The Rearranged Life (12 page)

ames and I compromise on this date: he chooses laser tag and I pick ice cream. He teases me that I sound like a five-year-old, but I tell him to shut up. Laser tag first, we decide, to build up an appetite. The facility is in the basement of an old building, hidden from the view of people walking the streets. We pay for our time and strap up while the bored-looking college student who mans the front of the maze tells us we have an hour.

“You ready?” James mock glares at me, and just like that, the fire is sparked.

“Bring it!”

Nothing electrifies me like competition. I must have inherited it from my parents since they bested everyone at their own schools, because losing isn’t in my repertoire. Not gracefully, anyway. In high school, my crush Eric and I competed in a mock debate tournament on opposing teams. Every time we would be up against each other, the murmurs of our teammates would resume.
Too competitive
and
intense
floated through the air. It didn’t matter to us. We would shake hands with glinting eyes, our own personal form of flirtation.

James and I step into the dark room, blinking furiously to adjust to the dimness, punctuated by flashing lasers, exit signs, and strategically placed light bulbs.

“Ready?” I ask.

“We split up in three…” We grip our guns a little tighter.

“Two…” We turn away from each other.

“One.”

We dart off in opposite directions and navigate through a maze of eight-foot walls. I keep my back against the barriers. Some paths lead to dead ends, and others to open spaces. I keep my finger on the trigger and the gun against my chest as I shuffle carefully to avoid making noise. My senses are heightened. I listen for any footfalls nearby and each creak makes my heart jump, as I turn quickly and point my gun at the direction the sound came from.

“SHIT!” Someone yells, and I launch what feels like twelve feet, scared out of my wits. A relieved sigh escapes me–it is another player, somewhere else.

“Got you!” James shouts, appearing from around a corner.

The lights on my chest piece start to blink. I have been shot. He runs off, the cockiness of his first score marking his face.

I follow him quietly, taking a peek around each corner before I swing around. A girl hustles by and I trace her, prepared to fire. A movement in my periphery, and there’s James, peering around the edge of the wall. He looks in another direction, the tendons in his neck stretching and outlining his prominent Adam’s apple. His green eyes are dark, but occasionally flash florescent in the lights. The muscles in his forearm flex as he moves his finger to the trigger.

I take aim. He steps into my line of fire at precisely the right moment.

I pull the trigger.

The chest piece strapped to his body emits a flashing red light. His head snaps side to side as I saunter out from behind the corner.

“Done yet?” I ask with mock cockiness, as I blow across the barrel of my gun. The sway in my hips makes me feel like a heroine in one of those spaghetti westerns.

“Game’s not over yet, baby. Three, two, one.”

We continue for over forty-five minutes. James gets me two more times and I shoot him once. The pace escalates; both of us run now to elude each other. More and more effort is necessary to conceal my panting breath and heavy footfalls.

Suddenly, I’m face to face with him–a split second’s wait. Then our eyes widen, and we both fire, but he misses, and my laser strikes his chest first.

“HA!” I launch into a victory dance. “Tied!”

We separate and reposition. There’s time for one last shot before our time is up. I have to win. My instincts won’t accept anything else. Teetering on the balls of my feet, I spot him just ahead and poke the gun into his back. I win.

“Give up yet?” I whisper into his ear.

He jumps, whips around, and wraps his arm around my waist, pinning me between him and the wall. My gun is the only thing between us. His body heat warms me. The proximity is so unexpected that my breath escapes me in one short swoosh. Our faces are inches apart–the hot air from his rapid breaths puffs onto my cheek, faintly smelling of peppermint.
Is now when he’s going to kiss me?
My heart races; I am certain he can feel it pounding through the thick plastic of my chest plate, and I could swear I hear his too, thumping steadily against me. His steely eyes penetrate my own, which have to be giving away every thought I have.

“You’re like a little ninja.”

“I’d show you my moves, but I don’t really have any,” I confess breathlessly.

He lets go of me and laughs. I take a deep breath I didn’t know I needed.

“Fair enough. You win.” He lets his gun drop out of his hands, and it hangs at his side.

I exhale, trying to recover from our brief contact. I want him to be that close again.

“You may have been onto something with the ice cream. I’m starving,” he declares as we walk toward the ice cream place just up the street.

A gleam at his neck once we’ve sat down catches my attention. On a leather string hangs a silver circular pendant with the letters
MJT
and
2/3.
When I gesture to it, his hand goes to it immediately, like when someone compliments me on a pair of earrings and I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing.

“What does it mean?”

“It’s a long story…”

“We’ve got time. Unless you don’t want to, which is okay, too.” Did I just make him uncomfortable? Oops. He glances at me, and his shoulders relax.

“Max is in the middle of his residency in pediatric oncology. He says he’s paying it forward.”

“How so?”

“We were eleven, seven, and five. School had just let out for the summer and, good God, it was like Christmas again. We had this group of boys in our old neighborhood, we’d go crazy on the trampoline, went to the beach together, and our moms would take turns driving us around. We were going to play football at the park down the street, and out of nowhere, Max says he’s tired and doesn’t want to go.”

He pauses to take a bite.

“So, Tristan and I leave him at home and go play. Then he does the same thing the next day. And the next. We figured he was being lazy, but Mom started to worry this was more than a growth spurt. He was sleeping all the time, never wanted to eat, and, damn, he was cranky. I mean, one time, he yelled at me for breathing too loud when I was sleeping.

“Mom takes him to the doctor. They lift up his shirt, and there’re bruises around Max’s underarms. The doctor orders a battery of tests to rule out anything serious. I think Mom knew it wasn’t going to come out the way she wanted.” He shakes his head and takes another bite of his ice cream. Mine is melting as I listen.

