The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (7 page)

"I should have taken a picture of your face when the string broke," he says guffawing.

"I'll get back at you." I say without much fire. I'm too amused by his obvious enjoyment of my discomfort to feel any anger.
 

"You're welcome to try, bro!" He gets to his feet and pulls me up.
 

"Don't say I didn't warn you." I grip his palm and squeeze with a power I didn't know I had. Tenzin winces and tries to pull his hand out of my grasp. He's the first to look away.
 

I'm often the quietest guy in a group. On the outside.
 

FOURTEEN

Ash and I have agreed whoever shows up late for cricket practice has to roll out the pitch—and roll it back up after practice.
That
is a chore I want to avoid at all costs. It's the only thing that gets me to cricket practice on time. Also, Ash is good at many things, but she is never on time. Never. Not even the threat of having to roll out the pitch is enough to get her to turn up on time. Finally I discover I'm better than her at something. It sounds geeky when I say that I am always on time and she isn't, but I'll take being good at something rather than be last at everything. I think.

And so, here I am, on the pitch— just rolled out by Ash—ready to bat.

When it's her turn to bowl, she runs in and throws the first ball, which I manage to make contact with.
That
is huge progress from where I was a few months ago. Over the past year we've been meeting at least once a week to practice. Really, it's more an excuse to spend time with her.

I watch her run in for the next ball, how when she raises her arm her shirt stretches firmly across her chest, outlining her breasts. I can't see the shape of her nipples at this distance, but torture myself for a second imagining what they would look like, if she wasn't wearing that shirt. The ball hits the uneven pitch and bounces at me. I manage to duck just in time so it flies over me rather than at my face. I look up to find Ash grinning.
 

"Well played." She gives me a thumbs-up sign.

"You mean well avoided, right?" I walk across the pitch to hand over the bat and the batting pads we wear to protect our legs. "I don't get why we don't wear helmets during practice?"

"Scared, Vik?" She dares me to contradict her.
 

She likes pushing me to my limit. Constantly testing me. As if she's seeing how much I can take before I hit back. It turns me on. Or maybe I just like being tortured by her.
 

"No. Just being careful," I reply.

I take the ball from her and grip it between my fingers the way she's been teaching me.
 

"Wow, you sure like to live by the rules, don't you?" Her voice is bored.

"No, just don't want to be stupid." I try to raise an eyebrow at her. It's something I have picked up from Tenzin. I've seen him use the same expression with great effect. It makes him look cool and aloof, yet sexy. Or so I've heard the girls whisper.

"What are you trying to do?" She looks confused.

"Uh! Nothing." I obviously need to practise more in front of a mirror. I walk to the end of the clearing in preparation for my run-up. "Ready?" I yell to where Ash is taking guard.
 

When she nods, I run onto the pitch and bowl. The ball bounces off a rough patch and goes full tilt at her. Ha! Ash is getting a taste of her own medicine.

The next moment, I am running towards her fallen figure. The ball has grazed her head, before flying over the wickets and into the woods beyond. No. No. I didn't mean for that to happen. I hope she's okay. Please, please let her not be hurt. My heart is beating so fast now I can hear the blood pump in my ears.
 

"Ash!" My voice comes out all choked.
 

Dropping to my knees, I pat her cheeks lightly. Is she unconscious? She's not dead, is she? A thin stream of blood trickles from her temple. I bend closer, bring my face parallel with hers and place a finger below her nose. When I feel her warm breath brush over my skin, I heave a sigh of relief.
 

"Ash. Ashley, can you hear me?" I ask again, with more urgency, patting her cheek again. She doesn't move.
 

Should I try giving her the kiss of life? Not that I know how to do that. Or perhaps press down on her chest? I place the heel of my right hand in the centre of her chest.
 

"What are you doing?" I feel the rumble of her voice through my palms.

"Ash!" I cry in relief.
 

She looks at my face, then down to where my palm is still resting on her chest.

"Oh!" I remove my hand. "Sorry, I thought you were dying."

"You are such a pussy, Vikram."

