Page 64 of You Had Me at Hello World
“Have you ever seen Aisha dance?” I blurt.
He turns to me. “What?”
“She’s incredible onstage. It’s like the music reshapes itself around her.” He doesn’t respond, so I keep yammering. “She works so hard for something she truly loves. It’s super inspiring. Please don’t make her leave.”
Mr. Chadha considers me. “Are your parents immigrants too?”
“Yes…” Where’s he going with this? I don’t want to get into my family lore.
“Perhaps you’ll understand. It isn’t that I don’t want Aisha to dance. But our family doesn’t have the resources to support her in such an unstable career. And when is the last time you saw an Indian American dancer?”
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“It doesn’t happen for people like her.” His eyes size me up. “People like you too, maybe. This country wasn’t built for us. There are many games we cannot even participate in. The best we can hope for is to win at the ones theywilllet us play.”
I want to argue back, but he’s sort of spitting facts. Even in tech, there are plenty of Asian women who are software engineers, but how many of them get to be actual CEOs or company presidents? Diversity only happens when the gatekeepers—overwhelmingly white and male—decide to care. It’s almost impossible to climb to the top rung of America without a ladder built by a white person.
Aisha returns holding a shower caddy.
“Ready?” her father asks. Without waiting for a response, he steps outside into the hallway.
She wraps me in a bear hug. “Thanks for being the best roomie, Char.”
And then she’s gone, leaving nothing but a lingering whiff of vanilla-and-cinnamon perfume.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Later that night, Aisha texts that she’s grounded until senior year and won’t have access to her phone anymore, crying-face emoji. Without her and her stuff, the dorm room is too empty. It’s the first time in years I’ve had a space to myself.
It’s weird. I’ve been manifesting my own room for years, pretty much ever since I discovered how smutty those Sarah J. Maas books can get. But now I’m too sad to even care.
So I call Mom.
Honestly, the Chadhas were kind of a vibe check. At least Mom’s never actively prevented me from pursuing my dreams. I mean, I don’t know if I ever had any specific dreams to pursue besides getting through the hellscape that is high school, so maybe that’s not saying much. But still.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Char?” Her voice is all hushed, wind against grass. Like she’s at the library, which I don’t think she’s visited in years.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Michael is sleeping.”
I check the time. It’s ten p.m. here, so it’s seven over there. The sun hasn’t even set in Oregon. “He’s already asleep?”
“He’s not doing so well lately.”
“Is he sick?” Maybe he has food poisoning. That would be cool.
“He’s fine,” she says. “He lost some money. He’s stressed.”
“Is he treating you right?”
“Char, don’t act so suspicious.”
“Mom, if Michael is—” I try to reach for the right words in Mandarin. “If he’s not being a good guy, I want to know about that.”
“Your stepfather has been good to us,baobei. Even if you can’t see that right now.”
