Girl Most Likely To Read online

  He placed the offending Oreo on the coffee table and lifted Booboo to his feet, before returning his attention to me. “So you’re really gonna let your ego rule your life?”

  “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m cutting my losses. I’m being practical. Doesn’t anybody understand that? It’s what it means to be an adult.”

  Christopher shrugged, and made Booboo dance before his own ref lection in my mirror. I sank deeper into my chair.

  “Hmm, this reminds me of an article I was reading online,” I began, absentmindedly dipping an Oreo into my margarita. I took a bite, which made me gag and immediately spit a mouthful into a paper towel. Christopher was too busy checking the ref lection of his soon-to-be-bald spot in my mirror to notice, so I continued. “The article said something about the similarities between financially independent women and gay men in our dating rituals. Maybe that’s why you think you know how my mind works.”

  “Think I know?” He turned around.

  “Anyway, the title of the article was ‘You Don’t Get What You Deserve…You Get What You Settle For,’” I slurred, sliding down far enough in my chair to prop my mug on top of my stomach.

  “Yeah, sure. Fascinating. Whatever. Listen, you don’t think I look like an accountant, do you?”

  Yes…I thought, while I shook my head and insisted, “No! Not at all.”

  “You must kill at poker. You’re really too good at telling people what they want to hear.” He smiled. “And for the record, you definitely do not look like an investment banker. Anyway, I’m sorry about Jon. But I think you should seriously consider sleeping with him at least one more time. For me. He sounded sexy over the intercom.”

  “You probably think I should sleep with everybody.”

  “Well, thank you for the blanket presumption that all gay men are promiscuous,” he said, trying to act offended. “Besides, not everybody, honey. You’re far too sweet for that, even though you try to act like a hard-ass. You leave the skanking to me. For you, just the men you love.”

  “Loved,” I corrected him.

  With one hand on his hip, he concluded, “Oh, honey, who do you think you’re kidding?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s turning my stomach almost as much as these margaritas and Oreos.”

  “Then let’s talk about your weekend. How was that wedding? Did you meet the man of your dreams?”

  “No.” I tried hard to focus on Christopher’s face despite my blurring eyes. “But I think I might have met the man of yours.”

  9

  Hung over, lying on the floor of her apartment, spooning a severely obese cat while being spooned by its gay, balding owner, with the remains of margaritas and Oreos plastered to the roof of her mouth is no way for a respectable Desi girl to wake up.

  I struggled to my feet after shaking Christopher awake. And when I noticed a new stiffness in my neck, I thought to myself, Something has got to change.

  Coffee was a priority, but as usual on a Monday morning the line at Starbucks stretched into oblivion. Of the three grocery stores within a four-block radius of my office, only one wasn’t out of my way. Unfortunately, it was also the one that was open twenty-four hours, and where personal space was a luxury. I particularly avoided that place before nine a.m. on weekdays, since the middle-aged Indian man working that shift had a habit of eyeing me like a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala while asking suggestively if I were from Punjab. I expected better from my own kind.

  I was approaching the register when I noticed a man matching my pace and coming from the opposite aisle. He stopped short and extended an arm, offering a flirtatious smile along with an After you. He was attractive, in a Magnum P.I. kind of way. Normally, I might’ve taken the opportunity to get my own early-morning-flirt on, but the light of recent events helped me see the situation more clearly. He was probably using me to cheat emotionally on the wife he had waiting at home. And if not, then like most men in this cesspool of a city he would probably just as soon hit on me at a bar if I were wearing something low-cut as he would steal my cab on the street if it were raining. I denied him my smile, slammed a dollar on the counter, and headed for the door. I was making a statement on behalf of women everywhere. Without saying a word.

  Outside I noticed something over the tilted rim of my coffee cup, which made me stop. I caught a glimpse of a rosy-cheeked, double-chinned woman on the opposite side of Lexington Avenue, dancing gleefully for commuters’ loose change. I crossed over to find “It Had To Be You” booming out of her battery-powered radio. Judging by the wisps of white hair peeking out from underneath her bandana, she must’ve been about sixty-five years old. A self-styled Gypsy, she shut her eyes tightly while twisting in delight, like a schoolgirl crooning into her hairbrush. A small crowd had formed around her, and I found myself staring as much at her as at the people. A man dropped a dollar into the shoe box by her feet, tipped his hat and continued down Lexington.

