How the Mermaid Learned to Laugh

My heart broke before my jaw. That was what I remember thinking about when David’s right hand struck my left cheek. I had never been hit before nor had I ever struck anyone. It was not too long before the rest of the entourage came after me. As badly as my boyish body was attacked I kept my gaze on him, on Brandon. I wanted him to see that the tears rolling down my cheeks were not from their onslaughts, but because his blow hit the hardest. When Brandon’s eyes could no longer face mine and they turned to the sticky hardwood floor of our high school gymnasium my mind became as empty as an antique projector playing a reel of dusty nothing. As I crawled into the fetal position my body went numb.

Our first kiss was two nights ago. For Brandon it was an innocent playful thing, but it struck a place inside my heart that I never knew existed. After eating a delicious dinner of saffron rice with peas with creamy Navrattan Korma, garlic Nan and sweet Rose Lassi, I grabbed a short story anthology and went to the park behind our house. After arriving I was greeted with the sound of a ball bouncing on the other side of the bushes, so like a tiger searching for its prey I moved ever so cautiously to see who drove the noise. There he was, alone. This time I saw things in Brandon I failed to notice before. He commanded the space around him like the military trucks that drove over the Hoara Bridge in my homeland of India. His adolescent body glistened with sweat under the faint light with skin the shade of yogurt. His small muscles were defined in lines of pink. For the first time in my life I wanted to run my hands through the thick blond curls atop his head, whereas before they were just part of his body. Suddenly, it became too much. My pants tightened and my hand moved between my legs. Although I was unclear of the problem, I knew I immediately wanted to be alone. The swelling did not want to reduce, nor did the pace of my heart.

“Hey Bengali Gangster!”

Brandon was calling for me, but I couldn’t let him see what was happening.

“Yo Bengali! Come up to the court and shoot some hoops with me.” He shot a three pointer and looked at me. “I bet you brought a book to the park, am I right?”

He was approaching.

“You’re never going to…Oh man! Are you alright?”

Brandon was rushing between the pine trees to my aid because I pretended to fall down. It was the only thing I could think of to avoid an otherwise embarrassing situation. He came down and put his arm under my shoulder blades while kneeling beside me.

“What happened?”

“I guess I just fell. I’m not really sure.”

“Well maybe if you got rid of that little Buddha belly of yours then…”

“Stop it,” I replied playfully. I even pushed him away slightly.

“I suppose I’m not going to see you make an ass of yourself out on the court.”

His eyes were looking past the pines, and I could see the park lights reflect in his dark blue eyes.

Without thinking, without hesitation, without reason I leaned closer to Brandon and kissed his warm cheek. His blonde eyebrows pushed together at the nose and his right cheek rose slightly to create a face of confusion. My heart refused to beat until finally Brandon let out a tender laugh.

“So, you think I’m your knight in shining armor?”

I smiled.

“Perhaps you should try a real kiss instead of a shy peck.”

And we did. Brandon leaned his face close to mine. It was wet, sloppy and quick, but it felt right. I tried to savor every detail like his arm on my upper back pulling me closer, the taste of cherry lip balm, and the faint scent of sweat. Forever my life would change as a result of this moment. There are few times in life when the entire world crumbles into thousands of pieces beneath your feet and you find yourself floating in an abyss of raw emotion you never thought possible. That kiss was one of those rare instances.

That night I dreamt a shimmering white buffalo flew from atop a cardboard waterfall and crowned a halo atop my head which caused my head to sprout thick red dreadlocks. 

Mother woke me up in the same manner she did when we lived in Hoara, by ringing a silver bell.  It was given to my grandmother from a British soldier who said it was once used to serve tea for the Royal family. Later she learned it was for John and Linda Royal, not the family my grandmother expected. As a child I loved the sound of the tiny bell as it sung to me on hot sticky mornings, now I dread hearing its annoying little cry. I failed to move. So my sister, Adrika, started to throw various saris over my head. It was a game she invented a week ago which my mother now plays.

“Oh how the American teenage boys like the sleep,” my mother said throwing a red sari over my face.
I felt another sari on my shoulder with my sister proclaiming, “Oh how these American teenage boys like their video games.”

“Oh how these American teenage boys want locks on their doors!” I yelled while rolling over.
“Oh how the American teenage boys need to get dressed and grab the books for the school, so the mother can go to the shops.”

“Yea! Move it oink wad.”