"What do you mean?" My face warms at her words.
 

"Here I was hoping for some mouth-to-mouth … You know?" She blinks her eyelids at me coyly.

It only maddens me further. "You mean like this?" I touch my lips to hers, and desire slams painfully into my groin.
 

Giggling, she pushes at me, so I sit back on my heels.
 

"Too late now, dummy." So saying, she springs to her feet, dirt clinging to her jeans, her white T-shirt splotchy with grass stains. Bits of mud stick to her braid. That's when I completely, utterly, crush on her.
 

"Ash …" I whisper.

"Come on." Still smiling, she holds out her hand, and taking it, I rise to my feet. "Let's head back, shall we?"
 

We're still holding hands as we enter the school building.

Dad was right. I really do need to work on my timing.

FOURTEEN

The smell of samosas frying in the canteen this morning reminds me of home. I realise I haven't heard from my parents in over a month. Being at St James is like living on a distant satellite. It's on Earth but is not really part of this planet. I can go for months on end without remembering there is a real world out there. My lifeline to the outside is my weekly call home.

I normally call home every Sunday evening. But so caught up have I been with classes and cricket (and Ash), I haven't called in the last few weeks. Wait, it's been longer than that. It's almost a month since I spoke to them. But Mum hasn't tried calling me either. That's strange. Have they forgotten me? That quickly? I dial home and find out for myself.
 

"Hello …? Roy residence." I smile at the little girl's voice on the other end.

"Hey, Seema, how are you?"

"Hi,
bhaiyya.
" Her childish endearment of respect makes me feel protective about her. With the almost eleven-year age gap between us, Mum insists she call me
bhaiyya
—elder brother.

"What are you doing today, Seema?"

"I'm going to the pool for a swimming lesson, then maths tuition."

"Maths on a Sunday? That's quite grim, no?"

"No, I like maths ... it's the swimming pool I don't like. It's sooo crowded. There is no place to practise only."

I laugh at her very grown-up expression of disgust. "So where are Mum and Dad?" I ask.

"In their room … fighting." Her voice is matter of fact.
 

"Fighting?"

"Yes, they are always angry with each other."

Ah! I have a good idea what they are fighting about.

Either Dad's announced he is off on one of his secret-service jaunts, else Mum's discovered he is having yet another affair.
 

Seema's arrival had kept him faithful for a while. But since my time at St James, I've noticed Mum's increasing dissatisfaction during our phone conversations.
 

"And Vishal?"

"Out playing rugby with his friends. He is always out with those slackers nowadays."

"Slackers? Where did you learn that word?"

"Oh! Mum uses it all the time." Mum's obviously making her opinion of his friends very clear around the house.
 

"Why don't you knock on their door and tell them I am on the phone?"

I can hear the silence as she hesitates, trying to decide on a course of action. "Go on," I urge her.

As she walks to the door of their bedroom, cordless phone in hand, the sounds of home, and of Bombay, filter through: the clang of vessels from the kitchen, a siren in the distance, the faint ever-present sound of honking from the traffic below, the sea breeze whistling in through the open window … It's salty taste springs up on my tongue as if I am right there.

"Mum, Daddy?" I hear her knock on their door.

"I can't take this anymore." Mum's voice floats down the phone clearly, as if the door's been flung open. "How many times do I need to forgive you? I am losing count of the women in your life."

Dad's voice, softer than hers, but still firm, interrupts. "Our daughter's at the door, surely we can keep our peace in front of her?"
 

There is the sound of a door slamming shut, and then Dad comes on the line. "Vik. How are you? How's the cricket?"

"Cricket's coming along fine, Dad."

"You need to work on your timing, Vik. That's always been your weakness. Remember, timing is more important than strength. If you get your timing right, you can close the deal on many things in life. It's that killer instinct, you know?"

He has no idea how accurate his words are. Still, it's not helping me to hear about my obvious lack of "killer instinct" from him.
 

"Yes, Dad." My voice drips with long-suffering patience.

