Girl Most Likely To (24 page)

G
rocery shopping with a boyfriend on a weekend afternoon. Does it get any better? It provides all of the gratification of shopping at the mall, but he doesn’t have to lie about whether that skort makes you look fat, and you don’t have to act as if you didn’t notice him steering clear of the diamond store. My hand lightly brushes his as we reach for the same avocado. Inevitable snickering in the fruit aisle over whether a banana can
ever really be too firm.
Groping each other inappropriately amongst the frozen foods to keep warm, until management kindly requests that you
keep the public affection to a minimum, since this is a family place.
It’s suggestive enough of nesting to keep your feathers fluffed, without throwing him into a fit of hyperventilation.

At least it is under normal circumstances. However, less than three hours away from my parents’ estimated time of arrival at his apartment, Nick was
waaaaaay
too calm for anyone’s good. How had he managed to miss the fact that offering to feed my parents the first time he met them was about as casual as a presidential inauguration?

He stood before me surrounded by Whole Foods’ fresh produce with both arms outstretched, one holding a cantaloupe and the other a honeydew.

“So which will it be? Ladies’ choice.” He winked.

“I don’t know. The cantaloupe, I guess.”

“You guess? You
guess?
Well, that’s not good enough.” A sarcastic grin spread across his face. “Don’t you understand that your parents’ entire opinion of me is riding on what they think of my fruit salad?”

Not amused.

“Vina, you know, you should show more enthusiasm. I’m a guy who cooks. Doesn’t that make me a great catch, according to all those girly magazines?” He tossed the honeydew onto a pile of lemons beside us, dropped the cantaloupe into the cart and leaned into the push.

“I don’t read those magazines,” I told his back.

“I know. That’s one of my favorite things about you. Well, that and the fact that you’ve got a really sweet ass. Who knew Indian women were built like that?”

“Everyone who’s ever bothered to look.” I smiled coyly, catching up. My gaze met that of a young girl riding in a cart pushed by her mother, who glared disapproval at our adult discussion. The girl reminded me of myself at her age, and the woman couldn’t be much older than me, which made me feel very, very old.

“That’s probably true. Anyway, remind me to thank your mother for that.”

“You will do no such thing,” I chided, as we turned a corner toward Wines & Spirits. “Okay. What else do we need?”

He waved a couple of bottles of wine at me as if they were bells and I was the only one who couldn’t hear them chiming.

“What’s this?”

“Uh…a really good bottle of Chardonnay.” He played dumb. “According to the price tag?”

“We can’t serve this.”

“Why not?” He held the bottle at arm’s length and squinted. “Was 1999 not a good year for you? For me,
it was a very good year.
”

Not cute.

“No, ’99 was a perfectly good year.” I felt my forehead.

“Then why can’t we serve it? Unless…” His eyes grew wide before he gasped, fixing his stare on my belly, with all the cockiness of a man whose girlfriend insists on condoms even though she’s on the pill. “Are we
preg
nant?”

Why do men always do that? Why do they overemphasize the “preg,” as if some other sort of “nant” would be lesser cause for alarm?

“
Not
funny.” I replaced the bottles on the shelf. “Serving wine at a casual late lunch will make them think that you drink at every meal. This will make them worry if you come from a family of alcoholics, which will make them judge you unworthy of their daughter.”

“But you know much more about wine than I do,” he protested.

“That’s not relevant. I belong to them. And first impressions are critical.”

“I thought you belonged to me.”

“Not after today I won’t if this doesn’t go too well.” I raised an eyebrow at him but couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“Okay, babe. No problem.” He raised both hands in surrender. “Relax. We’ll serve juice and iced tea. That is, unless you think the fact that it’s not chai will make them think I’m
culturally insensitive?
Anyway, it’s no biggie.”

“But it
is
a biggie. I’m crazy about you, but I swear, the fact that you’re taking this so calmly is really stressing me out.”

“So you’re crazy about me?” He looped his fingers into the belt holes of my jeans, and dragged me toward him. Normally, such a
Me-Tarzan-You-Jane
gesture would have had me goofy and weak in the knees, but in light of the day we had ahead of us…

“Oh, lord. I’m gonna puke.” I doubled back, resting one hand on my belly and using the other to pinch the top of my nose.

“Vina,” he said slowly and knelt down to look me right in the eye, “there is no reason to be nervous. When my last girlfriend’s parents met me, they loved me instantly. Within six months, the father took me aside at a family barbecue and told me that I had his blessing if I wanted to marry her.”

“Mmm-hmm. And why didn’t that work out, again?”

“We drifted apart. After a while I didn’t feel as strongly about her as I thought I did.”

“Okay, so the translation of that in my parents’ language is
Love is a fashion trend to you, and so is their daughter.
Maybe that’s not the story you should open with.”

“Maybe I should start with how we met?”

