Gita Desai Is Not Here to Shut Up by Sonia Patel

Author:Sonia Patel [Patel, Sonia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2024-09-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

An hour and a half later, Sai and I are next up for a table at Tran’s Bistro. It’s a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese joint that Sora swears by, and it’s packed. In the cramped entryway, the tempting aromas of mint, lemongrass, fish sauce, and sweet barbequed meat waft, making it nearly impossible to keep my hungry, are-you-done-yet-people stare to myself.

Suddenly, I get bumped, pushed from behind. I whip my head over my shoulder to find a family of four squeezing themselves into the doorway. Sai and I end up wedged between the wall and the host podium.

“Excuse you,” I grumble, chup-re no match for my hunger-fueled irritation. My hostile eyes take aim first at the dad in a charcoal-gray suit, then at the mom draped in an Ann Taylor–ish white linen dress. She turns away, smoothing her blond, shoulder-length flipped hair.

Sai widens his stance and crosses his arms, but his tone is soft and polite when he turns to them and says, “There’s a sign. You have to wait outside.”

They ignore Sai, just like they ignored the big sign posted on the front of the door: PLEASE WAIT OUT HERE UNTIL A SERVER CALLS YOU IN.

The dad chuckles. “Smells like the place farts go to die.”

The mom wrinkles her nose. “I know, I know, but Mackenzie said it was good.” She pats her stomach. “What it’s not good for is my low-fat diet.”

I move my clenched jaw from side to side, ready to say, Then leave, you cultural heathens!

“Nothing step aerobics can’t fix, honey,” the dad says.

I stare at the ceiling and exhale, wondering what Twilight Zone meets Leave It to Beaver hell I’m trapped in. Even in the vicinity of the intellectual bastion that is Stanford, there’s always white people talking like white people—oblivious and loud, invading and oppressing anyone in their way.

Then one of the teenage sons, the one sporting a “Clinton/Gore” baseball hat, punches his brother’s arm. “I can’t believe Mom let you out of the house wearing that.”

That is a black T-shirt with an image of a curvy woman in a bikini straddling a big bottle of whiskey, fanning herself with a deck of playing cards. The words LIQUOR IN THE FRONT, POKER IN THE BACK are printed in neon yellow above her head.

Clinton/Gore shakes his head. “Seriously. You’re such a dickhead.”

Dickhead sneers. “Everyone knows it’s a joke.”

“Well, for the record, no girl will ever date you if you wear shit like that.”

Dickhead smirks. “Who needs dating? I take what I want.” His laugh is maniacal, like a cartoon evil villain.

I’m stone-faced, staring at the gap between Dickhead’s two front teeth while everything else fades away.

I take what I want.

I cock my head. My eyes widen: I remember. I remember. Bhavin Uncle said something just like that, only in Gujarati.

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