Hungry Hearts Page 4

  Cheng has prawns on his plate. I will him to choke on one, if only to save me a bullet. He laughs at something Jia says, and I’m glad her expression is so smug, because it makes her that much less like Yun.

  Wen and Shan are also seated at the head table, their right-hand members at their sides. Wen spins the orange beef on the lazy Susan closer to his plate. He gives away no sign of why he’s changed his mind about having the Black Seas join his Kings and Queens. Maybe the Sun Gods rising up turned out to be just a rumor. Maybe the Black Seas are more trouble than they’re worth. Maybe Wen again feels the weight of my parents’ loyalty. Maybe he’s finally heard Yun breathing in his dreams.

  As with the rest of my family, I’m also staff today. A waitress. I hold a pitcher of beer in one hand, and the gun’s in my pocket.

  Now that it’s the Kung Pao chicken course, I know it’s time. Not because I’ve gotten any kind of signal from Wen, or any other directive at all from anyone. But because it’s chicken, and there’s some kind of poetry there, I think. Completeness.

  Still, my hand trembles as I empty the pitcher and set it down—So many other guns in this room! Will surprise on my side be enough?—as I move closer to the head table. Chicken is crammed into mouths, and I reach into my pocket.

  I am the daughter of long-serving Kings and Queens. And I no longer need to only imagine a death.

  Someone screams before I’ve even lifted the gun with my hand.

  Guests begin to claw at their necks. Their breaths are wheezes; their eyeballs bug out—panic spills from them like water boiling over in a pot.

  The Kung Pao chicken—the thought comes slowly, as though my mind is underwater—actually spicy for once?

  Kings and Queens, Black Seas—all around me they fall face-first into their plates. Cheng. Jia. Shan. And even Wen, the one who ordered me to kill in the first place, has gone still, dead with half-chewed chicken still in his mouth.

  A buzz swarms my brain. My cousins and uncles and aunts stumble in among the dead, as shocked as I am. My father has turned Lei away from the ugly scene, trying to make my brother innocent again, whatever innocent means for people like us.

  “Poison,” my mother whispers into my ear. “The cashews for the chicken. I had to.”

  I slowly turn to face her. Last night’s phone call rings again in my head. “I was supposed to—”

  “No, you and Lei were never in danger. I made sure to keep you both out of the way.” Her expression turns to steel, the Queen in her fully alive. Mother’s love is a sharp glint in her eyes. “But Yun—she will never be the same again.”

  “But last night—”

  She grips my arm. My mother and her strong hands that make rice for us, that cook up revenge. “Your father must never know about this. That I went against our own. Yun is his daughter, but Wen was also his family, in a way.”

  She planned this all herself. Whoever called last night is probably as stunned as I am by what’s happened. How the targets are still dead, but I wasn’t who killed them. How Wen’s somehow also dead.

  So then who called?

  I’ll likely never know. Who would I ask? What kinds of questions that wouldn’t be a risk to this new secret of my mother’s?

  “The Black Seas are behind this, do you understand?” She’s whispering still, her voice low and steady. “A world of rival secret societies where motives are always messy—it will fit.”

  And she’s right. It will.

  Rowbury police—some of them are Kings and Queens too.

  * * *

  “Don’t let it get cold.”

  Our mother slides bowls of steamed rice and Chinese sausage in front of us. She doesn’t care that Lei and I have to shuffle papers out of the way—it’s Sunday, but we both still have homework—to make room, just as she doesn’t care that we’re already full. She’s been cooking nonstop since the police left late last night, as though her hands are restless from what they’ve done. Congee, noodles, eggs scrambled with peas—my brother and I are being comforted.

  My mother goes back to the stove, prepares a bowl for Yun, and steps out of the kitchen with it. “Eat,” she calls out even as she disappears upstairs. The command is for me, for Lei, for her firstborn, each of us equally hers.