“Yeah, that would go over well.
Mr. and Mrs. Chopra, your daughter, after waking up naked in my bed, chanced upon three video cameras aimed directly at her, assumed I was an online porn producer and ran screaming for her life. But don’t worry, nothing happened between us that night. She was waaaay too drunk at the club for me to even consider trying to get any action. That came later.
”

He laughed and kissed me on the top of my head, told me I was cute, and then headed over toward the juice aisle. I was left standing somewhere between Johnnie Walker and Jose Cuervo, feeling guilty that I failed to impress upon him how totally out of his league he was, when it came to my parents.

I suppose he had no idea how scared I was that a truly disappointed glance from my father might force me to reconsider him entirely. As much as I hated to admit it, no matter how much I separated myself from my family’s restrictions, it would always, always, always matter what they thought. All I could hope for was that he understood, respected and continued to relate somehow to my need to please them. I could also do what was possible to help him along. I told him to make whatever he considered to be spicy food, and then add at least three teaspoons of paprika per person. I told him never to refer to either of my parents by their first names until they invited him to do so, which would be never. I told him to ask my mom about her gardening and use it as a segue into explaining how he wants a garden of his own one day so that he can grow fresh vegetables to cook. I told him to ask my dad about how he made his transition from engineering to real estate and use it as a segue into explaining every twist and turn of his own career before the real interrogation began. It was all about preemptive strikes. This was a war, I had shaken him by the shoulders and tried to make him understand the night before that we were dead in the water without a good, solid strategy. All this, and I bought him a new sweater that I thought they might not deem too expensive, too casual or too fitted for their taste. The less they had to contend with his practically prison-sculpted physique, and what it implied about the carnal interests of their only daughter, the better.

I met Nick’s father and sisters for the first time about a month after we began dating. He sprang it on me less than twenty-four hours in advance, and failed to even tell me their first names until we were in the elevator on our way up to the restaurant. Since that dinner, they had always worked their visits with him around my schedule, to make sure that I felt included. His sisters had even started asking him to hand me the phone just to chat whenever they called. And all of this was perfectly normal to him. The poor bastard had no idea what he was in for.

T
his was almost as much fun as the time my mother gave me The Sex Talk.

Don’t do it,
she explained, waving a finger at my face before leaving me to deal with my hormones and SAT review books.

How could the three people who were supposedly
the most at ease
around me be so
ill at ease
around each other? I knew them all well enough to see what they really meant to say, despite the words that came out of their mouths. Thank God my grandmother had insisted on coming along. She was the only person whose eyes seemed to indicate she acknowledged the enormous and drunken pink elephant in the room.

For example, my mother asked, “So tell me, did your mother teach you how to cook, or did you learn on your own?”

When she really meant:
“Is there someone in your family I can blame for the fact that you think this flavorless mush can pass for food? Or were you born without taste buds of your own?”

And my father said, “Hello.”

When the message in his eyes was:
“Get away from my daughter, you sketchy, promiscuous American man. She may not see it, but I know that for you she is just a passing fancy. I will eat your food and I will smile at you across the table because my wife tells me that I have no choice. But I’ve got my eye on you,
meathead.
”

In a way I was guilty of it myself, having asked, “Nick, honey, can you please pass the iced tea?”

When what I really meant was:
“Double Dewars. Neat. With a waterback. And please keep ’em coming.”

At the moment, my mother was educating Nick about the light sensitivities of particular varieties of orchids, while my father wrinkled his nose with suspicion at the slices of caramelized pear he was chasing around his plate with a fork. I’d told Nick that the pears would make him look like he was trying too hard.

“Thank you for making room for me at the table, Nicholas,” Nani attempted, with an injured glance at my mother. “Even though some people told me that I was not invited.”

“I’m so glad that you decided to come, Nani. Vina talks about you all the time.”

“Of course she does. She is a good girl. They think they can tell me what to do, just because I forget some people’s names sometimes. So what? Some people have names which are easy to forget. But I can still go and see my granddaughter whenever I want. And her husband also. I have been alive since before electricity!”

“Mom, behave,” my mother interrupted, sensing my father’s eye begin to twitch at the mention of the word
husband.

Nani shot a mischievous grin at Nick, before signaling that she was zipping her mouth. Then she motioned for me to give her some more salad.

“So, Nick, do you think the Pasta Fagiole is ready yet?” I interrupted, reaching for the salad tongs.

“It’s fah-
zsohle,
honey,” he explained lovingly, holding my face as if to help me mouth out the correct sounds. “And let me check.”

Then he bounced happily off toward the kitchen.

Did he just touch me in front of my parents? Like it was no big deal? Was he on crack? He might as well come out of the kitchen butt-naked and smeared in whipped cream, explaining that it was time for a Nicky sundae!

“I know I get a lot of the pronunciations wrong,” I said as a meek attempt to distract them from the gratuitous display of affection to which they were forced to bear witness. “Actually, his Hindi is getting to be better than my Italian.”

