The Poison Apples by Lily Archer

Author:Lily Archer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466883628
Publisher: Feiwel and Friends

ELEVEN

Reena

She was wearing a sari.

Even worse, it wasn’t a real sari. It was the kind of sari middle-age white ladies buy at their local “exotic goods” shop. You know—those shops that sell incense and mood rings and wind chimes and books telling you about whether your astrological sign is compatible with someone else’s astrological sign. And random “foreign” objects, like vests covered in mirrors and tablecloths with little African elephants all over them.

Saris, in case you didn’t know, are the traditional garment worn by Indian women. They’re basically like this long rectangle of fabric that goes down to your feet, and you wrap it around your waist and sling it over your shoulder. I’ve only worn a sari a few times in my life, like whenever there’s a wedding thrown by any of my more traditional cousins or family friends. But my mother wears one almost every day. And, you know—I hate to admit it—because they’re like the opposite of what you’re supposed to wear if you’re a cool Los Angeles high school student—saris can actually look kind of sexy.

Obviously Shanti Shruti had figured this out.

Her sari was hot pink, and made out of this cheesy shiny synthetic fabric (my mother wore saris made only from cotton or silk). It had little sparkly beads sewn around the hem, and it made this horrible swishy, chime-y sound when she walked.

So when she and my father entered the pizza parlor on the edge of town (a meeting spot that Pradeep and I had come up with together, hoping to avoid as many of our peers as possible), my jaw dropped. Then I turned and looked at Pradeep, who was sitting next to me, and saw that he was shaking his head back and forth in disbelief.

“Hello, my dears,” said my father.

He looked exactly the same. Big white hair, big white beard, gray suit jacket, pot belly, khaki pants.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, and I awkwardly stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

Pradeep didn’t stand up. After a silent standoff—he and my father stared at each other for what seemed like a full minute, unblinking, each Paruchuri man refusing to back down—my father grabbed Pradeep’s shoulder and shook it. Then he tousled Pradeep’s hair.

“Hello, son,” my father said.

“Mmrf,” said Pradeep. He bent over and shoveled half of his pizza slice into his mouth.

Shanti stepped forward and tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear, smiling nervously. Then she threw her arms around me. We were exactly the same height.

“You look so beautiful,” Shanti whispered.

I broke out of the hug, and she held me out at arm’s length.

“Wow,” she said, “I am totally intimidated by how beautiful you look.”

Ew. Gross. First of all, I didn’t believe her. Shanti looked like an almost impossible mix of a Barbie doll, Gywneth Paltrow, and a swan. Second of all, I didn’t look any different than I had during the summer. Third, she was my stepmother. She was supposed to be old and wise and kind, not intimidated by how beautiful I was.

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