Read Online Mirror in the Sky by Aditi Khorana - Free Book Online

she stroked my hair. “Well, sometimes it is . . . I know it’s been tough for you. God, what a crap first day of school! Anyway, you don’t have to do your homework today. Mrs. Treem’s orders.”
    â€œAwesome.” I rolled my eyes, as though that was any sort of consolation prize for watching a dog die in your arms.
    â€œLook at this,” she said, turning her attention back to the TV. “People are really responding to this stuff.”
    She pointed to the footage of masses of people gathering in the woods, in the mountains and deserts, performing odd rituals at sunset and sunrise, chanting melodic chants, standing in the streets, holding signs that said: WE ARE NOT ALONE ,and THEY AR E WATCHING US , and WHAT D O THEY KNOW ? The ambiguity of this last question seemed intentional. What did it matter what they knew when we barely knew or understood anything ourselves?
    â€œThere are all these . . . groups forming. All over the world, like newfound religions. They think this new planet is our ‘celestial twin.’”
    â€œIt’s kind of premature for that, isn’t it?” The formation of something, anything new that allowed one to look outward, upward, and still beyond had always been a refuge for the lost. I always wondered about people who voluntarily joined groups with some sort of enthusiasm or willingness. Don’t get me wrong—I was on yearbook and swim team and Amnesty International, but only so I’d have those things on my transcript. I didn’t actually feel like I was part of anything. No matter what, I felt separate from everything at school, like I was there to observe people rather than to actually interact with them.
    But my mother felt differently. “It
is
comforting, the idea that we’re not alone,” she mused. “I guess I just find it all meaningful. Your dad thinks it’s a big joke or something.”
    I looked at my mother. She was eating a granola bar. The discarded wrappers of her granola-bar meal plan littered the coffee table.
    â€œMom, I think you’re getting kind of obsessed,” I said to her.
    â€œIt’s just so . . . mesmerizing!” she exclaimed. “I know, I know. I promise I’ll go back to work, but I just needed this. It feels like an infusion of vitamins or something.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked.
    But she didn’t answer, and I could tell she wasn’t listening to me anymore. Her eyes returned to the screen, and her hand reached for the remote to switch to another news network.
    I got up. “I think I’m going to go visit Dad,” I told her. She didn’t protest, so I took my bike out from the garage, and by seven thirty I was crossing the threshold of my father’s restaurant, the clang of bells overhead, a vertical thread of seven chilis and a lime hanging in the doorway to ward off the evil eye. A small waitstaff tended to a bustling dining room, steel plates of puri and naan and chana masala and chicken tikka floating by in deft hands.
    I was greeted by the smoky smell of the incense by the door, which always made me sneeze. This functioned as a greeting, and Amit, the head server, gave me a nod.
    â€œIs my dad in the kitchen?” I asked him.
    â€œHe’s in the pantry, taking inventory.”
    â€œ
Now?
During the evening rush?”
    Amit shrugged. “Maybe he thinks we have it all handled.”
    This was the longest conversation I had ever had with Amit. He was a sophomore at Trinity College, working a few nights a week at the restaurant for the extra money. Our interactions were minimal, mostly just “hi” and “bye” and “Do you need any help?”
    The one time I saw him outside of work, coming out of a bar on Greenwich Avenue with a group of friends, it shocked me that he had a life outside the restaurant. He was dressed in torn jeans and a T-shirt instead of his uniform