Suddenly I jumped out of bed and tried to grab Adrika, but she already ran into the hall accidentally kicking my copy of “The Bell Jar.” Rather than dwell on the small insult about my belly, I decided to take a shower. Besides I always call her “baby smelly fish.”

The hot water heater was being fixed, but the cold water never bothered me. Too many summer nights in the dry summer heat caused me never to take cool water for granted. Back in India we were a fortunate family because we only had to walk a short distance to swim in the water. My father would always remind me that if I floated too far down stream I would end up in the Bay of Bengal. Many early days were spent conjuring up just what this massive bay looked like. I imagined a huge valley of water with exotic animals resting on the shores and doing strange things like tigers eating golden apples with Polar bears or dinosaurs sleeping gingerly on logs with their tails hanging in the water. The last day of summer I wanted to see those animals, not to live with them, just to gaze upon their beauty. So, I relaxed my body allowing it to float atop the current. To my surprise I drifted. Soon I was under the bridge I had spent so many days walking across. This new perspective was quite chilling. Already I was starting to feel uneasy, so I planted my feet on the muddy bank and waded toward the shore. The fear of the unknown was exhilarating, yet the comfort of my mother embracing me upon my return was better.

Brandon was nowhere to be found during the school day. At lunch he was not sitting at his usual lunch table with the freshman basketball squad. My suspicions of his absence were confirmed when he was missing from our only class together, ninth period physical education. After school I walked home with my neighbor, Vasu, and discussed his anticipation for a new role playing game that was soon to be released. My mind was stuck on basketballs and my dream.

After dinner I reluctantly started to study in my room. I hadn’t turned one page in at least fifteen minutes when I heard my father enter with two cups of tea. This (like my mother’s bell) was now a tradition. It began on my first day of American school at James Polk Elementary. On the eve of second grade my father brought me my first cup of tea, chai with milk and sugar.  Although I was young, I felt that this action aged me. He was a man of little words and big smiles. “Education is what separates us from the animals, my son, that and our ability to laugh. Never forget you must always learn to live, and live to laugh.”

We drank in silence for the most part and the sound of his slurping the hot liquid offered some comfort. Then he asked me to read him a story. Usually father only asks to hear my work when he senses my troubles. I didn’t think they were that obvious. Nevertheless this request soothed me in the same way it had since we arrived in America.

The story I told was about an Eskimo fisherman who couldn’t catch any fish. Eventually he was the laughing stock of the town. So, one day the Eskimo decided to fish further than any Eskimo had gone before. He sailed until his arms grew weary of rowing. When he was all alone in the vast Arctic waters, he realized he forgot bait. It was hopeless. Nevertheless he kissed the hook and threw it into the water. To his surprise there was a tug and the Eskimo reeled in a beautiful Mermaid. She explained she was but a poor patron of the sea and could offer the Eskimo nothing but gratitude if he spared her life. But, the Eskimo wanted to show everyone that he was the best fisherman in the world because he caught what no one had ever seen. On the voyage home the Mermaid begged to be released because her skin was drying under the sun. But, the Eskimo ignored her pleas and landed ashore a few hours later. When the Eskimo went to lift the Mermaid out of the boat to display her to the village, her body turned to dust.

My father’s only comment, “Proving oneself is a terrible thing.”

Grabbing the hand-blown glass tea cup, my father left the room. Ignoring the rest of my studies, I turned on the computer and opened the instant messaging system. To my disappointment BuffaloBazkt22 was offline. Brandon’s screen name came from his older brother who received a scholarship to the University at Buffalo. Disappointed, I went to the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth and grab a glass of water. When I returned a message was blinking on the computer.

BuffaloBazkt22:  hey bengali, you up?

I almost spilled the water on my keyboard because I leaned so close to the screen.

RedLassi16:  Yea I’m up
BuffaloBazkt22:  did you miss me
RedLassi16:  Didn’t notice
BuffaloBazkt22:  liar
RedLassi16:  Maybe a little. Did you hear about David getting thrown out of Fox’s class for throwing a ball at Frank’s knees

I told him the latest bit of high school drama and then we discussed our typical subjects. Brandon constantly referenced sports, which kept me in the loop with a lot of conversations in the hallways. I told him an outline for a new story and he offered random suggestions. The whole time I wanted to talk about the kiss, what it meant to him and whether or not he really liked me in that way. Before I could gather the courage to type anything I felt a rancid taste lodged in the back of my throat.