“The only thing that has ever bothered me about your daughter is the way she says
mozzarella,
” he added as he walked back into the room, steaming pot and ladle in hand. “
Mott-zuh-reh-luh.
It sounds like a fire-breathing dragon that could incinerate Tokyo. It’s
Moot-za-relle.
You gotta roll your
r
s, babe.”

“I know, I know,” I said, seriously considering jamming my fork into his eye.

“Ahem,” Daddy Dearest cleared his throat in a gesture that was more of a roar than the balancing of an air passage. “So where did you earn your law degree, Nicholas?”

Translation: “I don’t find any of this the least bit amusing or heartwarming. Let’s talk about all the reasons why you’re wrong for my daughter.”

Way to be the alpha male, Dad.

“Georgetown.” Nick perked up, hopeful that they were finally showing overt hints of interest in him.

“And what made you decide to quit?”

Where the hell was a fire alarm when you needed one?

“Sir, I wouldn’t say that I had
quit,
exactly. I took some time off. I had moral disagreement with the way that the law was being practiced at my firm.”

“Do you mean that your firm was involved in some illegal activities?” My father’s interest was piqued at the possibility of incarcerating Nicholas as a sure-fire way to keep his hands off of me.

“No, no. It was that I learned, unfortunately, sometimes the letter of the law can be a far cry from the spirit of it. And anyway, the profession was not as enjoyable as I had hoped.”

“That is why they call it
work
, and not
fun.
Morality in one’s profession is a luxury that most people cannot afford, you know,” he said at Nick, satisfied more with himself than with his point.

“I understand what you’re saying completely. The law isn’t something I felt very passionate about. I decided to take some time to find a way to blend the things that I enjoy doing with the things that are lucrative. Since I’m not married with children yet, I feel that it’s important for me to take chances like this now. It’s sort of like Vina’s frustrations with her career.”

It was like watching a sixteen-year-old Doogie Howser imitator try to convince a bouncer that his name really
was
Juan Gomez. Clearly, my parents would see these as the fanciful ravings of a free-spirited, hippie lunatic who could never really understand true commitment. Or taxes. Or anything else that mattered. And by association, they would conclude, I was buying into his manifesto.

I was fully prepared to resent my Nani for not chiming in, when I turned in her direction to discover that she had fallen happily asleep in her chair.

“Well, of course Vina cannot simply leave her job because things are not enjoyable all the time. Before anything else, she has to get her MBA, anyway,” my father continued, hopping happily about on the map of my life in his mind. “She has always said that. There are no two ways about it.”

Was I even in the room?

“Or she could become an international bestselling novelist, and then business school might not make as much sense.” Nick smiled at me, probably thinking that he was winning them over by displaying how much attention he paid to the details of my life.

Clearly, he expected me to jump on the bandwagon he’d just erected in my honor. He didn’t know that I had found the
Advanced Hindi for Dummies
book hidden in his bedside table that morning, while I was searching for a missing sweater of my own. How could a man who was making so much effort to relate continue to be so unaware?

“She can write. She can always write. Or paint, or sing songs or dance in the streets. But this is more of a hobby. Something she will do on the side. She is too sensible for that romantic lifestyle, anyway. The truth is that she really enjoys her career on Wall Street.”

As hurt as I was, I could not bring myself to contradict my father in front of Nick. Family is family.

“Let’s change the topic, shall we?” I interjected, refilling everyone’s already nearly full glasses of iced tea.

“So, Nicholas, do you still have much family in Italy?” Mom offered, refilling her bowl with more Pasta Fagiole in an attempt to make him feel better. “I recently saw a Channel 13 special program about how the country is doing in modern times. Did you know? They said they had
declining
population growth?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s just an ill-stated statistic.” I don’t know why I felt the urge to defend Italy.

“Actually, Vina, it’s true,” Nick interrupted me. “I was talking about it with my uncle the other day. And I think it’s a damn shame, pardon my language. I am all for women’s rights to enjoy their lives and choose whomever they want to marry. And maybe some of these women never find the right man. I can accept that. There are a lot of jerks out there. But I think the real problem is that people are not willing to compromise for their spouses. Or for their families. These people expect constant romance. But what they don’t realize is that without family, there’s nothing. Where else does society get its moral fabric? Italy isn’t the same now as it was when my father was growing up there. You know, that’s what I really love about the Indian culture, to be honest with you. I think it’s why I felt so comfortable with Vina right away. Her values make sense to me. She’s ambitious and everything, but she comes from a loving family. And I know that she would do almost anything to make you happy, because she knows that at the end of the day, that’s what matters.”

“And what about the importance of culture?” Dad asked, clinging desperately to the shreds of his skepticism.

“Oh, well.” Nick paused, and I knew he was choosing his words very carefully. “I would have to say that I have always felt the woman’s culture should dominate the home.”

Who was this man? Why was my dad smiling at him? And why was my mother smiling at my Nani? Suddenly, I felt more nauseous than I had all day.