"There I go, lecturing you again …" Dad laughs. "Funny how you find yourself turning into your parent without even realising it." It's almost as if Dad is speaking aloud to himself.
 

In the silence that follows I jump in with, "How's Vishal? Can I talk to him?"
 

Silence.

Then, he says, slowly, "He's not at home."

"Where is he, Dad?" I ask.

A sigh. "Ah, Vik—" He's hesitant. Seems nervous. But why? "We were going to tell you when you came back home, but probably better you know now."

"What? What is it, Dad?" Even as he is deciding how to tell me, I know.
 

"You've sent Vishal away, haven't you?" I ask.

Silence. Again. Then, "How did you know?" he asks, sounding surprised. But he shouldn't be. Mum's made no secret that she'd like him out of her sight.

I'm not sure what to say. I stay quiet.
 

Dad breaks the silence this time. "He's at St Joseph's. At their hostel."

"That's a good school," I blurt out.

"Just not St James," we both say simultaneously.

Dad heaves a sigh. Again. I've never heard him sigh this much before. "I simply can't afford to send both of you to St James. And I've just had it with your mother's non-stop complaints about him. It's better for everyone that Vishal stays at the hostel."

Better for everyone but Vishal. He must really hate us now. But why didn't he call me. Tell me about it? But then, we haven't really spoken since I left home. And I haven't exactly reached out to him either. I, too, have forgotten him. When it comes down to it, I'm just like the rest of my family.

"So I guess things are better now, between you and Mum?" I keep my voice light. "Now that Vishal is not at home anymore."

"Not sure it is. The usual, you know. Ups and downs …" Dad's voice trails off. "Vishal was just an excuse. Nothing I do will make things better between us."
 

It's the first time he's admitted things aren't great. That's not good. My heart beats faster. Palms clammy, I fidget with the telephone. I should hang up now.

"You and Mum splitting up?" It's out before I can stop myself.
 

"No …" He doesn't seem very convinced. "No, of course not," he says with more confidence.
 

I believe him ... Almost.
 

"How's the girlfriend?" He asks.

Ah! That inevitable girlfriend question. "Nope. I'm concentrating on my studies … and cricket, remember?" I grin repeating his dialogue back at him.

Of course Dad comes right back with, "Don't become too studious either ... No one wants to date a boring man."

I sigh aloud and make sure he can hear it over the phone. "There really is no pleasing parents," I groan.

That does the trick. "Okay, okay!" Dad changes the topic. "Your mum demands to speak to you now."
 
There's a hint of exasperation —resignation? —In his voice.

"Vikky?" Mum never uses my childhood name, not unless she is really, really upset. Which I guess she is now.

"Hey, Ma. How are you?" I do feel for her. I sense her moving away from Dad; the sound of a door shutting comes over the line. Then, a muffled sob.

"Mum!"
 

Is she crying? What do I do now? I've no idea what I should say. I so dread a woman's tears, Mum's grief especially—I have no clue how to handle it. It's my undoing.
 

"Don't cry, Ma, please."

"I am not crying. Of course not," she sniffles.

"You'll just spoil your make-up if you do, and your beautiful face," I say lightly.

"You are such a smooth talker … Just like your dad." I hear the bitterness in her voice now, but ignore her last comment.
 

"Everything okay, Mum?"

I almost wish I hadn't asked the question, and my worst fears are realised when she hesitates, then says, "No."
 

I am not sure what to say to that. So I just wait.

"I am not sure how much longer I can take this, Vik …" I can hear her swallow her grief, trying to bring herself under control.
 

"Uh! Ma, Dad's a good guy, you know?" I am used to playing peacemaker between Mum and Dad, but this, trying to sell Dad's merits to Mum, is a little unusual, even for me. Have I overstepped my boundary as a son?

Mum doesn't take offence. I hear her nod. "He's a good man. Just not a good husband."

Silence. Again. What can I say to that? I do agree with her. But I am not going to say
that
to her, am I?

Both Mum and Dad often confide their true feelings for each other in me. Sometimes they forget I am just a fourteen-year-old.