Karthik Delivers: Chapters 1–8

Binh always sees the good, even with a bowl of ice cream.
Miles grins. “Nah. He’s worried he’ll spill on himself if he eats a cone, and his dad will know he stopped for ice cream.” Then there’s Miles, who finds a rain cloud with every silver lining.

“But why does he have to deliver groceries?” Miles persists. “It’s not like you delivering takeout, Binh.”

“It was either that, or studying cell mitosis,” I say, which is partly true.

So Miles and I devised all these ways of walking home that involved NOT running into Jacob.

Remember when we ate ice cream at my dad's store when we were little? (nostalgic)

I reach Mr. Jain’s apartment (dhoti, wrinkles, tea), which is on the ground floor next to a futon shop.

“Hey, Mr. Jain. I brought your tea and your box of frozen samosas.”

I try to sound normal, and not like a little kid getting badgered by his dad. He wants to know if I’ve finished the deliveries and then gives me a list of stuff I need to bring to another customer after I come back.

“Tamarind, mint chutney, three two-pound bags of moong dal, eight single packets of Insta Noodles, half pound of potatoes, and a bag of spicy hot mix.”

“You want me to be in your play?” My eyes narrow. “For twenty bucks?”
Shanthi looks sheepish. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like much. Sorry, I’m a grad student.”

“Don’t be so modest. Remember all those ice cream flavors? Learning your lines will be a piece of cake. Easier than remembering merry-go-round-choco, or whatever.”

Mom is already on me to “be ready,” whatever that means. She isn’t thrilled I’m working in the store. Her idea of summer vacation is studying DNA replication for laughs.

Plus there will be all kinds of sales at the store. Incentives.

Blood’s gross, she says. How come she gets to say that and I have to read about coronary artery disease?

“People need money to pay the bills,” Mom observes. “This recession isn’t helping.”

"Well it’s not the Great Depression, hate to inform you,” Nitya says flatly.

If he hears her, he gives no indication and goes on chewing his food diligently.

“And if we're eating at home,” Nitya goes on, “we should be eating brown rice. Or quinoa. White rice is full of empty carbs.”

Once I made the mistake of sharing my list of words for her.
“What do you mean, you have a list?” she’d asked, her voice shrill. “Why, what are my words?”

Their faces are motionless and grim.

The refrigerator is breaking. The customers are dwindling. The vegetables are being thrown out. Then I go through Carmine’s fifty flavors in my head to stop myself from thinking of all the reasons the store will fail.

5 WAYS THAT LENNY IS LIKE ME
•Curly, goofy hair

•Memorizes stuff

•Close to his sister (okay, a stretch)

•Frail and skinny and the big kids chased him

•Son of immigrants

“He’s been doing small gigs,” Juhi says. “Nothing huge.”
“Yeah, it’s tough being an actor.”

“Just your average child prodigy,” I say.

“I guess everyone thought he was a genius. Good grades at Boston Latin School. Then learning the piano, studying at the New England Conservatory, going to Harvard, and being a world-famous conductor. And oh yeah, writing West Side Story.”

“Does he speak to you? Like, could you get to the heart of him?”
I’m feeling queasy.

“You know, fraternizing isn’t allowed.” I read somewhere that when you have customers, you don’t get involved in their lives. It’s called fraternizing. I try to sound all official and hope she can’t tell that I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I think of my dad, and it’s weird how there’s a composite of memories I have of him, all superimposed on one another: my dad in Albuquerque crying when he lost his computer job, my dad opening the grocery store for the first time, him giving Nitya and me lollipops and Fanta, him and me putting up signs in the display window, and now us in the store, hoping and wondering and waiting to see how it all turns out.

I think of my dad, and it’s weird how there’s a composite of memories I have of him, all superimposed on one another: my dad in Albuquerque crying when he lost his computer job, my dad opening the grocery store for the first time, him giving Nitya and me lollipops and Fanta, him and me putting up signs in the display window, and now us in the store, hoping and wondering and waiting to see how it all turns out.

“It’s because of the Financial Crisis. My dad was saying how with the economy, banks made bad decisions, and...”