Rani Patel In Full Effect Read online

  RANI PATEL IN FULL EFFECT is a work of fiction. All names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagaination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

  RANI PATEL IN FULL EFFECT. Copyright © 2016 by Sonia Patel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Patel, Sonia.

  Title: Rani Patel in full effect / by Sonia Patel.

  Description: First edition. | El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, [2016]. |

  Summary: Rani Patel, almost seventeen and living on remote Moloka’i island, is oppressed by the cultural norms of her Gujarati immigrant parents but when Mark, an older man, draws her into new experiences, red flags abound.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016013016 | ISBN 9781941026519 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Self-esteem—Fiction. | East Indian Americans—Fiction. |

  Immigrants—Fiction. | Sexual abuse—Fiction. | Hip-hop—Fiction. | Family life—Hawaii—Fiction. | Molokai (Hawaii)—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Sexual Abuse. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Marriage & Divorce. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / General. Classification: LCC PZ7.7.P275 Ran 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016013016

  Cover Illustration by Zeke Peña

  Design & Layout by Rogelio Lozano / Loco Workshop

  Hats off to AMBER AVILA, JILL BELL, STEPHANIE FRESCAS & SANTIAGO MONTOYA.

  We pushed you around, but you learned quick.

  Go interns!

  For Hansa, my mother, my foundation.

  For James, my husband, my inspiration.

  CONTENTS

  Widow

  Pacific Eyes

  Smoking Rose

  Kanemitsu’s

  Guilt

  Butter Pecan

  Still a Loser

  Three Strikes

  Water Over Family

  Mom’s Emancipation

  Rap Saved My Life Yo!

  Butterflies High on Coke

  Atheist Nightmares

  The Professor and Me

  Fake Ass Bravado

  My Hero

  Crush My Crush

  Royal Elevation

  Love Drug Junkie

  Evolution

  Playing With Fire

  Hold Up, Lemme Take My Hoops Off

  Spittin’ Da Truth

  Papohaku Pleasure and Pain

  The Sins of the Father

  Love Supreme

  The Peace of the Roses

  Schooled

  True Colors

  Love and War

  Socially Conscious Sexiness

  Like Father, Like Daughter

  Bright Flower

  It Ain’t Pakalolo

  The Dark Side

  Tlc

  Broken Promise Beat Down

  The Counsel of My Boyz

  Love Drug Rehab

  Gauntlet

  A Fresh Start

  Love Outlawed

  B-Girl Stance

  But I Love You

  Righteousness

  Rani Revolution

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  WIDOW

  Moloka’i, 1991

  I caught him. Red handed. In the alley behind Kanemitsu’s.

  My father and the barely out-of-adolescence homewrecker, making out.

  I can’t stop bawling.

  I grab the scissors and electric razor from the closet. I rush to the deck of our pole house, almost tripping over the leg of the piano bench. The ocean air stuffs itself in my nose. The sticky breeze doesn’t do anything to cool me. I flip on the light, toss my black Clark Kent glasses onto the table and start cutting. Clumps of hair and sloppy tears cover my face. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I just cut. That’s me, a cutting slashing machine.

  When I’m done, I throw the scissors onto the table and take hold of the razor. I switch it on and shave my scalp clean.

  I’m friggin’ bald now. I catch my breath and blow and push the little hairs from my face with my breath and my shaking hands. I turn off the light, stand under the starry sky and imagine that the electric razor in my hand is a Star Trek communicator. And I’m the alluring Lieutenant Ilia. Cocoa skin, oval eyes, and high cheek bones now accentuated by my bare head, made all the more resplendent by the daggers coming out of my eyes.

  I put on my glasses, searching for the outline of Lanai across the wide Moloka’i channel. I find it. My index finger and eyeballs trace it. I relax and listen to the Pacific’s gentle grazing of the naupaka on the miniscule patch of south shore beach below. My troubles and my hair are gone, at least for this minute.

  Sniffling interrupts the tranquility.

  It’s my mom. She’s behind me. She says, “I heard the buzzing, Rani.”

  The wooden deck planks creak as she takes a step closer. Then I feel her rough fingers running down the back of my head. I don’t turn around. Or move.

  “Betta, why?” she asks in a heavy Gujju accent. The concern in her voice is unsettling. I haven’t heard that before.

  Really? I had to shave my head for you to notice me?

  She walks around me, inspects me as if I’m a statue. “Widows are forced to shave their heads in India,” she mumbles. She crosses her arms and pauses, ruminating. Then she laments, “Vidhwa ne kussee kimut na hoi. Thuu vidhwa nathee.”

  Yeah, Mom, I feel just like a worthless widow. A kimut-less vidhwa.

  I picture myself in a thin, white cotton sari. It’s draped over my bald head. I’m standing close to a scorching funeral pyre. Like countless other widows in India, I’m ready to fling myself into the conflagration. For a second, the sati is almost real. I feel my skin burning. I flinch and my hand immediately checks.

  Skin cool and intact. No burn.

  Just a mental scorch.

  Mom asks again, “Betta, why?”

  Finally I whisper, “It was this or banging my head.”

