyone arrived at the table would dinner commence. Aarav slid into his designated chair and met his father's eyes across the table—dark and heavy-lidded like his own. Tandri's mouth was set in a firm line, thick brows framing his angular features, while his obsidian gaze swept over the guests. His posture was rigid, his hands stiff while he spooned food onto his rice.
Following his father's footsteps, Aarav focused on the gongura mamsam instead of his vulture-eyed relatives. Steeped in a spicy masala base and decorated with sour red sorrel leaves, garnished with fried red chilies and curry leaves, the mutton possessed a distinctive fiery tangy taste. One bite was an explosion of flavor including cloves, cardamoms, cumin seeds and chopped onions.
"Daivi, this has too many red chilies." With a strangled cough, Auntie Bhavani lowered her spoon. "Next time you come to India, I will show you my real recipe."
Aarav's mother didn't spare a glance while she sipped her drink. "I ordered from the highest ranked restaurant. In fact, multiple customers praised its authenticity."
Auntie Bhavani waved a hand and swallowed a gulp of water. "Ah, never mind. How is school, Aarav? Did you snag a nice girlfriend yet?"
"Great, I'm in the running for valedictorian." He swept his spoon over the dish, gathering the remaining rice into a bundle. "No girlfriend."
"I'm sure my boy Arjun will graduate top of his class with no issues."
Aarav snorted but covered it up with a cough. The Arjun in question still swallowed glue sticks at age eleven. And once choked on a magnet. In reality, the moron had greater chances of winning the Darwin Awards than surviving school.
"Aarav's never had issues with eating art supplies." His mother's face was the paradigm of poise and grace while she dabbed at her lips. Gold bangles clinked on her wrists and gleamed under the light of the crystal chandelier.
"What do you do all day?" Uncle Ajay asked. "You've gotten so dark."
Aarav's hands twitched and he resisted the urge to scratch at his skin. "Track and cross country."
"Aren't you studying theatre arts? Do you have no ambition in life?"
Aarav clenched his teeth, and his grip tightened on the fork. "Theatre is an extracurricular like any other. I have all As in AP and IB courses."
"Your cousin Tejas graduated medical school last year."
A laudable accomplishment, but Tejas was also twenty-seven—a decade older than him. He scraped the rest of the rice into his mouth and lowered his spoon. "May I be excused? I have a lot of homework to finish."
"Of course, go do your homework." Amma waved a hand and cast a honeyed smile in Uncle Ajay's direction. "After all, you don't want to end up at community college like Reya."
Reya Sharma was his uncle's youngest daughter. The last time Aarav had seen his cousin was a year ago when she'd taught him to smoke a cigarette. From what he knew of her Instagram, she worked part-time bagging groceries and had started an animation project. The short video clips posted were impressive, but of course, pursuing the arts branded her a black sheep in Indian social circles. Aarav stood, chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, and carried his plate to the sink.
When he entered his room, he shut the door and found a pack of nicotine sticks buried under a clothes pile. He unlatched the window and climbed onto the tree, crawling across the branches and into the Sinclairs' treehouse. Releasing a breath, Aarav leaned back against the wooden walls and stretched out his legs, the floorboards creaking with every move, before lighting a cigarette.
The white stick dangled between his pointer and middle fingers. The smoke was hot, and he could feel it in his lungs, that tingling sensation. He exhaled, the tension seeping from his body along with the smoke. The cigarette never lasted as long as he wanted, usually about seven minutes. At the end, the old paper dried up and flickered off in ashes.
At the sound of footsteps and a soft creak, Aarav shuffled forward and glanced down where Liam was climbing up the rope ladder. His blond hair gleamed under the moonlight while his hands gripped the rungs. He hoisted himself through the entrance and found a seat on the other side of the treehouse. "Hey."
"How'd you know I'd be here?" Aarav allowed the cigarette to drop and crushed it beneath his foot.
"Call it a hunch." Liam's blue-eyed gaze shifted to the fallen stick of tobacco. "You ever think of quitting?"
"I'll burn that bridge when I get to it." The smell clung to him like a second skin, especially his left hand, the one that held the cigarette. His mouth was dry, ashy, and he craved a coffee—a bitter black to chase down the nicotine.
"You could try Adderall. If it helps with your grades, you'll be less stressed."
Aarav laughed, a low hoarse sound, and his lips curled into a wry smile. "That's cheating."
"You'd rather get lung cancer?"
"I'm limiting my vices." His fingers toyed with the lighter and spun it around. With a chrome-gray lacquer finish and made of bronze, it was plain and unassuming. However, it never required more than a single flick to ignite.
"I wished we had flashlights or something." Liam shuffled in the darkness.
"Use your phone, dumbass."
"Right." A sudden white light burst from his phone, and Liam raised it up to the walls. Wrinkled crayon drawings of monsters and peeling posters of outdated bands covered the treehouse. In the center was a pinned oath written in sloppy handwriting with smeared blood near the bottom.
Aarav traced the long, thin scar that stretched across his left palm. When aged eleven, they'd met at the treehouse under the cloak of darkness, both their houses fast asleep. Liam had stolen a kitchen knife and they'd sliced their palms and clasped hands. Two boys, bound by blood. Then they pressed their hands against a sheet of paper, marking the white with red prints. A promise to be friends forever. It was then that Liam Sinclair made Aarav realize that anything was possible with that gleaming white smile that promised the world.
Unlike his friends of convenience, who he only talked to due to shared classes and cross country practice, Liam was someone he had to lose.
"Family?"
"What?" Blinking, Aarav struggled to register the question.
"The reason you're hiding here."
"Right, ten points for Slytherin." He removed his glasses, which were constantly fogging up, and wiped the lenses with his sleeve. "Relatives from India came over."
"Hm, I'm more of a Gryffindor." Liam's smile gleamed. "What about your cousin? A-something. Is he still eating glue sticks? "
"Yes, Arjun." Aarav scoffed and slipped his glasses back on. "His mom's convinced he's destined for greatness."
"What do you think?"
"Natural selection says let him die."
"Cruel." Liam kicked his shin.
Smirking, Aarav returned the favor. With a hiss, the blond rubbed his leg. "Never have I once claimed to be kind."
"You're going to hell, you know that?"
Aarav rolled his eyes. "No thanks, there's too many Catholics."
Another snicker. Then a beat of silence. "You know the new girl Jackie? She mentioned you being an asshole when I talked to her after auditions."
"Since when do you play the welcoming committee to new students?" Aarav raised his eyebrows, then snorted. "Hey, sometimes I can be nice."
"Maybe when it's a full moon. Like a werewolf transformation."
He inclined his head toward the window. Against the inky black of night sky gleamed the full moon in all its dappled milky glory. "Something like that."