“I don’t know, it’s weird. Like, I don’t want to plan my life like that,” he says, sitting on the couch with me. “And I don’t even want to think about that stuff right now. ’Cause, you know, sixteen and all. But I guess part of me wants to . . . just make my mom happy. Since she came here for me and all. But the other part knows she’ll be okay if I don’t? Like, she won’t be thrilled at first, but she loves me. Which makes me feel guilty. And, yeah, complex.”

“She came here for you?” I ask.

“Well, not me me. After my parents got married, they moved to the States so their kids could grow up with more opportunities. I wasn’t born yet, so the idea of me, I guess. They remind me of this sometimes when I, like, play too many video games or whatever. And I know they sacrificed a lot, leaving family and all. So I feel . . . guilty?”

“Believe me, I understand guilt. Have you heard of Jewish guilt? It’s in our DNA. My grandma . . .” I never say “Bubbe” in front of people, mostly because I don’t want to stop and define it. I mean, it’s the same thing. “She gives us the Holocaust spiel a lot. She came from Germany, so . . .”

“Oh wow, did she—”

“No, no, not like that. She’s German but was already living here during the war. So she was okay physically. Mentally, not so much, as you’d imagine.”

“Your dad Jewish too?”

“No . . . he’s Catholic. So I’m a Cashew.”

“Cashew?”

“Catholic . . . Jew.”

“Oh.” He laughs. “Oh, that’s bad.”

“I know!”

“How was your grandma about that?”

“She wasn’t the happiest at first, but she was okay from what I hear. Mom got a lot of guilt—like I said, it’s passed down—but there wasn’t any disowning or anything.”

“My parents’ marriage was arranged.”

“Seriously?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “I’ve heard of that before, but didn’t know it still happened. You know, like ‘Matchmaker, Matchmaker.’”

“Huh?”

“Fiddler on the Roof? Never mind. Continue.”

“Okay, yeah, so they were by my grandparents. They were family friends, so it wasn’t too weird, I guess. My mom said it was more casual—they were allowed to say no if they wanted to. But they didn’t want to, and they didn’t say no. So here we are.”

“Does that still happen in India?”

“Oh yeah. My cousin has a biodata. It’s like . . . a profile? A résumé, kind of? With a photo that goes to ‘prospective husbands,’” he says, making quotation marks with his fingers.

“That’s crazy! What if she finds someone she likes outside of the biodata?”