Luca handed it over. Marc sucked on the lighter, but it refused to yield a flame.
“Are you kidding me?” said Eddie. “Yo, Kaufman, I know you got matches.”
“Just used my last one,” said Marc.
Siddharth wondered if this was a sign. Maybe this wasn’t supposed to happen.
“This is like blue balls,” said Eddie. “Sidney, can’t you just rub two sticks together?”
Siddharth noticed that Marc was the only one still smoking. “Hey, guys,” he said.
Luca said, “Sidney, don’t pussy out on us now.”
“Listen,” said Siddharth, “we can use Marc’s cigar.” His head was pounding, and everyone was staring at him.
“What the hell you talking about?” said Luca.
“Marc’s got his cigar still,” replied Siddharth. He wished he hadn’t said anything. But now he had to finish what he’d started.
Eddie said, “So what’s your point?”
“All he has to do is get it going and throw it down.”
“Will that work?” asked Luca.
“It works in the movies,” said Siddharth. “Here, give it to me. Marc, gimme your stogie.”
Marc handed it over.
He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He took a strong drag, and the cigar’s tip glowed cherry red. When he threw it onto the pile, nothing happened at first. But then there was a subtle boom. A blue flame spread across every inch of wood, every centimeter of plastic and metal. There were crackles. Some clicks and hisses. Soon, tall orange flames shot toward the sky. They were mesmerizing.
Siddharth closed his eyes, allowing the heat to soothe his cheeks and forehead. It felt so good, better than lying in front of the television with a blanket — better than lying in his father’s bed and listening to him snore, better than watching his mother’s hands sketch a landscape. When he opened his eyes, Marc’s face was a warm shade of red, as if he had just returned from the beach. Siddharth looked over his friend’s shoulder and saw two headlights approaching, then flashing red and blue lights atop the car. He didn’t want to ruin this moment, so he didn’t say anything about the cops.
“Holy shit!” Marc yelped. “Holy fuck.” He grabbed Siddharth’s sleeve and yanked him toward the woods.
EPILOGUE. Why and What’s the Reason For
It is late May. The curtains sway, a breeze tickles his neck.Opening his eyes, he feels a pang of panic. He doesn’t have the energy for school but then remembers it is Saturday. He stretches his arms and relaxes, nuzzles his head into his pillow. Pleasant thoughts fill his mind. Tonight he will see her again, the girl he has recently kissed. With tongue. Eighth grade will soon be over, sooner for him than for Eddie and Luca. He will take his exams early so that he can travel to India, where his father will talk about his book at a conference. Where Mohan Lal will speak beside a man who they say will be prime minister one day.
The thought of traveling to that dirty, godforsaken shithole puts dread in his stomach. But he will drink beer with his cousins. Will enjoy the smiling servants at his uncle’s marble-laden home, the turbaned men who salute him at the Delhi Golf Club. Will enjoy a couple of weeks with his brother, who he hasn’t seen in seven months. Arjun will arrive in India with his new girlfriend. She’s from Ecuador, which is better than India. Better than Pakistan. She’s from Ecuador, but looks European. Together they will all travel to the Himalayas. Then comes August. Then ninth grade. Then high school. A driver’s license. Siddharth wants time to fly so that he can drive. Mohan Lal has recently inherited a small chunk of money from an aunt. Maybe he will use it to buy Siddharth a car. Maybe he will get rid of the minivan and buy himself a real vehicle. An Acura or a Lexus, or a souped-up Accord.
Siddharth gets up and makes himself toast without brushing his teeth. Makes himself a mug of instant coffee. Seats himself in front of the television and watches an episode of M*A*S*H. An episode of The Jetsons, though he would never admit it to Luca. A pair of blue jays is making a racket on the new squirrel-proof birdfeeder. He presses his head against the sliding glass doors. Bangs on the glass, so that the jays fly away. Stares out across the porch, which is spotless, with brand-new wicker furniture. A badger is foraging in a flower bed. A flock of turkeys struts toward the woods. He bangs on the window again. The badger looks up, then recommences its search.
The phone rings. He answers.
Luca’s voice. Kid, have you heard?
Heard what?
About Sharon.
Who?
Nagorksi.
Luca sounds strange. Has uttered her name for the first time in months. Siddharth says, What about her?
Kid, she’s freaking dead.
Fuck off, says Siddharth. That’s not even funny.
I’m not kidding. They say it was an accident. But it’s a cover-up.
What?
She freaking killed herself, dude. With her father’s gun.
Her father? Sharon’s father lives in North Carolina.
Luca says, I don’t know her life story. But Eddie’s dad was with the cops when they found her. It’s kind of sad, really. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel kinda weird.
Siddharth’s stomach tingles. It is difficult to breathe. He returns his gaze to the yard. The blue jays are back. A squirrel has mounted the feeder and is knocking seeds to the ground, where another squirrel is gorging.
Luca says, You there, kid?
Siddharth says, I gotta go.
He puts down the phone. Can taste metal on the tip of his tongue. Tells himself this isn’t happening to him, isn’t happening to his family. The people he loves are still breathing. Usually this works. But today he cannot find calm. He can see Sharon. Her dimple, her eyeliner. He hasn’t spoken to her in more than a year. He hasn’t had anything to do with her. So this has nothing to do with him.
Footsteps.
They get louder.
He turns his head.
She is wearing her green kimono, the one Mohan Lal gave her last year on her birthday.
Oh honey, she says, walking toward him with open arms.
He stands there frozen, struck by how stupid she looks in that robe. This year Mohan Lal has given her a better gift, emerald earrings that had previously belonged to Siddharth’s mother. He hated it when Mohan Lal gave Ms. Farber those emerald earrings. But Arjun told him it was for the best. That their mother wouldn’t have minded.
She wraps her arms around him. But he is rigid.
She steps back. Looks him in the eye, grasps his shoulders. Says, I wanted to tell you last night, but I was asleep when you got home.
He stares at her messy head of curls, her small honeyed eyes that seem too far apart in this moment. She pulls him toward her, nestles his forehead against her neck. Her soft, small breasts press into his chest. A tear falls from his eye, moistens the silk on her shoulder. She places a hand on his back, starts rubbing it. Whispers, I need you to know this has nothing to do with you.
More tears fall. He knows this isn’t true. This has everything to do with him.
She says, You’re such a sensitive young man. Trust me, it was a complicated situation. You don’t know the half of it.
If he were to step away from her, he would fall to the ground. He would fall, because he knows he could have done something. Knows he could have been her friend.
Ms. Farber repeats her reassurances: Son, this has nothing to do with you. Poor, sweet Siddharth, this just isn’t your fault.
He gives her a squeeze, and she tightens her embrace. He likes the way she feels. Could remain in her arms for a very long time. Thinks, Maybe Ms. Farber is right. Maybe Ms. Farber’s not that bad. Maybe it’s time to start listening to her.