Iris this, Iris that.
It must be a normal Pavlovian response, where hearing my name makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Despite my best efforts to hate her, I suddenly miss my best friend. It makes absolutely no sense. If we could rewind to the party, if she could sincerely apologize for Peter, we might be able to save our friendship.
“Jeff! What do we tell everyone about Iris’s problem?” my mom says in a low, low voice that makes me feel so ashamed. I have never felt so insignificant. I have never felt so useless.
“Iris, hide in the closet and stay there,” my dad suddenly says.
“What?” I say.
My dad is not joking.
He points at the kitchen pantry.
I shouldn’t be surprised. First he’s exiling his only daughter to China, and then he’s forcing her to hide inside a tiny closet for dry goods? Treating his offspring like a can of tuna should be illegal. But admittedly, I understand his point—there’s nowhere else to hide unless it’s under the kitchen sink.
Quickly, I shut myself in and crouch-sit on a 20-pound bag of jasmine rice. I’m surrounded by cans of baked beans, SPAM, and digestive cookies. My parents’ favorite snack when they first immigrated to America. They can eat rolls and rolls of these cookies slathered with globs of unmelted butter. I have no idea why, when sliced bread is so readily available at any supermarket. My elbow bangs into a jar of tasty Nutella.
I stop myself from yelping.
I want to laugh and cry from the absurdity of the situation.
Suddenly starving, I open the jar and start scooping the spread with my fingers. Nutella has never tasted so creamy, nutty, and delicious.
What else am I supposed to do when I’m stuck in a kitchen closet?
What else am I supposed to eat? Certainly not cold, greasy SPAM!
The sound of braying laughter and Mr. Chadha-Fu’s overly cheerful newscaster voice blares in our living room. This closet has some shockingly amazing acoustics. It’s like being in my own VIP theater. If I had known about it growing up, I would probably have spent 75 percent of my childhood eavesdropping in the pantry. Think about how much blackmail currency I could have collected on my parents and their friends.
“Where is Iris?” a voice booms enthusiastically.
I hear the crystal clink of my parents setting down cups of coffee. Mr. Chadha-Fu is also known as Mr. NPR (National Public Radio) in Bradley Gardens, New Jersey. His nickname is because he broadcasts all the official and unofficial gossip in our neighborhood. He knows everything from boring lawn maintenance to the most mundane fundraising event at our school to little-known international celebrity news in over three continents.
For a parent, he’s not boring. He’s a tabloid magazine disguised as a middle-aged dad.
My mom says that if you want everyone to know about a new mole or your latest failure, you just have to accidentally tell Mr. Chadha-Fu. Samira’s dad is a successful stockbroker with two toy poodles, yet he still manages to out-tweet and out-text all of us every day.
The Chadha-Fus can’t find out that I’m a two-time failure.
“Iris is—” my dad says. The unmistakable sound of a clanking spoon.
“Volunteering!” my mom finishes.
“Volunteering?” Mrs. Chadha-Fu says. “Yes, Samira has been volunteering at the Salvation Army and the local newspaper. She wrote at least two dozen articles on global warming and the refugee crisis recently.”
I didn’t know Samira volunteered.
I didn’t even know Samira was capable of writing news articles. If I were asked to write on such serious, unimaginative topics, I wouldn’t even know where to start. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t even really understand what global warming is, even though everyone is always talking about it, like it’s an extremely important brand of face cream.
Shamefully, I realize it’s because I haven’t been paying attention to anything current-events related. I’ve just been focused on me and Peter, but mostly, my own personal development.
My own personal enjoyment.
Was Peter right?
Self-doubt crawls uneasily across my skin, like a tragic case of ringworm.
Why don’t I know anything real about Samira?
“Anyway, we came here to share the great news!” Mr. Chadha-Fu announces as if he’s a celebrity host of a game show.
There’s a dramatic pause.
I lean my neck forward, wondering what the news could possibly be. Then he shouts, “You won’t believe it! But we got into PRINCETON! Samira is going to Princeton!!!”
This is followed by the unnaturally shrill squealing of Mrs. Chadha-Fu and Samira. From my closet, they sound like excited seagulls. Then I hear a mixed cheerleader chorus of “We got into PRINCETON! And NYU, Brown, and Cornell! PRINCETON! PRINCETON! Samira is going to our first choice! Princeton!”
My heart tumbles into my stomach.
Due to so much unexpected news, this fist-size organ can no longer support its own weight.
I didn’t even know Samira was applying to Princeton.
I didn’t even know that Samira was actually book smart. Sure, she seemed like she would get into college … but then again, I thought I’d get into one of my first choices.
“Congratulations,” my mom finally says, sounding like she has a horrible case of acid reflux. My dad says nothing. I hear him excuse himself to go to the bathroom. Luckily, the Chadha-Fus don’t seem to hear the zombie awkwardness because they are too busy chattering and making plans. But then Samira asks, “Do you know when Iris will be home?”
“Probably very late,” my mother lies. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Seltzer, please,” Samira says, and I hear my mother asking if anyone would like more coffee. Mr. Chadha-Fu requests another cup with sugar and cream, while Mrs. Chadha-Fu wants to know if we have any pastries.
“Do you mind taking a family photo of us?” Mrs. Chadha-Fu suddenly calls out. “We want to show all our relatives in Singapore, India, Australia, and Malaysia that Samira got into Princeton! It’s not every day that your child gets into an Ivy League school! It happens only once in a lifetime, unless they go on to be a doctor or lawyer!”
I hear my mom say that she’ll bring out some cookies. There’s more chattering, but the delicious Nutella has turned into a soggy cardboard-tasting mush in my mouth. Samira will be attending Princeton in the fall. Samira even has my boyfriend. She now owns my favorite first-date dress, and it would be horrible manners if I asked for it back.
If I don’t know who my former best friend is, how can I know myself?
Aren’t we 99.9 percent defined by our loved ones?
Aren’t we supposed to be identical reflections of our friends?
Looking at Samira was always supposed to be like staring at myself in a Saks Fifth dressing room. We wear the same clothing size and used to share everything, including bras, bikinis, and mascaras. And now, apparently, we share boyfriends. Since the second grade, I have relied on Samira to tell me who I was, but I suddenly realize that I have never known her as a person.
Don’t be self-pitying, I tell myself firmly.
This is only a temporary setback, like something the genius Steve Jobs would face before founding a multi-billion-dollar company named after a fruit found in a supermarket.
I’m on the verge of discovering a great, fantastic new life venture. Being royalty is a legitimate career path. Did Meghan Markle wake up and decide that she would one day marry royalty? From a young age, she probably knew in her bones that it was her destiny.