  “Keep dancing!” she yelled.

  “I’m not dancing,” he replied over a shoulder.

  “Then find a reason to!” She seemed to be looking directly at me.

  The crowd snickered, shook their heads and dispersed.

  The first thing I saw when I sat down at my desk after our Monday-morning team meeting was a bouquet of f lowers. Logically, I assumed they were from Jon, so I drop-kicked them into the trash. The second thing I saw was an instant messenger chat request f lashing on my screen. Taunting me. Winking at me. Blowing in my ear. “IM” is the modern equivalent of passing notes in class, except that it is sanctioned by the powers-that-be, leaves little chance for some other kid to swipe a note, and is (for most professionally unsatisfied young career-types) slightly more addictive than mediocre sex. I had no choice but to respond when I saw the following prompt from Cristina.

  Any time a coworker found me using IM for fun, I felt as if I’d been caught eating my crayons. Looking up from my screen I saw Peter waiting silently for my attention. For a minute? For a week?

  “Ready to explain the Luxor deal to the intern?” he asked. Then he noticed the petals sticking out of my garbage can. “Oooh…I heard somebody got f lowers delivered this morning. I didn’t know it was you. Are they from Jon? Is he still trying to get back together with you?”

  “I assume so,” I replied flatly.

  “Does this mean that he’s patching things up with you and planning on whisking you off someplace to bear his many, many children?” Peter mock-punched me in the shoulder. Which part of my office resembled a locker room?

  “Why? Are you writing a book?” I asked.

  “I guess I’m nervous,” he replied, grinning as he motioned for Denny and Wade to claim a couple of chairs. “Because if anything ever took you away from the firm, I don’t know how I’d live without your witty retorts to my weekly team e-mails.”

  Peter was essentially my partner—the other associate on our team with whom I worked most closely. Born and bred in the Bronx by an African-American mother and a Puerto Rican father, he was the product of a full scholarship to Tufts. He mentored inner-city schoolchildren, ran marathons whenever possible, and seemed genuinely excited to be a part of the team. As if all of that weren’t disturbing enough, he was also afflicted with the need to send uplifting weekly e-mail messages to our group.

  That morning’s read: Happiness is fulfilling more than one’s fair share of the teamwork.

  I had responded (and cced everyone) with Happiness is a mutually consensual game of grab-ass.

  Honestly, you couldn’t have found a straighter arrow. Peter’s cheerleaderlike enthusiasm for the company made me want to shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. Or myself. Anyone, really. There was no reason to be that pumped up about something like Equity Research.

  “You have nothing to worry about, Peter. I would never dream of neglecting my responsibility to the team. I’ll tell you what—if and when someone does make an honest woman out of me, I promise to still fax a retort over to you from my Momm
y-And-Me classes every morning. Somebody’s got to temper your hideous and unnecessary optimism with some good-old-fashioned cynicism. Otherwise you’ll blind us all. Really, Peter, that kind of Little-House-On-The-Prairie crap will get one of our interns mugged.”

  “Ouch! Someone’s claws are out today! I like that, I like that,” he laughed like a mental patient at his own jokes. “Maybe you can bring some of that enthusiasm to the all-nighter we’re gonna have to pull to finish up the research on that Luxor deal. You know we have to make our recommendation by tomorrow morning. Now, let’s get young Wade here up to speed.”

  The call came from inside the house. As usual, they used separate phones. As usual, they assumed I had an hour to waste in the middle of the day. And as usual, my parents caught me wide open and defenseless at my desk when they decided to attack. Only this time, Peter, Wade and Denny were seated in my office, so they, too, got caught in the crossfire.

  Peter reclined in his seat across from my desk while Denny took notes beside him. Wade sat on the edge of his seat below my framed SUCCESS poster of a rock-climber reaching the peak of a mountain. That poster, like the two of them, came with the office, along with its mahogany desk, glass door, and many walls of gray.

