Make It Spicy

Intro: It All Begins

He took my face into his warm hands and after a second of wallowing in my eyes, crashed his lips into mine. The excitement that shook my very being seemed eternal and omnipotent. His mouth tasted faintly of vanilla, and his soft, volatile lips parted as his toungue slipped out and tasted me. What was I doing? As his hand creeped up my shirt, lightly fingering my back, I paused and slipped away. I stared for a moment into his intense eyes, and I sighed. I could feel his eyes boring inot my back as I silently turned and walked away...

It's always a red flag when everyone seems to be mad at you. The problem is, it's harder to tell if it's because you are doing something right or wrong.

I'm a new person now. I've changed and learned and grown from the experiences I've had and the people I've met. And it's hard to tell if someone is truly trying to help you or harm you. Sometimes, people who don't understand you, people who haven't gone though the same challenges you have unintentionally give you hell. For me, those people are my parents.

Now don't get me wrong, I love them dearly and they love me more than they love oxygen. But there is a thing as too much love. And in this case, to be honest, its probably more like a cultural difference.

I've been around the internet a few times. (Just kidding, the internet is my life.) I've read articles about how Indian people can't be sexy and we are all just a hairy bunch of curry-eating foreigners. I'm here to put those to rumors to rest. Yep, it's true. Except for the sexy part. We are beautiful. But yes, I eat curry. And yes, I am a bit hairier than the rest. (Nothing a quick shave can't solve!) Other than that, I'm just a regular American teenager.

But I ought to warn you that my parents are a bit... how shall I put it... conservative. They immigrated here, to San Francisco, at the age of twenty many years ago. They still follow their traditional Indian customs, and I have a bone to pick with some of them. They are the epitome of the Asian parent. No parties, no boyfriends, all A+s. They'd probably disown me if I ever managed to get a B in any subject. I shudder to think of that.

As we all can imagine, the very core of American teen life clashes dramatically with these values. And when it collided in my home, the impact was as powerful as a freaking supernova. My parents yelling, I'm screaming, you can imagine the rest. There's only do much one can take before you snap.

And thus began my descent into what I call "the depths of slutdom," every Indian parent's worst nightmare. Close calls, parties, drinking, you name it. So how exactly does a good Indian wallflower like me become the most-talked-about girl in the Junior class?

Well, it all began with this boy named Dylan.