You’re at a funeral and it’s your birthday.

There are faces you haven’t seen in years saying things they never thought about saying: ‘Sorry,’ ‘Condolences,’ ‘How could this happen?’

No one wishes you Happy Birthday. No one. It’s ok; death comes around only once. You still have next year, maybe.

‘Terrible!’ a fat woman says. You recognize her instantly because unlike the rest, she has always been fat. ‘Just terrible!’ she repeats for effect.

‘T-E-N-E-B-R-I-F-I-C,’ you say to help her cause.

‘Huh?’ she says.

The sky is overcast, autumn leaves, a crow’s harsh caw on a branch, open umbrellas, gloved hands covering faces; everything is a cliché—except it isn’t.

Dust, not rain, falls in the air, sideways. In the extension to the cemetery a few metres away, a pickup truck lies overturned. Its cargo; sand, deposited back on the ground near where it came from, now collected in the shape of a hill. The wind blows, robbing the hill of height. Glittering dust collides with tears and makeup, ages the green spring leaves with colour, and chokes the nightingale’s usually sweet melody.

You will be told later that the driver of the pickup truck, who has caused this displeasing scenery, was drinking; has been fired. You will not feel better.

Still, the sand, despite blinding, helps. ‘S-A-U-D-A-D-E.’

‘Huh?’

‘Remember: in a sad way,’ you say to the fat woman who has always been fat …

***

You are fourteen—the acne still hasn’t gone. Even after all the medication, even after refusing stains to your bed sheet for weeks, even after your mother has called her own dermatologist, had a private word with her, and then handed you the receiver, the specialist prophesizes, ‘Don’t worry. In no time you’ll be fit as a fiddle.’

You hold on to the cliché because those Eighties High School movies are yet to come out; also, the zits are too slippery anyway.

The dermatologist goes on, ‘It’s perfectly normal.’

That’s the real problem: you’re normal. One cannot be anything worse in 8th grade. There are classifications; jocks, which you are smart enough never to aspire to and not just because you’re not tall enough. Nerds; you’re simply not smart enough, even though you tried to fake it by wearing your dead father’s glasses. The nerds saw right through it; the jocks beat you up anyway. Hippies; your hair is already thinning. Marching Band and Goth cult—lack of talent and mascara. The disabled too reject your plea, even after you show them your pimples. Ethnic minorities disqualify you easiest. Dejected, you sit alone during the baseball game—invisible. The sound of bat connecting to ball is your signal; you begin to walk away, but not before a shoe spits sand in your face: Mike has just slid into home base.

‘Safe!’ the umpire shouts through a clay cloud. The crowd goes crazy for Mike. Even one of your pimples celebrates; bursts.

Thank God no one is looking at you; but you’re wrong. Kristine, who is running to congratulate Mike, has paused for a brief second to consider your bubble wrap face now minus one bubble.

You retract your thanks, turn atheist in an instant, because Kristine is the most beautiful girl at school. Unsurprisingly, she is also Mike’s (the most beautiful boy’s) girlfriend. They’re both two grades over you and leagues higher. After Kristine wraps her arms around Mike, but before her legs mark an X over his butt, you flee before you become the butt of everyone’s jokes.

Nihilists currently occupy the only usually secluded spot at school, a drab wall behind the library. Even here, the cheers from the field can be heard.

‘Guess we won,’ one says, puffing a cigarette.

Another compatriot takes the nicotine mic: ‘Great, now finally they can club each other to death.’

You arrive unexpectedly, not expecting them. Mind your own business. Don’t make eye contact—say nothing.

No one likes the nihilists because they spit mean, hurtful things about everything to everyone. You can feel them looking at you. They leave.

You hate yourself even more now.

At night, you can’t sleep, worrying about tomorrow; Kristine will tell all her friends and Mike about your pimple pus; laughs will make you cry.

In the morning, you fake a fever to skip school.Your mother kicks you out of the house. ‘Next time, at least put a hot towel over your forehead first!’

You consider jumping in front of the school bus, but the driver has always adhered to the speed limit.
You enter class, and then another, then another, each ringing bell brings an onslaught of … nothing.
No one has attempted to destroy your dignity.

You’re happy—for about five minutes. When you realize that even the coolest girl doesn’t find you pathetic enough to make fun of, because you’re normal, you go into a rage, confront her in the cafeteria.

‘How dare you?’ you say.

She’s sitting on a table, surrounded by admirers.

She looks at you blankly.

You use melodrama; grab a fork from the nearest tray.

‘Sick!’ one student shrieks.

‘Do it again!’ another shouts.

Before you can continue the performance of poking your own face, you fall to the ground.

