Rearranged

Pictures continued

*  *  * 

Neha stood at the front door long after Jenny was out of sight.

"Just ask." Jenny made it sound so easy. It would be, if the word "just" existed in Neha's vocabulary. Sure, Americans used the word all the time to be simple and direct - "Just do it, just try it, just fix it" – but there was no simplifying her situation, and being direct was dangerous.

She was more familiar with "must." Three letters down the alphabet, but a dictionary of difference.

Neha locked the door, and set the alarm. The shop encased her like a messy closet, with memories from her childhood hidden in every corner. It was the only playground she had ever known in America. Closing time was when the fun began, and it only got better after she convinced her mother to hire Jenny. Malcolm's deliveries led to hours of dress-up, usually with Neha pretending to be a Bollywood actress on the red carpet.

"So who are you wearing?" Jenny would ask into a paper towel roll microphone.

Neha would flip her long black hair over her shoulder and say, "This is from the trendiest shop in JacksonHeights. That Neha Patel has quite an eye for fashion."

"Never heard of her."

"And aren't you going to ask about this dashing man on my arm?"

"How sweet of you to bring your father."

"Jenny!"

"Fine, do tell, who is it this time..."

The pressure cooker whistled from the kitchen upstairs. Dinner was ready.

As she walked away from the door, Neha longed to be a customer, not the shop owner's daughter. Then she could pick and choose what she wanted from Indian culture. Gold bangles and anklets that jingle? Yes, please. Arranged marriage? No, thanks.

She kicked the file cabinet, giving it another dent. The drawer rolled open, the sound of metal against metal ringing in her ears like a jail cell shutting behind her. Frantically, she grabbed a bag and did her best to make the eligible bachelors disappear. She was almost done when a stack at the bottom caught her eye.

Her body froze like the statues of Hindu gods on the shelf above her.

"Beti!" A drop of sweat rolled down Neha's temple at the sound of her mother's voice upstairs.

"Ek minute," Neha yelled back.

The picture was her, but not her. She certainly hadn't posed for it. - that much was clear from her face. She could have passed for one of the hollow mannequins keeping her company in the shop, draped in saris under silent protest.

She recognized the red, itchy sari she wore in the picture, heavy as a winter coat. Her mother had wrapped and pinned it in place, completing the transformation from Queens teenager to Indian daughter. Then she spotted the pink balloon that read "Happy Graduation Anjali."

Of course. She knew that party would be nothing but trouble.

"But the Guptas are your friends," Neha had protested, "not mine."

"Anjali is your friend," her mother had said.

"Anjali hasn't talked to me since she moved to the suburbs."

"So you can talk at party."

Anjali lived in Queens for a year, until her father joined a private practice. Their fathers had been classmates back in India, until Neha's father switched from the human body to more dependable machines and became an engineer. Anjali's graduation party, complete with DJ, delicacies and even a photographer, all spoke to her family's American success story.