  The dining room no longer smells of chicken and cashews and death. The restaurant will be in the news for a while, but customers will come back soon enough. People always need to eat. And Emperor’s Way serves the best Chinese food in Hungry Heart Row.

  My brother has no idea what really happened. Like the police, he’s been made to believe the Black Seas are behind it all, our mother just one more innocent bystander. He stuffs rice and red slices of lap cheong into his mouth and types into his cell. “It’s all over Served, too,” he says to me. “Listen to this: ‘Heard the Kung Pao chicken at the place is a real kicker, ha-ha.’ ”

  “You’re HungryMan07—any other restaurant, you’d probably be writing up the same thing.”

  “Still, they got Wen. And I always thought he was untouchable.”

  The sausage is dotted with fat, and salty sweet, and even though I’m full, I eat another slice. “It’s how he lived. He knew the risks, leader or not.”

  It was how we lived, too. But Wen’s death has changed things a bit now. The Kings and Queens need a new leader. My father is being considered, and my mother has decided it doesn’t have to be a terrible thing.

  Her food has never been so satisfying.

  Lei slides me his cell. “Check out what everyone’s saying if you want. I need to grab a book from my room.”

  “See how Mom and Yun are doing while you’re up there?”

  “Sure.”

  He heads upstairs.

  I don’t want to, but I take a cursory glance, because I know Lei will bug me until I do. And it gets old about as fast as I expect. I close the Served app, about to push his cell back, when the app for voice distortion flashes from the screen.

  Something tingles along my spine.

  I check his recently made calls.

  Emperor’s Way Chinese Restaurant. The date: just this past Friday. The time: nearly midnight.

  Lei, who felt my hate through the wall. Who tried to fill my need for revenge with perfectly cooked eggs, with secret guns left behind in delivery scooters.

  My brother, the son of long-serving Kings and Queens.

  The Grand Ishq Adventure

  BY SANDHYA MENON

  Love is both a recurring theme in my life and the greatest pain in my butt.

  My name, Neha (pronounced Nay-ha, btw), means love. I’m also the love advice columnist—aka Dr. Ishq—for the library’s teen blog here in Rowbury. My pen name, if you haven’t already guessed, means “love” in Urdu. And the great love of my life (not that he knows it, ahem), Prem? His name means “love,” too.

  I know what you’re thinking just based on the fact that our parents cosmically decided to give us names that mean the exact same thing—we’re meant to be. Right? That’s what I thought too. But I don’t anymore.

  See, I’ve been volunteering at the library for two years. Prem’s the photographer for the blog, so he’s here every day that I am. For almost two whole years, I’ve been smiling at him. Flirting (totally ineptly—I can dish out the advice, but my secret is that I can’t actually do it). Asking about him. And what have I got in return? Stiff smiles. Vacant responses. Averted eyes.

  Prem’s only a year older than me—he graduated high school last year and is doing a gap year now—but his photographs have already won some major awards. He probably thinks I’m just some talentless hack with my advice column that’s read by all of 152 teens in Rowbury and a few across the country. And, as if his limitless talent wasn’t bad enough, he’s also such a kindhearted person.

  I still remember the first time I saw him. Two summers ago, I was covering Rowbury’s music and food festival, Tunes and Spoons, for the (then brand-new) blog, when I came across a booth for Children of the City, a charity that raises
money for underprivileged kids interested in the arts. Anyway, I was immediately drawn in by this Indian boy at the booth who was being completely mobbed by a seething crowd of young kids. They were pawing through his collection of pictures (of dogs and cats mid-sneeze), rapid-fire asking him a million questions, and pulling on his shirt to get his attention. Just seeing all that frenzied, kiddie energy made me sweat, but Prem talked to them calmly, smiling and patient. The kids’ parents were so charmed that they donated a lot of money. I heard later that Prem had raised over eight thousand dollars that weekend, more than Children of the City had ever managed to raise at one event. It’s no wonder he’s starting as their campaign and brand manager this fall.

