Page 12 of The Princess and the Nerd

Chapter 7

Hardeep Devi-McGuinty

I stretch blissfully into the first rays of the morning sun. My muscles feel taut and tired from my previous sessions in the gym. I will have to spend some time in the sauna today. Maybe I’ll go soon, and just sit in a towel and relax while reading the thousands of comments on my article.

My lips curl up in a satisfied smile.

After a long night of furiously beating away at my keyboard, typing out my frustrations as eloquently and cleverly as possible, I am completely content with the end result. I think my article is both educating and entertaining, and I have already received glowingly positive feedback from my publisher.

They found it brutal. But the internetlovesa ruthless evisceration.

That’s how we’ll get millions of views, tons of new subscribers trying to get beyond our paywall to read more of my provocative work, and also crazy build hype for selling the gorgeous paper edition of the magazine when it comes out next week.

I am a bit startled when my phone rings, as it is quite early. The very ass crack of dawn, one might say. But I am even more surprised when I see that it is my mother. She’s currently in the UK, so it’s a normal hour for her. But she doesn’t usually ever call me. Not unless it’ssuperimportant. She runs a global chain of Indian fast-food restaurants scattered across the USA, U.K., Canada, Australia, and always expanding.

Clearing my throat, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants hastily before answering the phone. As though she might be able to tell that I’m naked? I don’t know.

“Hello, Mum,” I say cheerfully into the phone. “How are you this morning?”

“I am not very good, Hardeep. I woke up to some horrible news.”

“Oh, no. What’s wrong?” I ask her with concern.

“My son is an asshole,” she responds. “He was such a good, sweet boy as a child, but somehow he’s grown up into this nasty, cruel dickish bag of dicks who makes his money off destroying others instead of building them up.”

I am too stunned to respond for a moment. Did my mother just call me a dickish bag of dicks?

“He was such a good little boy—sweet and smart, a little nerdy, and so innocent in his little glasses. I don’t know what happened.”

“Mum…” I say slowly, anticipating that she is about to chew me out. I gulp.

“First of all,” she begins. “The restaurant was calledThe Willowbefore that girl was born, due to the beautiful trees all around the property. Your father and I used to take weekend drives out there, when you were too young to remember. Before he died. Before I moved back to London with my ungrateful children. It was actually a quaint bed and breakfast—one of the top romantic destinations of the region in the 80s and 90s. I am quite certain that the girl is namedafterthe restaurant, you idiot, and not the other way around. Don’t you do any research?”

“Crap,” I whisper softly, rubbing my hand through my hair.

“She saved the property from demolition to preserve and renovate a historic piece of Vermont—why didn’t you mention that?” my mother asks. “The restaurant would be bulldozed if not for her. And why didn’t you mention how much her cooking respects the local culinary traditions and New England heritage?”

“I’m sorry, Mum, but I—”

“Wait, I’m not finished,” she says. “Do you know how difficult it is to be a female business owner? To be a woman running a restaurant, in an industry that is still very male-dominated. It’s incredibly hard to succeed. Actually, it’s hard to just keep your head above water. If I hadn’t met your step-father when I did, I probably would have given up. I never would have been able to open so many more restaurants and expand globally. That man supported me and guided me and built me up. A rich, old, white man. Who also loved and provided foryou,Hardeep, like you were his own flesh and blood.”

“I know, I know, Mum…”

“And what the hell is wrong with butter? Youlovedbutter chicken as a child. Then I guess you grew up and went to that fancy school, and got that fancy haircut, and now you’re too refined for the basics. Listen, young man. I’ve made millions from selling butter chicken. With garlic butter rice. And garlic butter naan! Butter basically paid for your education! Only for you to grow up and insult it? Why are you acting too high and mighty for one of the greatest foods known to humanity?”

“Mum, it’s just that—”

“Don’t ‘mum’ me. Did you know that butter has been around for over 9000 years? Did you know that it was used to help mummify the Pharoahs? Did you know that when butter was demonized and replaced with margarine, it led to people having worse health, more obesity andmoreheart disease?”

“Yes, Mum, but…”

“You better apologize to that young woman. I can’t believe I raised such a mean, bullying, nasty son.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did. You wanted to tear her apart, and I bet you felt smug and satisfied about it too. That’s why I had to call, to wipe that stupid grin off your face.”

I can’t even respond to this. She knows me too well. I was grinning. Maybe I am a dickish bag of dicks.

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