‘Freak!’ Mike nurses his knuckles. He’s managed to burst six of your zits in one go.

Kristine yells at him—kisses him for longer. They get back to their lunch. Everyone is eating again. You’re still on the floor, miserable. A large shadow looms over you …

‘Can I have my fork back?’ a fat girl says.

You’re leaning on the glum wall behind the library again, crying. One of the nihilists consoles, ‘Why don’t you just kill yourself?’

‘No one will even laugh,’ you say.

They’re impressed.

You can’t stop thinking about Kristine; specifically, why she didn’t rat out your rat face. Being oblivious to everyone else is ok, like a redundant spasm. But Kristine’s disregard hits like a cancer. You resolve to make her notice you.

You sign up for the baseball team; they already have a batboy. You sing at a war protest outside school; everyone leaves. Your GPA defaults you from even entering your idea in the science symposium; an acne-removing device involving self-mutilation; ‘Zit Smasher!’ you announce the catchy title to a professor, who has perfected the art of looking unimpressed. You barter with your mother; volunteer to scrub the church floor every weekend if she agrees to overhaul your present wardrobe. ‘Donate all my clothes to charity,’ you say to sweeten the deal. She agrees. Catalogue flips and mall jumps later, the new threads act like a shield, barely. Normality continues to stick to you like the acne.

You even resort to cigarettes; borrow one—cough uncontrollably.

‘Beat it!’ one of the nihilists says.

You get gum from your locker, chew fast and roam slow around the halls. Your head hits the notice board because you’ve been staring at the floor. A pink sheet falls beside your feet.

E-F-F-E-C-U-A-T-E

You have no idea what it means; but you pronounce the word effortlessly in your head. The rest of the sheet provides details to join the spelling team.

You stay after school. The assigned teacher enters the room; in track pants; it’s the baseball coach.

Other students share puzzled looks; ‘This isn’t normal’.

You cringe; the coach has already rejected you once before.

He calls out names, barks words that you and the others have never heard. He gives each candidate 15 seconds, one false letter and he points his pencil toward the door. At the start of the session, there were twenty-two students. You’re second last to be kicked out; rules require him to enlist the top five.

At home, you put up a sign on your door: E-L-U-C-U-B-R-A-T-E. Don’t sleep for weeks, rummage through dictionaries. A competition in the auditorium in front of the whole school will determine the winner that goes through to regionals.

The morning before the event, you muster enough courage to walk up to Kristine while she’s at her locker to make sure she’s coming.

She smiles—you realize she doesn’t know your name.

‘What do you want, freak?’ Mike appears behind her.

At least he remembers.

You cry in the bathroom, curse yourself for wasting a whole month mugging up words, without even checking if Kristine would ever be interested in something so stupid. After all, she’s been in love with Mike all this while—the strong silent type.

Unsurprisingly, the auditorium is half empty. Specks of claps echo after each round. Nearly an hour later, it’s just you and another girl on stage, the one who came first when you signed up for this thing.

This is how she spells: ‘O-B-I-E-S-A-N-C-E.’

You step forward: ‘O-B-E-I-S-A-N-C-E.’

The coach, sitting in a corner, gives you an obeisant nod. You win—mild applause—no zit bursts.

Your mother doesn’t stop hugging you. You instruct her to wait in the car while you collect your things. As you shut your locker, Kristine’s face confronts you.

‘You were amazing today,’ she says.

All you can think about is how much taller she is than you.

She doesn’t linger longer than the awkward silence, but before leaving, hugs you; immortal cheeks rubbing against suppurating flesh.

At home, you refuse to wash your pus-punctured face, go to bed dreaming of her touch.

The next day in class, a sound you’re too familiar with: ‘Psst!’

But it’s not your face; sitting beside, Fat Girl is trying to get your attention. ‘Kristine really likes you,’ she says.

You stare at her, recall the coach’s training: ‘ … why do people spell wrong? Because they don’t see the little details, the letters, always instead focusing on the whole word, just like we tend to think about the whole world. See the little things—forget the big picture.’

You ask fat girl for details.

‘She thinks you’re a nice guy.’

‘I-R-R-E-F-R-A-G-A-B-L-E?’ you say loudly.

The teacher sends only you to detention. Alone, despite your newfound vocabulary, you start easy—‘nice’ you mull—condemn it to the Z-E-N-I-T-H of normalcy: nothing special. Then again, since you’re the only normal person you know, and by extension, so does Kristine, that maybe makes you … special.
You dismiss your own reasoning, just like you dismiss Fat Girl’s information about Kristine thinking you’re a nice guy as a cruel joke.