  She collapses on the teak-slatted chair. Her face is frozen in suffering: Picasso’s Weeping Woman.

  Then she pulls herself together. “Betta, I didn’t know what else to do,” she says. She gets up from the chair and approaches me. “Sunil dada taught me that husband is God, so husband’s word is law.”

  I look the other way. Is she talking about the same Sunil dada, my grandfather, who lives in Nairobi, the one who encouraged me to pursue a career and not get married?

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Mom,” I say after a while, “Dad’s so busted. It’s Wendy Nagaoki. I saw them together at Kanemitsu’s.” I move to the edge of the deck and lean against the railing. Looking up at the moon, it hits me again.

  Dad’s gone and I don’t have anyone. I turn to face Mom. “Look, I didn’t know what else to do either. But I figured shaving my head was a good start.”

  Mom breaks down and falls into the chair again. Her head’s in her hands as she rocks back and forth. She sobs, “I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead.”

  I’m not saving you this time. It’s your turn to save me. Only I know you won’t.

  PACIFIC EYES

  “Rani, whoa!”

  I don’t hear Mark’s voice or the sound of his heavy work boots striking the rickety, wooden steps.

&
nbsp; It’s a slow Sunday morning at Maunaloa General Store. No customers means I get time to sit on the front porch. It’s in bad shape, like the entire store building. Hardly matters, the porch is many things to many people. A town hall for some. A living room for many. A studio for others, allowing for spur-of-the-moment ukulele and percussion jam sessions. For me, it’s my clandestine lyrical lab. The place where I write my best rap.

  Today I’m writing something different, something to write away my sadness and my worries. Hunched over my notebook, I’m lost in the words.

  Mark taps my shoulder. I push my glasses further along my nose and look up. My eyes refocus. I see his baby blues fixated on my head. Uhh. Immediately I’m under the spell of his hotness.

  He raises one eyebrow and gives me a closed mouth smile. Then he nods and says, “You look fierce, girl.”

  Only I don’t take in what he’s saying because I’ve been cast into some kind of dreamlike state. And I can’t hear. All I can do is stare at his heavenly face.

  Ahhh, Mark. Mark Thoren.

  I’ve known him for a couple of years from the store. He’s by far my favorite customer. Even when he comes in dirty, sweaty, and shirtless. Especially when he comes in dirty, sweaty, and shirtless. He’s a groundskeeper for Moloka’i Ranch. His last name says it all. He’s strikingly handsome and built. Exactly how the god of thunder should be. His surname, blond hair, ocean eyes, square jaw, and height—about 6’2”—make me think he’s Swedish. His body is cut, like Tupac, only white. He looks like he’s in his late twenties. When I’m working the register, he’s always friendly, asking me about school and stuff. I get butterflies every time I see him, which is practically every afternoon. But all of this is strictly on the down low.

  “Rani?”

  “Huh?”

  “Girl, you’re fierce.” He whistles in approval.

  Embarrassed, I remember that I’m bald. I touch my scalp. “Oh. This. Thanks. It’s kind of crazy, right?”

  “No way. You look fine.” He squints his eyes and bites the side of his lower lip. It’s like he’s gawking at a table of chafing dishes overflowing with kalua pig, lau lau, lomi lomi salmon, poi, and chicken long rice. And he wants to gobble it up ASAP.

  I feel myself shrinking at the hungry look on his face and the generous words he spoke. Fine is not an adjective anyone has ever used to describe me. I’m not even that good-looking with a normal head of hair. He probably thinks it’s a rebellious teen angst thing. And pity compelled him to give me some feel-good comments.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I mumble.

  My favorite customer sits down on the bench opposite me. Hmm. To what do I owe this privilege? I have nothing to offer Mr. Thunder God. And he’s never sat on the porch with me before. Usually he buys his packs—Salem Lights and Bud Light—and chit-chats a bit while I’m ringing him up. Then he leaves, with my eyes searing through his jeans as he exits. Little does he know he’s the sole reason I look forward to work. I’ve even fantasized about delivering groceries to his light blue plantation house near Maunaloa Elementary School.

  I knock on his door. He opens it, shirtless of course, but this time smelling of Drakkar Noir. Leaning against the door frame, he asks me in. I set the grocery bag on the kitchen counter. An orange rolls out then falls to the floor. I bend down to pick it up…

  “What’re you working on?” he asks, his incredible eyes perfectly matching the Pacific behind his head in the distance.

  I hesitate. No one knows that I write.

  Actually, no one knows much about me. Anonymity suits me just fine. I realize that’s about to change because Mark’s sexy smile drags the words out. “A poem, a slam poem,” I say, uncrossing my legs and pulling my jean shorts down a little. I close my notebook and lay it flat on my lap. I’m sweating. I don’t want to let go of any more secrets.

  “Sorry, Mark, but I have to go finish stocking…”

  Mark cuts me off before I can say “the beer,” which seemed way cooler than what I really do have to finish stocking—cans of Spam.

  “A slam poem? Really?”

  His curiousity is disconcerting. No one has ever been particularly interested in anything I do. Except Pono. But he doesn’t count because he only cares about the class council stuff we work on together.