“Our parents didn’t let us go for the lumbar puncture, but we had to visit the hospital a lot for x-rays and blood draws. A week later, Max has an Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia diagnosis, and he’s in chemo and radiation. We weren’t allowed to play with him because of the treatment. Not that he could anyway, he was skin and bones. My mom told me Max wasn’t feeling well and needed to be in the hospital until he got better, but we just wanted him home. I don’t think the gravity of the situation hit us. It was like we thought he had the flu.

“Then one day, one of the moms gives me the most pitying look when she picks us up from summer soccer practice, and it was like the straw that broke the camel’s back. I told Mom we’d had enough and Max was done, we were done, and no more of this garbage.”

It’s been sixteen years since James was seven, but it could have been yesterday: the shamefaced boy is still there.

“She may have cried at that. I don’t know. I don’t really want to, honestly,” he says quietly. “Anyway, she bought us these necklaces. She said it was time for us to learn that an important part of being a brother is knowing without the others, you aren’t whole. That without supporting each other, we can’t be a family.”

“So you’re 2/3.” The numbers suddenly make sense. He nods, finally giving me a real smile. “And Max?”

“He’s been in remission since the first round of chemo. We have no idea how he did it, but he fought like hell.” His chest billows out in pride.

I shudder to think what I would do if one of my family members was ever so sick. I silently vow to call my parents more often. And then, the realization strikes–when I do call, I won’t be able to tell them about James, about how happy I am. I do my best to push the thought from my mind.

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been,” I tell James softly and put my hand over his without realizing it.

He glances at our hands before looking up. Currents pass through our palms–he feels it, too. We talk for another hour. He asks me about how many times I’ve been to India and what it’s like.

“It’s not something you can describe,” I say after I give it some thought. “It’s something you can only feel. The air smells like dust and smoke. I would say it’s unappealing, but I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve stood on our deck trying to capture that very scent. There are more colors than words to describe them. The country is still new to being free and politics are mangled, corrupt, and frustrating… Yet the people speak of nationalistic pride, and there is nothing like seeing a cricket match between India and Pakistan, watching fireworks going off and eating the sweets that shop owners distribute in the streets when we win. My grandparents always tell us stories of freedom fighters because they are young enough to remember British rule, but old enough to have wisdom about how far we have to go. Technology and economic growth are huge right now, but the gap between the rich and poor is staggering. The American Dream is the ideal, but going to India and seeing the westernization is saddening. It’s like they think they have to lose the old culture to gain the new when it doesn’t have to be so exclusive… Sorry, I know that was a rambling mess. I wish I could explain better.” My lack of coherence is embarrassing.

“You did a good job.” He slurps melted ice cream off his spoon. We might as well drink it with straws at this point. “Is it hard? Living this dichotomy?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “It’s hard when ideologies clash, like relationships or religion. Other than that, I think I’ve done all right with balancing things.”

“It sounds like it. So, speaking of relationships…”

Please don’t ask me about arranged marriages,
I beg him in my mind. I don’t want him to abandon me after he finds out I am supposed to have one. I know that sounds selfish. But I have had such a good time on these dates, I can’t imagine not having another. I have to tell James this can’t go further, but I won’t. Not right now. It seems a crime against nature to cut our date short by explaining I can’t be interested in him (though I am), and I’ll never be able to have a relationship with him (though I want to). It can wait.
Okay, breathe
. Focus on what he’s saying.

“…I was sort of surprised you weren’t taken when I asked you out.” He is candid.

I giggle out of relief that the conversation hasn’t taken my predicted nosedive.

“I’m not.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not exactly that experienced with guys.” I study the swirly knots in the wooden tabletop with an attention customarily reserved for an MCAT, the dreaded Medical College Admissions Test, a bane of every premed student’s existence.

“I find that really hard to believe.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment.” I giggle, munching on some leftover Reese’s.

“It is.”

“Well, thank you. I guess
never been kissed
isn’t tattooed on my forehead after all.” Sometimes, I am eloquent. Put together. Smooth. This is not one of those moments.

“Seriously?” His eyes are the size of plates.

“Well, now that you’re using that tone, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to say it out loud again.” Maybe it is a big deal.

“No, no, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

I believe him when he says he isn’t freaked out. Any normal guy would run for the hills confronted with a twenty-one year old who has never had a boyfriend. There’s a point where it’s cute, you know, when you’re thirteen. At my age, it seems like I’ve missed the train and never figured out how to get back on it. But then, James is not a normal guy.

“Well, since we’re being honest, how many girlfriends have you had?” I’m being nosy, but I’m not sorry.
Isn’t this the usual stuff you talk about in a relationship?
My mind asks. My heart shrugs in response. There’s a silver lining to my inexperience–I don’t have to make apologies when I break the rules. James gives me a knowing smile before he indulges my inquiry. Three, he answers. The first wasn’t serious.

“She was ‘the first girlfriend’, the one who you could go to movies with and kiss between classes, and tell your friends you’re dating,” he says, before adding for good measure, “it really wasn’t serious.” When he says he dated her for two years, I tell him that does sound serious.

“It was un-serious enough for me to break up with her after junior prom and date someone else for my senior year,” he says with a sheepish shrug.

I have a tough time envisioning James being heartless enough to break a high school girl’s heart. I can imagine her face when she found out he was dating someone else a few short months after they broke up. High school was funny that way. My friends always thought their relationships would last forever, and there was a special kind of heartbreak that came with finding out your ex was dating someone new, even if you were the dumper. And I guess some things don’t change even once in possession of your diploma–because Sophia came hurtling into my room a few months ago telling me her high school boyfriend from Illinois was now engaged to a girl he started seeing during his freshman year.