You watch a movie in the cinema over the weekend with your mother. You don’t fool yourself into believing that you look like Tom Cruise. But the following week, when you spot Kristine in the cafeteria again, a cliché from the film risks your confidence—Nice guys get the girl.

‘Do you find me S-I-M-P-A-T-I-C-O?’ you stop at Kristine’s crowded table.

Before she can answer, Mike hurriedly looks at his posse to confirm if what you’ve said is slang for sexy. They nod; everyone likes a show.

More zits burst this time. You take longer to get up from the floor, but when you do, you don’t see Kristine and Mike kissing; she’s taking longer yelling at him too.

He storms off; you stand still. She walks up, cups your bleeding face in both her hands, ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I think you’re simpatico.’

Kristine doesn’t leave Mike, but she does spend more time with you, even comes to the regional finals, coughs uncontrollably as you spell: ‘I-N-C-O-M-M-O-D-I-O-U-S.’

More people, louder applause, Kristine is the loudest.

She kisses your cheek; the whole side turns pimple free—you start going to church with your mother again.

You look into her emerald eyes; know you’re winning.

The year progresses, Kristine and Mike fight more; she smiles when around you more.

Spirited, you rebel in vandalism; spray paint E-U-D-A-E-M-O-N-I-C on the grey wall behind the library. The nihilists think it’s a metaphor for extinction: they smile.

Mike finally confronts you alone in the baseball pit.

‘I’m going to bury you alive!’ he says.

‘V-I-V-I-S-E-P-U-L-T-U-R-E?’ you confirm.

After you’re unable to speak any more because you’re up to your mouth in the sand, you plead with your eyes; peer into Mike’s envious ones, the same S-M-A-R-A-G-D-I-N-E color as Kristine’s.

You pass out. When you awaken, Kristine and Mike are standing beside each other, their profiles even more magnificent under a scorching afternoon sun; golden tans, rich egg yolk hair, limbs like astute diagrams in biology textbooks. Strangers could mistake them for beautiful siblings, but you’re not a stranger; through your common brown eyes, you’re a witness to their breaking up.

Mike beats his chest like King Kong, shouts harsh simple words, but Kristine is the one with the scorpion sting; she leans down and kisses your lips. Your tired, trapped body awakens.Mike is as stunned as you; runs away before anyone sees his tears.

‘Are you ok?’ Kristine blows into your ear.

‘B-L-I-T-H-S-O-M-E,’ you say.

You misspell that word again months later at the national finals, lose, and lose your virginity a few hours later, when Kristine convinces your mother to relax, go see the local attraction; a milk museum.
While your mother takes some time off, you get off in the hotel room.

‘Was that blithesome?’ Kristine’s naked body leans on you.

‘Yes.’

The following year, Kristine graduates, enrolls in a community college so she can be closer to you. Mike drops out. He continues pleading with her and threatening you respectively; has more success with you, much more.

When you get a black eye for the third time, she returns the large stuffed toy Mike had given to her when they were both ten.

Kristine isn’t the only one who coughs; everyone covers their mouths to not breathe in the incinerating flames of Bobo the Bear in Mike’s front yard. This happens on your birthday; best present ever.
The scattered synthetic ashes mark the starting line of a pilgrimage for Mike; his father, a high up in a big company, is being transferred to Japan.

It is also a new beginning for Kristine and you … alone … together.

You graduate two years later, but move to a nice college on scholarship far away. She can’t transfer easily to where you are, will have to start over as a freshman like you. Months pass uncertainly. ‘To hell with it,’ she coughs over the phone finally one Friday night—is at your door Saturday morning.

You’re happy to see her, but you have a final on Monday.

She apologizes, cries—you cry, apologise.

You move in together off campus with her savings. She gets a job waiting tables while you spend evenings in the library. She watches you slumped over your desk, expired convenience store sandwiches on the edge. She gets two jobs. You stop eating expired sandwiches.

On Sunday’s, the only day she has time off, you tell Kristine to rest or she’ll fall sick. The city air has already worsened her cough.

‘But you’ll get bored,’ Kristine says.

‘Library.’

You don’t go to the library; you meet your friends at a pool table joint. You do this because if you really do go the library, you will hook up with the foreign student from Sweden with the hot ass. She’s been eyeing you ever since you spelt ‘P-R-U-R-I-E-N-C-E’ in English class.

The professor had been asking for an alternate word for lust.

You decide to live the smaller lie instead of committing the larger truth—you’re a nice guy.

You graduate. Get a job for yourself; get married for her. Everyone comes to the wedding, except Mike.

Kristine wants a child.

‘We don’t have enough money for that kind of thing,’ you say.