  “This week, we’ve been poring over the past five years’ worth of financials from a software manufacturer in Taiwan,” Peter explained to Wade, through a mouthful of chicken Caesar salad. “We’re finally making an investment recommendation to Alan and Steve tomorrow morning. However, we thought it might be helpful for you to understand how the research fits into the larger picture.”

  Denny nodded enthusiastically for the coach, biting off a quarter of his sandwich and chasing it with some French fries from my plate. What gave him the impression that the fries were communal? Maybe a football field had sprouted beyond my office door and I had missed the e-mail? Since he had joined us a year earlier, Denny had become like a little brother to the team; he was somebody we could mock openly and use for target practice. I was an associate and he was an analyst, which meant that I outranked him by one level, four years and miles’ worth of respect within the firm. But his good humor in spite of the constant reminders of his low ranking on the corporate totem pole had forced us to develop a soft spot for him. Wade was even brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than Denny. He had joined us as an intern the month before, and his brown-nosing knew no bounds. Wade was an intensely red-headed and predictably rosy-eyed second-year economics major at Columbia. Though he got the internship through his father’s connection to a partner at our firm, Wade actually seemed intent on proving that he deserved it.

  Brrrrring!

  I saw my parents’ home number on my caller ID, and against my better judgment I decided to answer the phone.

  Dad: Hi, beti! Hold on while your mom picks up on the other line…Are you there?

  Mom: Hello? Yes, I am. Hello, sweetheart.

  Me: (Motioning to Peter to continue.) Hi. Listen, is it important? Because I’m kind of in the middle of something.

  “So here’s the deal,” Peter continued, while Denny sucked on a soda and Wade took notes, “Alan and Steve have been looking at a new investment. A company called Luxor, which makes software designed to help small-business owners protect their networks from Internet-based security breaches.”

  Mom: No problem, no problem. This will only take a minute. So, did you hear that Meena and Avinash’s daughter Parul is pregnant?

  Me: Who?

  Mom: You know. She was that girl from Connecticut you met during that summer when we sent you to The Hindu Vishwa Parishad camp.

  Me: Mmm-hmmm.

  Mom: Yes, yes, her husband is also a doctor. They met while doing their residency at Johns Hopkins. Anyway, she is due in six months!

  Me: That’s great for them. But I’m at work. Can we talk about this later?

  “Luxor is considering acquiring a manufacturing facility in Taiwan,” Peter continued. “This acquisition, if they go through with it, would double the amount of software that Luxor could produce each year.”

  I nodded in agreement, gulping down half of my iced tea, as if it might expedite the call.

  Mom: Yes, and also Freddy and Sylvia’s son, Mark? He just got engaged to a nice girl from Syracuse. She works in some nonprofit company with children or museums or something. Anyway, they met through one of those Internet-dating sites. Jewish-dating. com, I think. That way they can make sure they’re only dating Jewish people, so it saves them time. Imagine!

  “The announcement is expected tomorrow evening,” Peter stated. “Everyone on Wall Street knows they are considering the purchase, but everyone also knows that it might be a smokescreen planted to inflate stock prices, so they can sell the company outright. If they buy the facility, the stock will go through the roof because investors will believe Luxor honestly expects the demand for their products to double this year. And higher sales would mean more profit for investors.”

  Me: (Elbows on the desk, picking at the skin between my eyebrows.) That’s right. Great.

  Mom: Sooooooo, your father and I understand that it didn’t work out with Prakash, but no matter. We have another boy in mind for you. His name is Raj. He’s a doctor, and he lives in Manhattan, and…

  Me: (Trying to sound professional.) I’m not sure this is the right time for that.

  “Exactly,” Peter jumped in. “What Vina means is that the demand for software is always hard to predict. So we have to figure out if the purchase of this facility in Taiwan is a sound financial decision. If it is, then we’ll have to evaluate Luxor’s financials to see if they can actually afford to buy it.”

