considered that they may have gone that year. It wasn’t their year to go, was it?
“Yes, stupid,” he said, watching her lips move as she counted her fingers behind her back. “It’s the third year. We always go every third year. I heard Ammi say that we have to save money, so you can go to the private school.”
“I don’t want to go to private school. What privateschool?” Preethi panicked. She had assumed she would go to the local school, the one all the other girls walked to first thing in the morning. She had watched them for years, thinking she would wear their navy skirts, their blue polyester shirts: she would clip her hair back like the teenaged Greek girls across the road.
“It’s
your fault
,” he said again, and she remembered their cousins in Vavuniya, the two boys the same age as she and Gehan: how they would all be shy on the first day, and then … and then! The joy of barefooted cricket, climbing to the roof of their house and spying on their father and his brothers on the veranda, watching their mother sitting at the kitchen table with her sisters-in-law. She thought of food cooked on the open fire in her grandparents’ kitchen and sniffed the air, her eyes closed, as if coconut shells were burning in the sunshine outside the back door. Gehan punched her. She cried out, jumped forward to him, bit his ear, scratched his face. “I
hate
you,” he said, pinching at her body, twisting the flesh on her lower arm.
“I hate you, too,” she shouted, and pulled at his hair. But then she ran into the back garden and round to the patio doors into the sitting room. Rohan lay on the sofa, facedown, his head dangling near the record player. “Gehan punched me,” she said over Elvis.
“Did you hit him back?” She nodded. “Well, then. It’s hot, isn’t it?” The song finished, and he pulled himself up slowly and selected another record from the boxed set. Each sleeve had a picture of Elvis on it: on the one he chose now Elvis grinned sideways, his hair long, around his ears, white shoulders studded with rhinestones. Rohan tipped it, and the record slid in its paper cover into his hands.
“Why do you love Elvis so much?”
“Because he’s … what is he?” he asked sternly.
“The king of rock and roll,” she recited.
“Good girl. Why were you fighting?” He put the record onto the record player. The rhythmic plucking of a guitar, then harmonic backing singers: “King Creole …”
“Because he said”—but Rohan wasn’t listening. “Ro—he said that if it wasn’t for me, we would be in Sri Lanka.” Rohan beat his hand against the black PVC sofa. “Is it true?”
“Maybe,” Rohan said. He glanced up at her. “Ammi wants you to go to a different school. She’s worried you won’t do so well down the road.”
•
As she walked down the hill she wondered why they knew but she didn’t. When she got to the den, Danny wasn’t there. She didn’t want to wait, was anxious suddenly, needed to run and be safe, too. She wanted Danny, though, and for the first time she heard it in her mind that she liked him, that she wanted to see him. She saw some small boys around the back of the flats.
“All right? Which one’s Danny’s flat?”
“Who’s Danny?”
“You know, Danny,” she said, “with the arm.”
“The Flid? The mong?” they asked. She nodded. “Up the top. Number thirty-two.”
She walked up the steps, into the cool cement corridors. As she reached the top of the third flight, she emerged onto the balconied landings and paused to look down to the den. From there, the den couldn’t be seen at all, nor the trees. She walked to the last door and waited a moment before rattling the knocker on the letterbox. Once, then twice. There was no movement. They were out, she thought, so rattled it harder, twice more, then turned to walk backdown. The door was opened suddenly by an old woman, her grey hair short, pulled about. She wore a dark dress, sensible
“Yes, stupid,” he said, watching her lips move as she counted her fingers behind her back. “It’s the third year. We always go every third year. I heard Ammi say that we have to save money, so you can go to the private school.”
“I don’t want to go to private school. What privateschool?” Preethi panicked. She had assumed she would go to the local school, the one all the other girls walked to first thing in the morning. She had watched them for years, thinking she would wear their navy skirts, their blue polyester shirts: she would clip her hair back like the teenaged Greek girls across the road.
“It’s
your fault
,” he said again, and she remembered their cousins in Vavuniya, the two boys the same age as she and Gehan: how they would all be shy on the first day, and then … and then! The joy of barefooted cricket, climbing to the roof of their house and spying on their father and his brothers on the veranda, watching their mother sitting at the kitchen table with her sisters-in-law. She thought of food cooked on the open fire in her grandparents’ kitchen and sniffed the air, her eyes closed, as if coconut shells were burning in the sunshine outside the back door. Gehan punched her. She cried out, jumped forward to him, bit his ear, scratched his face. “I
hate
you,” he said, pinching at her body, twisting the flesh on her lower arm.
“I hate you, too,” she shouted, and pulled at his hair. But then she ran into the back garden and round to the patio doors into the sitting room. Rohan lay on the sofa, facedown, his head dangling near the record player. “Gehan punched me,” she said over Elvis.
“Did you hit him back?” She nodded. “Well, then. It’s hot, isn’t it?” The song finished, and he pulled himself up slowly and selected another record from the boxed set. Each sleeve had a picture of Elvis on it: on the one he chose now Elvis grinned sideways, his hair long, around his ears, white shoulders studded with rhinestones. Rohan tipped it, and the record slid in its paper cover into his hands.
“Why do you love Elvis so much?”
“Because he’s … what is he?” he asked sternly.
“The king of rock and roll,” she recited.
“Good girl. Why were you fighting?” He put the record onto the record player. The rhythmic plucking of a guitar, then harmonic backing singers: “King Creole …”
“Because he said”—but Rohan wasn’t listening. “Ro—he said that if it wasn’t for me, we would be in Sri Lanka.” Rohan beat his hand against the black PVC sofa. “Is it true?”
“Maybe,” Rohan said. He glanced up at her. “Ammi wants you to go to a different school. She’s worried you won’t do so well down the road.”
•
As she walked down the hill she wondered why they knew but she didn’t. When she got to the den, Danny wasn’t there. She didn’t want to wait, was anxious suddenly, needed to run and be safe, too. She wanted Danny, though, and for the first time she heard it in her mind that she liked him, that she wanted to see him. She saw some small boys around the back of the flats.
“All right? Which one’s Danny’s flat?”
“Who’s Danny?”
“You know, Danny,” she said, “with the arm.”
“The Flid? The mong?” they asked. She nodded. “Up the top. Number thirty-two.”
She walked up the steps, into the cool cement corridors. As she reached the top of the third flight, she emerged onto the balconied landings and paused to look down to the den. From there, the den couldn’t be seen at all, nor the trees. She walked to the last door and waited a moment before rattling the knocker on the letterbox. Once, then twice. There was no movement. They were out, she thought, so rattled it harder, twice more, then turned to walk backdown. The door was opened suddenly by an old woman, her grey hair short, pulled about. She wore a dark dress, sensible
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