Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.
LET IT SPIN by Sona Charaipotra
As I stare out the grimy New Jersey Transit window, the Raritan River glitters with snow, surprisingly beautiful as it follows the sun down into the city.
But it’s so crowded I can barely breathe. God, just let me fall asleep.
The train roars toward the tunnel as I’m drifting off. But I am acutely aware of someone watching me. You know, the kind of staring that you can actually feel. I open my eyes.
Jason. Should have known.
I’ve been seeing him on the train the past couple of weeks. I heard he’s at NYU, at Tisch, studying animation or produc- tion or something. Makes sense, considering. He’s always had that penetrating way of looking at you, so you can’t escape his gaze, familiar and ironclad.
It’s just like Saachi’s, that definitive take, done deal. The way she locks moments into place from her own perspective, sealing them up tight so there’s no room for you to share your version of history. Believe me, I’ve tried.
I know he recognizes me, catching my eye, waiting for me to make the first move. Well, why should I? Why can’t I be the one who’s pursued for a change? But that’s the way it goes with him. With everyone lately. And I’m over it.
At least it’ll give me something to tell Saachi. I can’t help the smirk settling on my face, unbidden.
So not worth it. I hear her voice in my head, clear and sharp, like it’s been there all along. Like it’s been there forever. It’s been months since I’ve seen her. Probably my fault. But I can’t help my grudge. Never could. Now dread roils in my stomach like bile, making me want to turn right back around on the next train to Jersey.
But there are some moments in life that we don’t get to skip. Usually the ones that leave scars.
Saachi was sixteen when she stopped talking to me. Not literally talking, but you know. Having those deep, intimate conversations you have with someone who’s loved you since you were six. I didn’t even know why.
But I could feel it, deep down, in my fumbling to fix things. In the echoes of that dark, disturbing nightmare, the one that struck every so often, the one I tried to push down and away. Always the big, grand backyard I spent endless childhood hours in, the swing set abandoned, the ground frostbit. A black-and-white sky, pale flowers spilled out over the milky picket fence. A moment I’ve lived a million times in my head.
I still can’t quite unravel what it means. Saachi’s long dark pigtails flying—cheeks still chubby, eyes pale and bright—as she coasts by on that rusted red tricycle. The vivid crimson a warning, a reminder, stark against the muted dreamworld hues. Then the fall, the wheels spinning endlessly, vicious and cruel like the circle of life and death. And blood on the
concrete, shocking but familiar as yesterday.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear it, the call of moments past, lost. The Bollywood beats muted in the background, that comforting clink of glass bangles and ice in crystal glasses. The roars of lions long since tamed, smoke filling the room as the men shed fatherhood and other responsibilities to cackle endlessly at jokes I still don’t quite understand.
It’s always that familiar, strange laughter that wakes me up in a cold sweat, clammy hands still grasping, helpless and unsure. It echoes in my ears, loud and rough, spilling secrets once forgotten.
When we first met, I was barely a person. More my big sister Raina’s shadow, really, following her around as she led me by the hand, nearly disappearing in the presence of strangers. But Saachi saw me, claimed me, like no one else had—at least not at six—and it was like the first time I took a bath in the big tub, the bubbles enthralling and danger- ous as it filled up and over, the delicious, looming threat of being swallowed whole.
That’s exactly what happened. We’d barely moved into the little chocolate chip house on Library Place when Saachi’s family—four doors down—invaded ours. Mama would spend endless hours whispering with Madhu Auntie over chai and pakore, reminiscing over lazy Delhi summers and complaining about day jobs. Our fathers split lawn work, Saachi’s brother, Veer, bearing the brunt of it really, as Subhash and Mohan bonded over stock trades, cricket scores, and the riots and injustices happening thousands of miles away, across oceans and continents. They became a united front, an army of two, basically the same person. Maybe not physically, but the same spirit. The same broken, often comical English, the same urgency, the same happy, whiskey-soaked slur as they laughed late night over endless hands of blackjack and samosas.
It was only natural, then, for Raina and I to adopt Saachi, to make her the other sister.
While Raina developed an instant crush on Veer, who alternately tortured or ignored us, Saachi became our American ambassador, tasked with explaining everything from Halloween (“dress up, but make it scary”) to boy bands and school politics.
Raina always wanted to be the boss of me, but Saachi was mine to lead—if just for a moment—before I became the one to follow. And she was lovely. How could I not adore her? Long, silky black hair, skin pale as moonlight, and she looked just like her father—the same fat, pink lips, melted chocolate eyes, that small nose, and no jawline at all. Not a pretty little girl by any standard, yet entirely feminine. Delicate, like a doll.
A walking, talking, breathing doll that followed me around and hung on my every word. Being someone’s sun is fun, at least for a little while. Though I knew I was hardly worthy of worship, with my little-boy looks, my hair cut close like Daddy’s, and those awful toy guns, I let her believe in the awe- some powers she thought I possessed, all the while ignoring her own. I wanted to be just like her. Even though I pretended the opposite. It got to the point where it was Saachi-and-Raina-and- Ruby instead of Saachi and Raina-and-Ruby.
Not that we minded. Or at least I didn’t.
Except when it came to boys.