  Dad: When will be the right time? When you are forty? You cannot be so sentimental. We’ll line up ten eligible boys for you tomorrow.

  Me: (Wondering why I would be interested in anyone who was willing to queue for my affections.) I’m not ready to look at a lineup.

  Mom: Don’t make fun, Vina. We’re just trying to help. If everything fits, you could be married by the end of next year!

  “If everything squares away—” Peter sucked at his teeth with his tongue “—then Alan and Steve’ll bet that Luxor will announce a decision to buy.” Denny crunched his ice, and then turned to look at me.

  Me: I don’t need help. (Then, to Wade…) Not you, we do need your help.

  Dad: Why? Are you married?

  Me: No, I’m not. But thanks for the reminder. I’m really not interested in having this discussion right now.

  “In that case,” Peter concluded, “they will buy Luxor stock, expecting a positive announcement, and a related jump in the stock price the following morning.”

  Dad: If you both agree, then in that case we can have the engagement announced. Of course, we will need a year for the wedding preparations. I mean, if you’re not ready now, then when will you be ready? This American system of ‘dating’ will only land you into trouble. With all of these so-called ‘relationships,’ everybody does the wrong thing because there is always somebody else coming along. Why is number fifteen any different from number twelve? Prakash is an educated, handsome boy, from a good family. All right, he is not Punjabi, which we would have preferred, but what more do you want?

  Me: (Attempting to massage away my mounting neck stress.) Look, Dad. I already told you. Prakash is out of the picture because…

  “These f lowers are from Prakash, not Jon!” Peter announced. He had been trying to cram the remains of his lunch into the trash when he noticed the unopened card sticking out of the bin.

  “Who’s Prakash?” he asked.

  Sarah poked her head into my office to see if we were ready to tackle the numbers.

  “Oh,” she said, when she caught us discussing my love life on company time, “never mind.”

  “Prakash?” I blurted. “You can’t be serious! I don’t know what this is about, but…”

  How could I “out him” to my parents now? And more importantly, how could I do it without appearing unprofessional in front of my collea
gues?

  Mom: Flowers? From Prakash? Oh, how wonderful! Vina, you were just being insecure! Even despite your behavior on Saturday night this boy has seen how wonderful you are and he is sending you flowers? I knew he was a good boy. So we can forget about Raj. All right, I’ll smooth things over with Raj’s family. And you’ll call Prakash to thank him. Bye-bye, darling!

  Me: Wait, no! I mean…just because all the criteria are met doesn’t mean that it will necessarily fall into place. There is more to it than that! Trust me.

  “Vina is absolutely right,” Peter concluded before heading for the door, with one hand on Denny’s back and the other holding a folder that was overflowing with numbers in need of crunching. “We shouldn’t simplify things too much for you guys. We’ll make you think this is a science. It’s not. We can play with the numbers until they look like gibberish, and spend all our nights in the office until we forget what our apartments look like, but the market is still gonna do whatever it wants. The truth is, without inside information, we’re basically screwed.”

  Peter and Denny laughed and walked out. Wade remained because he reported directly to me. I dropped my half-empty cup into the trash. Wade was aware that he was too junior to recline, so he waited tentatively on the edge of his seat, with his back erect, his smile eager and his khaki-panted legs planted firmly on the ground. I held up a finger and made eye contact.

  Mom: Okay, okay, Vina. We won’t push. But we don’t want to see you unmarried at thirty. Give Prakash a chance. You are not getting any younger, sweetheart.

  Me: (Logging back on to my computer to begin downloading the financial statements.) I’m not?

  Mom: Don’t be sarcastic.

  Dad: I don’t understand it. When we were your age, we could not wait to begin our lives.

  Me: Silly me…I thought life began at birth.

  Dad: Vina, we all know you are very good with words, and very highly educated, but that does not mean that we are wrong. Wisecracks will not delay reality. You need stability in your life. And you keep avoiding the topic of getting your MBA, also. I don’t know what else to say. It is only for your good that I say these things. Just give it a chance. And you have to get over this idea of chemistry. It is something which you build over years of sharing your lives. It does not happen overnight.