BuffaloBazkt22:  who do you think i should ask to homecoming whitney johansson, tara krupa or lori walton
BuffaloBazkt22:  well
BuffaloBazkt22:  i mean i made out with all of them at our eighth grade retreat last year remember
RedLassi16: I think my dads outside my room, gotta go

It was a lie. Later that night the pillowcase soaked up most of my confused frustration.

I awoke with three saris over my face and Adrika singing her own lyrics to a popular children’s TV theme song. My body felt heavy and weak, there was little reason to move even with Adrika’s out of tune voice pounding in my ears. Eventually I rose with the mission to get Brandon alone and discuss our kiss.

Mother dropped me off because I failed to get to the bus stop in time.  Therefore, I was unable to talk with Brandon before first period. At lunch, Brandon sat at his usual table while I at mine. Although there are no assigned seats in the cafeteria everyone sits at the same table day in and year out. My spot was established with the Indian kids. Most of them I had known since my family immigrated some time ago. Our families always got together for traditional Indian festivals like our Independence Day and Gandhi Jayanti, or for any family milestones. Today I longed more than ever to be a basketball player and sit with the jocks. Then I noticed Brandon was wearing a chain connecting the wallet in his pocket to a belt loop on his faded jeans. Every so often this fashion statement is made, and I always call him the “punk point guard” as a joke. Perhaps in some way I was at that table.

Finally, the bell sang and released us to our last period. I hurried to the locker room hoping to see Brandon awaiting me, but he was already stretching in the gym. I forgot he had history in a room only two doors down the period before. When Mr. Fox called us to line up outside on the lawn, I stood across from Brandon. Our eyes never met. When we were asked to pick partners to play catch with, I ran to Brandon - he chose David. But, when Brandon volunteered to put the equipment away after class I raised my hand too. Finally, we were alone.

“How come you haven’t looked at me or talked to me this whole time?” I said, throwing a bag of footballs into a large chest in the corner of the gym.

“I’m not sure. Do you think it was weird what happened the other night?”

“No, in fact I think I wanted to do that for a long time,” I mumbled.

“Can we try once more just so I can see if I really like it?” he asked while placing a towel upon my head like a halo.

“Of course,” I muttered as our lips met. Our embrace was short-lived because David’s voice boomed across the entire room.

“What the fuck?” he yelled with five other boys standing behind him like loyal soldiers.

My knees felt like they would give out, my face froze with an expression of shock and guilt, my lungs stopped taking in air and my pleading eyes held on to Brandon’s confused gaze. I stared, expressing my anxieties. We were trapped, but at least we were caught together. This was love and it would not subside, the expression of those feelings would create a wall that no one could break down.  There would need to be thousands of Davids and thousands of his friends to break the connection that Brandon and I had just shared. The fight was already won; our love would sustain us for the next four years. My eyes relaxed, for the blood in my body was now fueled with a passion for the boy whose lips I had just touched.

Just then Brandon muttered, “Homo.”

He could not even look at me when he said it and I could see the pain swell in his eyes. Nevertheless, he said it. David immediately pounced on me like a hyena on a dead carcass. As David’s booming fist moved closer to my face, his entourage’s venomous cries faded into the background. When first contact was made I swore I felt each individual hair on his knuckle graze the side of my cheek and the last sound I heard was a faint crackle as my jaw broke away from my skull with a click. I fell. The rest of the boys arrived, each bringing different intensities of pain. Some kicked my ribs, while others chose to beat my legs.  Brandon did nothing.

My body curled into the fetal position as blows rained. Slowly the blank reel my mind projected played a possible future; where Mr. Fox stopped the fight, where each boy would mysteriously enroll at a new school, where my sister would gently ask for me to unlock my door,  where my mother would rinse my forehead with a warm washrag and blend meals so I could eat them through a straw, where my father would refuse to talk with me until after graduation when I told him to “learn to live, and live to laugh,” where Brandon would write me a bad note in drunken penmanship while I attended college. Perhaps there was that future, but during the beating I was forcing a smile through the pain. Because the last image I had before losing consciousness was of me floating down a river of cardboard, arriving in a sea with polar bears and dinosaurs standing on its bank. There I was greeted by a mermaid who sang a siren song and threw me in a boat filled with fish. Then I realized that this moment would not plague me, it would not haunt me—it would define me. My heart broke, but there would be no scar. 

Nick Seifert