Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter One

I'm twenty-seven.

I haven't had a date in two whole years (phone-calls to English guys don't exactly count).

On the other hand I'm not fat.

But on the OTHER-other hand I'm not exactly skinny.

Back to the other hand: being five-foot-seven means the weight gain tends to stretch.

My twirling hand relaxed at the endless dating options that Toronto would deliver. All I had to do was be a little patient. What choice did I have? Desperation was ugly. And smelly.

My thoughts must have carried away, as I found myself guzzling the last of a tepid latte. A glance at my watch confirmed the unscheduled daydream.

Four-fifteen p.m. Time flies when it's a party of one.

I squeezed through the revolving doors, and raced to catch the four-thirty train.

***

Four twenty-six p.m. and I was standing on the train station platform. A broad-shouldered woman hit me with her giant satchel, an "accident" that conveniently pushed me to the back. I'd never messed with a broad-shouldered woman before, and wasn't about to start to today. Besides, my hair was silkier than hers, so karma had done its work.

The train bell clanged and for me it tolled a somber tune. My afternoon of pondering was about to be replaced with a nightly confrontation.

My sister.

I took a deep breath and boarded the train.

***

If there's one thing I learned from family sitcoms growing up, it's that sisters, despite their superficial squabbles, have a superglue-level of a bond. I wondered though, about the margin of error for this bond. Like what about the sisterly bond which is only sealed together with Scotch Tape? Or worse, sealed with only the cheap and sticky edge of an envelope?

My older sister and I were the victims of the "envelope adhesive."

I slammed the door shut against the howling wind, and that was just the trigger she needed.

"Hurry up and wash the containers, dumbass!We have to bring them home!" Neema's voice was filtered by her closed bedroom door, but it managed to pierce my ears like a smoke alarm with PMS.

"EXCUSE ME?" I yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "You've been home for an entire hour, bitch. Why the hell didn't YOU wash them?" The fury within me was bubbling over, as I dusted off the snow from the shoulders of my big wool coat. It had started with the train delay right before my stop, continued with the slippery roads, and was now poised to end with a bitch-fest. Typical.

"I always do the dishes!" she bellowed back. "You don't do shit, you fat-ass loser. So wash them and hurry up, I told Mom and Dad we'd be home by seven!"

"I don't DO anything?" I cried."What about last week, when I did all the laundry? YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

No response.

I could never recall when the switch to general hatred had occurred, but somewhere along the way, my sister and I had gone from jumping on the bed singing "Like a Virgin"...to this.It was a difficult grudge to live with, since we shared a house in Toronto from Sunday to Friday night. On the surface the arrangement put us closer to our places of work. Underneath it though, was a blissful escape from my parents' harsh regime. Even though the pact to keep our crazy late nights from our parents held true, there was still the little problem of having her in my face.

At the moment I wanted to snap off her twiggy arms, but I'd save that for another time. So I went to the kitchen and washed the dishes in a rage, tossing the lids so they bounced off the rack, and splashing for the sake of splashing.

Afterwards I dried every one of the large glass bowls and their plastic lids, placing them in a milk crate lined with dishcloths. These dishes would travel back here once the Christmas break was over, only filled with all my mother's Indian food.

I thumped up the stairs and now stood in front of my closet, where small T-shirts and tight blouses from thinner days self-righteously hung. I opened my dresser drawer instead, and in one swift motion crammed my duffle bag with sweatshirts and flannel.

I returned downstairs and waited.

And waited.

I looked up the stairs and could still see the light bleeding out from underneath her door.

I figured she needed a prompt.

"HURRY THE FUCK UP!"

There was no response, but a minute later she finally opened the door. Down the steps she came, five-foot-nine and stick-thin with her Gucci bag in hand, and her shoulder-length hair sitting perfectly still and straightened. I wanted to explain how Gucci would pay her an enormous sum to never wear their brand again, but I was far too tired for another round of insults.

By the time we loaded up the car I was ready for a drool-filled nap. Partly because I was tired, but mostly to avoid the mere thought of a Narindra family Christmas; the judging, the dinner-table inquisitions, and the fake transformation into the girl I was supposed to be...

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