  “Yeah…but poems aren’t usually my thing.” I get up, hugging my notebook tight, and seal my lips so that the spontaneous freestyle flowing in my mind stays safely locked away.

  Clutching my notebook close to my chest,

  as if it’s a question-proof vest.

  Boy, you got me stressed

  and mentally undressed

  with your direct requests.

  I’m about to put myself under house arrest

  lest you guess I’m

  messed up and depressed.

  “So, what’s your usual thing?” His attention holds me hostage. I settle back down on the bench.

  “Oh, that. It’s kind of classified,” I say, relieved that my dark brown skin hides the blushing.

  Mark leans forward. “Come on, Rani, you can tell me.”

  Tell him about playing piano, not about the rap! I mean, that’s fully legit. Even if it’s really for Dad.

  Mark’s like a male siren. I can’t resist his song. The truth leaks from my lips. I slide my palms under my thighs and study my bright pink toenails. “Rap is kinda my thing,” I confess, avoiding his eyes.

  “Rap? Really? Who would’ve thunk?”

  I half smile, shifting my eyes back to his glorious face. Then to his robust biceps. Then to the outline of his tight abs through his sweaty, white t-shirt.

  “That’s cool. So do you call yourself Lil Rani or something?”

  “Something a little more original than that. MC Sutra.”

  Seriously, Rani? Shut the hell up!

  “You know nothing much surprises me. But this, I never would’ve guessed this about you, Rani. I mean MC Sutra.” He pauses then asks, “You seventeen, yeah?”

  “Yeah, just about.” I’m straining to keep my cool. I’m freaked out that he’ll leak my secret about MC Sutra. I end up clasping my hands and begging. “Please Mark, don’t tell anyone about the rap or about MC Sutra. Please, please!”

  “I won’t if…” he says real slow, “…if you read me the poem.”

  He stretches his arms onto each side of the railing. For a second they appear more sinewy than usual. But then I see something I’ve never noticed before—a dreamcatcher tattoo wrapping around his right upper arm. But before I can ask him about it, he says, “I’m ready.”

  I take a deep breath. “It’s called ‘Widow,’” I mumble. I open my notebook and flip to the right page. As I start reading, the anxiety slowly melts away like a half-eaten shave ice in the summer sun. I change up the speed, the volume, and the tone to match the words, pausing strategically along the way. Full on Patricia Smith.

  I shaved my head.

  Waist length, thick, good Indian hair

  gone in five minutes.

  Hair shed,

  saying the unsaid.

  To my mom whose arranged marriage

  my dad disparaged,

  so daughter became child bride.

  He divides

  me and her.

  He kept me close, his little princess,

  his little missus

  and witness

  to Mom’s “accidents” from

  years of banging her head on hard cold walls, numb.

  Brandishing knives in desperate suicidal threats.

  Rani betta, my little darling, just forget.

  Let me comfort you

  with teenage back rubs, taboo.

  But they help him pull through.

  A dark web of emotional and sexual merging,

  and I am emerging

  as his mirror.

  He tries to make things clearer.

  He says,

  I escaped India,

  my mother’s frustrations,

  my fat
her’s perversions,

  my own victimization

  by immigration to America.

  A better life was my intention.

  But he had no foundation.

  So he made me his reincarnation.

  Attempts at normal friendships

  elicit Dad’s guilt trips

  and snubs.

  His revenge: psychological break-up.

  By him I am now ignored.

  His insatiable thirst for being adored

  quenched by another, half his age.

  At first, rage.

  New lover?

  New daughter?

  Winds of fury

  intensify waves of sorrow,

  steadily, one after another,

  they smother…me.

  I’m worthless.

  Nothing.

  Dead.

  Mom’s suicidal frustrations in my head.

  I punish myself and shed

  hair, self-worth, dignity.

  It, not she.

  I realize I’m standing up. And crying. I sit back down on the bench and look quick at Mark. His expression is somber and his eyes wet. I had no idea my words could move a grown man.

  “Is this about what happened at Kanemitsu’s last night?”

  “Yup,” I whisper.

  Mark speaks softly. “That line about your Mom near the end, I can totally relate.”

  He’s frowning and seems more sad. We sit in silence, reliving our own painful memories. And despite the solemn mood, I’m astonished at all the firsts. First time a hot guy paid attention to me. First time I told anyone about my passion for writing rap. First time I told anyone about some of my family problems. Somehow I don’t feel so alone.

  Instead I feel connected and grateful. Also butterflies. But not the usual few. A thousand of them.

  SMOKING ROSE

  At 9:15 p.m. on Saturday, September 7—two hours before Kanemitsu’s—Mom and I were closing up the restaurant. And I still sorta had my act together. Sorta because I’d been on the verge of losing my marbles for months. See, I’d been ninety-nine percent sure that my dad was having an affair. I figured the definitive proof of his goings-on would present itself soon enough since Moloka’i is small. With only about six thousand people on this thirty-eight mile long, tenmile wide island, how could it not? Besides, everyone knows everyone. What I didn’t know was that before this night was done the truth would be fully in my face. And it would all go down at Kanemitsu’s.