I chuckle along with Dede’s high-pitched hyena laugh. Her feet, which are small enough to fit into children’s shoes, barely skim the Oriental rug underneath the sofa. Everything about Dede is petite, which she expertly uses to her advantage to disarm people.
My nanny is the realest person that I know, yet in some ways everything about her is the perfect con. To anyone but me, Dede appears to be a nanny straight out of Mary Poppins. Her slight stature is made even more diminutive by the cotton saris that she dons, despite my ongoing pleas to her to wear American clothes. Although she did reluctantly agree to swap her sandals for a pair of white Keds in the fall and snow boots in winter.
Her frumpy-ethnic-grandma look is completed by oversize glasses that sit on the bridge of her nose and a loose bun that seems to come undone every fifteen minutes. Perhaps Dede’s hair, which is black, is her only source of vanity. I only recently discovered that Mrs. Patel, Dede’s bestie, mostly because she’s the only other Indian woman who lives within a twenty-mile radius, has been dyeing the gray out of it once a month for the past several years.
Dede’s speech is peppered with curses, off-color remarks, and salty humor. But that is the Assamese version. In public, her English consists mostly of “Do you take coupon?” and “I love Amrica.”
Dede’s sweet-old-lady act makes the locals treat her like a delicate little Indian doll they purchased in a tacky souvenir shop. I’m pretty sure that’s the way Dede wants them to see her.
The real Dede is far from a precious keepsake you have to handle with care. She is the savviest guru/hustler around—a cross between Mr. Miyagi and Jack Sparrow. This makes her a constant pain in my ass, but in the end, I know that Dede always has my back.
“You think burning a body and spreading its ashes somewhere random like you Indians do it is better?” I ask.
Dede scowls, which makes her look even older. “You remember that you Indian, Violet.” Dede is not a fan of Naresh’s universal citizenship and tries to shove my ethnic heritage down my throat every chance she gets. “Something happen today?” Dede continues as she leans in closer to me.
I back away. She’s not an Aiedeo but my nanny has her own set of skills that include a mad sense of intuition and a wicked way of reading people. Especially me. Dede’s probably picked up that something is bothering me because I’m still irked about the creepy intern. But the food coma I’m in is doing a good job of helping me forget him and I don’t want to rehash it with her.
“No. You are not pulling that crap with me,” I warn.
Dede reaches for my hand. “No crap, Violet. This about your power. What you see?”
“I see me making a call to immigration if you don’t get out of my face.”
“Chht, this not good, Violet,” Dede clucks. “You are Aiedeo.”
I yank my hand out of Dede’s grip. My skin turns hot and prickly just hearing their name. “Uh-uh, I am not letting you go there.”
“Where I go?” Dede shrugs her shoulders. “I stay here and tell you about your mommy and whole big Aiedeo family.”
Dede made a promise to my mother ages ago to do whatever it took to protect me. For her, that includes never giving up about the Aiedeo. Dede has this unshakable blind faith when it comes to them. She saw what happened to me but refuses to believe my dead relatives’ motives are anything but altruistic.
Regardless of how much she pushes the Aiedeo on me, I’m not going to talk about it. Next to denial, my second-best way to handle unpleasant situations is avoidance. I pick up my cell phone from the coffee table and stand up.
“I gotta call Meryl about the lit assignment.” I speed-dial my best friend. Dede lets out a loud “Hmmph” in frustration and goes back to her TV show.
I know that Dede is letting me off easy and I kiss her on the cheek before walking out of the family room.
“V, I was just about to call you.”
I strain to hear Meryl over what sounds like a really bad cover version of an old-school drinking song.
“Where are you?” I ask, but then I remember it’s Thursday, which is dollar-pitcher night at our local underage drinking hole, and answer my own question. “Stumpy’s, of course.”
“You gotta come down here.” Meryl lowers her voice. “And help me hustle two frat guys out of a hundred bucks.”
I chuckle. Most of us have to take crappy jobs at diners and fast-food places to earn our spending money, but Meryl makes her cash by coming up with ingenious ways to scam preppy college kids who have no business being at townie hangouts.
“What’s tonight’s special? Three-point shuffle or fool’s pool?” I ask, referring to a couple of Meryl’s classic cons.
“I’m working on a new one and I could totally use my trusted wingman. First five pitchers are on me.”
“Five?” I laugh. “Unlike you, I’ve actually gotta show up at school tomorrow. Plus, we had a double practice and a Squad meeting that ran way over. I’m totally busted and I haven’t even gotten to my homework yet.”
I could practically hear Meryl’s eye roll over the phone. She wasn’t a big fan of the Squad or of Naomi. But she put up with it all for my sake.
“I’ll massage your feet and Brain’s here so he can do your school stuff,” Meryl offered, referring to the ex-philosophy prof who spent most of his nights at Stumpy’s getting hammered on Jack Daniel’s and spouting conspiracy theories. “And I’ll split my take with you. That’s an easy fifty bucks at least and you get to hang out with me.”
“That’s the part that worries me. A Stumpy’s night with you always means trouble.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed!” Meryl laughed.
Meryl was fearless in a way that put almost everyone around her to shame. When a big, burly-ass mofo tried to mug us last summer in Chicago, Meryl kneed him in the groin and then stole his wallet before we ran away.
“Hey, have you heard anything about the new intern at Talbert’s?” Meryl’s dad is the county DA and usually knows about everything going on in town. Plus he’s a friend of Jim Talbert’s, so I thought it was worth a shot to ask.
“No. Why? Is he cute? Are you ready to finally move on from your six-year infatuation with Austin Coopman, V?”
My cheeks turn hot at hearing my crush’s name. “Oh my God, Mer! Don’t talk about me and Austin Coopman out loud in public! Someone might hear you!”
“Paranoid much? Oh, don’t worry! No one here is paying attention to anything I’m saying.”
I highly doubt that because Meryl causes a stir wherever she goes. She’s definitely in the same elite league of hotness as Naomi but her smoke comes with a lot more dirt and grit—she’s like a heroine in a Quentin Tarantino movie.
“Hey, I gotta go. Jeremy’s trying to get in on my action with the college boys. Just come down for a pitcher, at least!”
“Not tonight but have fun! And call me if you need anything.” I’m a little tempted to join her because it’s always an adventure with Meryl but I know that I don’t have the energy to keep up with her tonight. “Later!”
Before I get a chance to say “Bye,” she’s already hung up. I sit at my desk and reach for my Brit-lit assignment. Just talking to Meryl helps me get my mind off the Aiedeo. And much later that night, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I manage to forget all about the creepy intern.