Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Naomi trying to keep a straight face. We’ve always shared the same wicked sense of humor.
“Frizz,” Naomi begins, invoking the nickname that she christened Collette with last season, “I’m sure that if Violet’s mother were alive, she would have been honored to sew our spirit bows.” Naomi winks at me. I hate myself for it, but I like being in Naomi’s favor even if she is like that jerky boyfriend that you know you should quit but just can’t. Not that I have much experience with boyfriends anywhere except in my elaborate fantasy life.
Collette’s eyes practically pop out of her head. “OMG! I’m sure that Violet’s mom would have been like the best pom mom ever. Especially because Indian people are, like, really good sewers because, you know, they have all those garment factories. And they let little poor kids work at them so they can eat. Because like there are a ton of starving people over there. Which is why I totally support India . . . Indians . . . Violet.”
Ding. Ding. Ding. I hear a set of imaginary alarms ringing at the political-correctness headquarters. Collette has doubled her dipshit points by pulling out both the dead-parent card and the Indian card in the span of two minutes.
Naomi’s face lights up like she’s just struck gold, which secretly makes me proud. No matter how temporary being “in” with Naomi is, when she shines her light on you, it makes you feel like the most important person in the room. Naomi probably wants to take this as far as it can go, but I think we’ve already had enough fun at Collette’s expense.
I put my hands together and bow my head solemnly in Collette’s direction. “Namaste.”
“OMG. Namaste, Violet,” Collette gushes as she returns the gesture.
Naomi laughs and nods at me in approval. I feel a bit guilty for giving Collette crap. The girl probably meant no harm. Most people don’t. That’s why I usually let that race and ethnicity stuff slide right off me. But just because I pretend to be all cool about it doesn’t mean that it isn’t completely infuriating.
I was born in Assam, India, a tiny state in the northeast region of the country. When I was two years old, my mother died in a car crash. At the age of three, I moved to America with my father, older brother, and nanny. We lived in Texas for two years and then, over a decade ago, my family moved to Meadowdale. I’ve spent thirteen years in the United States, and I’ve visited India only a handful of times.
My connection to the “motherland” is about as strong as my connection to my actual mother.
They’ve both been out of the picture for practically my entire life. Yet, the same way that people expect me to mourn a person that I never knew, they expect me to claim a country that isn’t mine.
Every week that I can remember in my American life, I’ve been asked that question. I can feel my blood pumping just thinking about it. People always phrase it so innocently, as though they are taking a genuine interest in me. Usually it’s from a parent, maybe a mother who is surprised to see little Jenny bring a brown girl home from school. These days it’s more like a mother who is surprised to see little Johnny take a brown girl to the school dance.
Where are you from? I always respond with “Here.” Then they rephrase it. Sometimes they even say it slower, in case I didn’t understand. Where are you really from?
I always understand. I am the foreigner, the other, the outsider to everyone else but me.
“Last order of business,” Naomi announces, waiting until all eyes are firmly on her before proceeding. “Tessa and I have decided there’s gonna be a changeup in our halftime routine.”
Tessa is standing next to Naomi, and, technically, she’s co-captain. However, no one actually believes that she has anything to do with whatever horrible idea is about to be thrown at us.
“No way!” Collette cries. “We’ve been practicing this choreography for a month now. Plus I already posted a teaser of the first twenty seconds and it’s already gotten a ton of views.”
“FU, Frizz. It’s not a choreography change. Jessica is off the frontline,” Naomi declares in her perfectly heartless way.
“What?” Jessica stands up. “I’ve been frontline since my freshman year!”
“That’s because you used to be good,” Naomi says. “But lately, you’ve been dancing like your legs are made out of chopsticks.”
There is a collective gasp in the room for both the demotion and the racial slur. Jessica doesn’t look like she is going to accept either.
“It’s better than just leaving my legs open like you,” Jess retorts as she glares directly at Naomi and then Tessa. “And especially you.”
Tessa turns crimson from head to toe. With her raggedy hair extensions, neon-green-colored contacts, and fake tanner that makes her skin glow orange like she’s radioactive, Tessa is like the cheap knockoff version of Naomi’s luxury brand. Guys usually treat Tessa like a consolation prize, which might be why she’s always had a reputation for doing whatever it takes to make them happy.
Still, even if Jess’s comment rang true, the girl isn’t really a fighter and probably doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this. But that’s the problem with standing too close to Naomi. There is bound to be collateral damage.
“It’s temporary.” Tessa looks down at the floor. “We just wanna try out something new.”
“Of course, since everyone is watching the frontline,” Naomi continues, completely ignoring Jessica, who is still fuming, “we need to mind the D-word.”
“Dic—”
“Diversity! Not as fun as what you were about to say, Becca, but just as important.” Naomi beams.
“Hello? I’m black and I’m on the frontline,” Becca says, holding out her hands and then pointing to her face.
Naomi nods. “Noted. But you know that if we have only one token minority up there, people will accuse us of not really taking diversity seriously. That’s why we need another one—to look like we care. So since we’re moving Soy Sauce over there, we have to replace her with another flavor.”
My tummy does a quick flip. There are a thousand students at Meadowdale High School. Twenty brown girls. Four Indian girls, but none of them are in the junior class with me. And three females of color on the Pioneer Poms. One is Becca, the other is Jess, and the third is . . .
“You’re movin’ on up, Samosa!”
I instantly cringe for a few reasons.
First, Naomi knows that I hate that nickname. When I was in elementary school, my teachers always pressured me to take part in the annual international bazaar, an event where Meadowdale’s unofficial assimilation policy was temporarily lifted and I was expected to flaunt my Indianness like I was fresh off the boat. In fifth grade, I made the mistake of bringing samosas. Amid the plethora of pierogi, brats, pannekoeken, and herring that most of my classmates brought in to celebrate the one drop of Polish, German, Dutch, or Swedish blood they had, the puffy brown pastries were an “exotic” delight. All would have been good if Naomi hadn’t decided that I resembled a samosa and branded me with the nickname. Thankfully, the moniker didn’t stick past eighth grade. Except with Naomi.
Second, Jessica is a good friend and way more into poms than I am. She’d even gone to cheer camp over the summer.