  Prem never saw me that day, but anytime I see him now, I can’t help but remember how he looked sitting there, his sun-dappled skin, his patient smile.

  Kill me now. How am I ever supposed to get over my crush if he keeps doing stuff like that?

  Okay, focus. I need to work on the newest letter that came in today.

  Dear Dr. Ishq,

  I love your column. I read it every week, and I have since you started. I think what inspires me the most about your advice is that it’s usually about more than love. You always try to improve the letter writer’s life, too, by helping them step out of their comfort zones. Anyway, all that to say I find myself in sore need of your help now.

  See, there’s this person I really like. They’re perfect for me. We’re the same age, we share similar interests, they like to talk to me (I think? I’ve never been too good at reading those cues. Why isn’t there a handbook?). So what’s the problem, you ask? It’s me, Dr. Ishq.

  Whenever I’m around this person, I completely freeze up. Like, it’s not cute or funny. I probably come across as an arrogant jerk or like I’m on drugs. Neither of which I’m going for, FYI.

  So what do you suggest, Dr. Ishq? How does someone like me—a total control freak in most areas of my life—become such a jelly-filled doormat when it comes to the object of my affections?

  You have an amazing ability to shake people out of stasis and into action, so please, please help me. I don’t want to lose any more time.

  Desperately,

  Ansella

  I sit back and study the letter again. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading between the lines, at seeing what people are really like by the phrases they use.

  Ansella, for instance, describes herself as a “control freak” and asks to be “shaken” into action. She wants to be taken out of her comfort zone, to stop being afraid.

  To be completely honest, I can relate more than a little. Control freak afraid to step out of her comfort zone? Once I refused to set foot into an empty study room in which Prem was looking at his pictures because that amount of close contact might have caused me to spontaneously combust from desire. It might have been the perfect opportunity to laugh at his jokes and compliment his pictures and casually-but-calculatedly tell him a few photography facts I’ve memorized, but noooo. That was too scary. So what did I do instead? I worked on the blog’s SEO. S freaking EO. I’m not even kidding. So, yeah. Control-freak issues: check. Needs someone to shake her into action? Check. How many times have I wished I could have my own personal genie appear and somehow just magic me into taking a teeny, tiny step toward telling Prem how I feel? It wouldn’t be wildly overdramatic to say I completely, absolutely feel Ansella’s letter to my hollow, Prem-less core.

  I flex my fingers and begin typing, using the same format I use for every response.

  Dear Ansella,

  Diagnosis: Self-defeating cowardice in the face of the possibility of great love.

  Prescription: Four acts of bravery over the course of the next week. A grand ishq adventure, if you will.

  Prognosis: Excellent.

  I believe, Ansella, that you’re not a coward at heart. Not at all. It’s clear to me from your letter that you’re actually aching for adventure, for a chance to lasso what your heart desires and finally be free. I suspect you just need a nudge in the right direction.

  So here’s what I propose: Every day for the next four days, I want you to eat—alone—at a different restaurant. And not just any boring old safe restaurant you’re already used to. I want you to visit a restaurant you’ve never visited before, to try a cuisine you’ve never tasted. Bonus points if you’re nervous about it. Oh, and put your devices away. I want you to be focused on the flavors of the food in front of you, the world around you, and the feelings inside you.

  Here’s the thing: As a culture, we’re conditioned to surround ourselves with friends and acquaintances. If we have to sit by ourselves—say, at a café or in the airport—we immediately whip out our phones or tablets. We’re afraid to just sit with ourselves. So I think starting by being brave enough to be by yourself will be a good launching point.

  And why different cuisines? I believe great food and great self-esteem pave the path to great love. Eating foods you’re unfamiliar with is an instant connection to a culture you might otherwise not explore or even think about at all. And who knows? When you’re in that restaurant eating a food you can’t pronounce the name of, you may just realize you’re a lot braver than you think. You may just realize that the one you love is waiting for you to speak up.

