Before the dance, I was set to meet Anita and our crowd at the mall. We’d take photos outside the TCBY, all trussed up in our Macy’s finery. My mother deposited me on a median in the middle of the parking lot, early, then sped off to my older sister’s picture party. Prachi had been nominated for Spring Fling court and was living a more documentable high school life. Prachi, the Narayan child who managed to be attractive and intelligent and deferential to our cultural traditions to boot, was headed to Duke, we were all sure. Earlier that day, cheeks blooming with pride, my mother had fastened a favorite, slim gold chain of her own, gifted by our ajji, around Prachi’s neck. My sister kissed my mother’s cheek like an old, elegant woman and thanked her, while I waited to be dropped into my own small life, in an ill-fitting suit.

I waited on the median, growing anxious. There was no sign of Anita. I paced and fidgeted, watching the others pin corsages and boutonnieres, and readied myself, after fifteen minutes, then twenty, to give up and trek down one of those horrible sidewalk-less stretches of great Georgia boulevard back home to Hammond Creek. I was already turning away from the fuss, attempting to loosen my father’s congealed-blood-colored tie, when Anita and her mother screeched up in their little brown Toyota. I knocked my knee against the concrete dolphin-adorned fountain and shouted, “Shit!”

A wall of mostly Indian and Asian parents regarded me with a collective glare. Yes, I consisted largely of my parents’ ambitions, but some part of me was also made of the ogling, boggling eyeballs of the rest of our community.

And another part—a significant part—was Anita, who was now stepping out of the double-parked car, smiling blithely. Anita had bright eyes: muddy brown, lively, roving, liable to flick over you quickly, as though there was something else more interesting or urgent in your vicinity. It made you want to stand squarely in her line of vision to ask for her full attention; when you got it, it felt like the warming of the late-morning summer sun.

“Neil, I told her we were late, but stubborn girl wouldn’t listen!” Anita’s mother, Anjali Auntie, said. She was dressed like she planned to attend the dance herself, in a bright green sheath framing her breasts, a dress that reminded me she was unlike other mothers.

“I got invited to Melanie’s picture party first,” Anita said. “I IM’d you!”

A betrayal: cherry-cheeked and universally admired Melanie Cho had laughed off my invitation to the dance weeks before, leaving me itchy with self-loathing. Anita’s grin—the grin of the newly anointed popular—matched the crystal studding along her bright blue bodice.