After a couple of years, you have enough money.

‘She doesn’t have enough …’ the gynecologist says to you privately after a few tests.

Kristine has a heated argument with your mother on the phone about surrogacy. The two of you move into a larger place as per plan anyway.

The following month, your mother dies. Kristine goes into shock with guilt.

‘It’s not your fault,’ you say. She vows to uphold your mother’s wishes as a mark of respect. You tell her she’s being ridiculous. Secretly, you’re relieved.

The spare room that was meant to be the nursery isn’t wasted—you put in a pool table.

Years pass, drab routines stay. You try not to lose touch with her by being in touch with your old friends. Kristine left all that behind. Has never even bothered to find out what happened to Mike either—you do.

‘Hikikomori,’ fat girl says over the phone.

‘What?’ You don’t know a word for the first time.

‘A recluse,’ she says, ‘one of those Japanese outcasts. Lock themselves in their apartment and don’t come out for years, sometimes, never. Don’t meet anyone.’

‘That’s stupid,’ you say. ‘What about food?’

‘Domino’s!’

You think about how long it’ll be before you get news of Mike’s death. You don’t disclose this finding to Kristine; it would upset her. You’re a nice guy.

Kristine quits one job because you don’t need her to work that much any more.

You take her on a vacation. The volcano erupts while you’re on the island. No flights out for two weeks. She coughs incessantly. No more vacations.

Kristine is politely fired from her other job because she can’t do it any more.One day, you come back home from work and she’s too weak to get up. You go to her before playing pool first this time. You lean closer, let her massage your bald head.

‘I think it’s really serious,’ she says.

‘C-A-V-I-L-L-O-U-S,’ you say, stroking her hand.

***

The wind has finally receded; leaves glow again sand lies still under freshly-cut grass. You wipe your father’s glasses (which you need now, but they don’t make you look smarter because they’re fashionable too). You scan the veiled faces and sunken jaws, stop at tall broad shoulders in the third row.

‘It’s him!’ Fat Woman confirms your stare.

You continue standing near the grave while it’s filled. People start leaving. Final hurrahs; ‘I’m so sorry,’ ‘If there’s anything you need,’ ‘The traffic’s going to be a bitch on the way back, best you stay put,’ ‘God’s will.’

Mike approaches. You’ve never met anyone who’s never left an apartment in twenty years, but Mike looks like he could be that guy. He’s still got his hair, but a lot more stomach; Fat Woman was right about the pizza delivery. He has transformed into the most peculiar kind of Japanese person—by doing nothing. He never went to college, never got a job, never drank a beer in a bar, never slept with another girl, never spoke on the phone … yelled at anyone (maybe just at himself), never even stepped outside in rain or shine for a smoke get groceries, stalk a girl, trade mufflers with a homeless person, or … beat up anyone in all these years … nothing.

But Mike finally left his apartment two days ago: immediately after his own mother started banging on the door, crying, ‘Kristine’s dead!’

Mike’s red eyes jut out from his snow skin. You know it’s not jet lag.

He clenches his fist; you move away, afraid.

‘Happy Birthday!’ he shakes your hand, leaves.

Later, at night, you go to the restaurant that Kristine and you always went to, sometimes. There’s a new waitress in your section who doesn’t know you and won’t remember you next time in case you decide to go back ever, which you won’t.

You eat poorly. Still, you order dessert and request a candle too. An instrumental version of an Eighties hit hums lightly from the overhead speakers while you wait. You think about your spelling bee coach … his words: ‘… forget the big picture.’

You realize you’ve taken that advice too seriously all your life. You think about how much you love(d) Kristine, and if it’s more than how much you loved seeing Mike and Kristine not together, because anyone who dates the School Hunk’s girl has to be special.

But you’re not special. You’re a nice guy, who spells good. You’ve been spelling right for all the wrong reasons You mull another cliché’: nice guys finish last.

The waitress brings a small piece of cake, a tall candle and the check.

You light the candle, jab it into the cake, think of a word to describe what you feel right now before blowing it out.

The manager finally comes himself the fourth time, ‘Sir! The restaurant is now closed.’ You don’t cause a scene; the cake with the still burning candle is tossed in the garbage.

About Gotham Mamik

Gotham Mamik's short stories have appeared in a variety of literary journals in the UK and USA. His story, "A Word Unlike" was shortlisted for a prize at the Writer's Village contest. An excerpt from his novel length satire manuscript, "How Bollywood Killed My Family" was selected for the Kriti Literary Festival at the University of Illinois, Chicago. He currently serves as Prose Editor for Papercuts, a bi-annual literary magazine with a focus on writing from South Asia and the diaspora.

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