  So go forth, dear Ansella, and embark on your grand ishq adventure.

  And here’s something new—I promise to take up the same challenge too.

  That’s right. Dr. Ishq is going to eat at a different ethnic restaurant every day for the rest of this week, folks. Ansella, let’s begin tomorrow, Wednesday, and end on Saturday. As evidence that I’m really doing this too, I’ll post a daily blog—complete with pictures—each day of the week, starting tomorrow.

  Why am I doing this, you ask? Because we can all use a little shaking up, a grand ishq adventure of our own. If you’re reading this and you think you might want to join in too, consider this your invitation. Get up out of your chair, pull up your fave restaurant app, and get going.

  Let our adventures begin!

  xoxo,

  Dr. Ishq

  I stare at the reply, a little disbelievingly. That’s not right. Where did that come from? Why did I say I was going to do the same thing as Ansella?

  I put my finger on the backspace key—and then hesitate. The truth is . . . I think my subconscious knows something I don’t. I’ve felt stuck for so long. And now that I’ve graduated high school, I feel like the clock is ticking louder and faster. I need to tell him. I have to say how I feel one day soon, or we’ll both go our separate ways, and I’ll regret it forever.

  It was all fine when we were in high school and time felt infinite and endless. But now . . . now we’re both adults. I’m going to college in the fall, and he’s got that job lined up with Children of the City. How long before he meets some golden-hearted, beautiful, smart, creative girl there? How long before he leaves the library for good, and my circle forever? Just thinking about never seeing Prem again—or worse, seeing his engagement photo in the paper six or seven years down the line—makes me sick. That’s some deathbed-level regret in the making. I can feel it.

  And deep in my heart, I know we’re meant for each other. So why shouldn’t I take on the same challenge as Ansella? I wasn’t lying—my life really could use some shaking up. I’m not as worldly in the ways of love as my readers might believe. In fact, that’s so far from the truth I almost want to laugh.

  I press publish on my reply and sit back. That’s it, then. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be eating at a different restaurant each day. And after that? Well, after that . . . we’ll see what happens.

  DAY 1, WEDNESDAY

  I’m sitting on a park bench in Mallow Park, checking the blog on my phone. The outpouring of responses after I posted my letter to Ansella yesterday has been tremendous. I always knew the blog was popular with Rowbury teens, but since yesterday, “lurkers” from other parts of the country and even abroad have come out of the shadows to tell me they’re taking on
my challenge. Apparently there are a lot of people out there looking to become braver.

  It makes me feel better that there are all these strangers doing this with me. In spite of my swaggery persona on the blog, I’m pretty nervous. I just keep looking out at the Yarrow River, thinking. How am I supposed to sit at a table by myself in the middle of a crowded restaurant? How am I supposed to not check my phone or bring my laptop? What if people wonder what I’m doing?

  And really, how is this going to help me get to Prem?

  Maybe I should just nix the whole thing. Say I did it, but not really do it. I mean, it’s not like there are police for this kind of thing. No one’s going to check the CCTV cameras to find out if I really went where I said I went. Besides, no one other than staff even knows who I am. The blog is anonymous.

  But no. I can’t be dishonest like that to my readers. It’s silly, but I have this bond with them that feels too sacred. Ansella’s out there in Rowbury somewhere, doing what I asked her to do. She might even be in the same restaurants I visit this week. If I see another girl sitting by herself, I’ll smile and nod, just in case it’s her. And if Ansella can do it, then so can Neha.

  I’m watching a small family of ducks slice their way across the silken water when someone taps my shoulder. A familiar face smiles at me—brown skin; long, dark hair; brown eyes.

  “Lila Manzano,” I say, remembering her name just in time.

  She’s the youngest member of the Manzano family that owns the pastelería here on Pepper Street along Hungry Heart Row. Actually, some people believe the Manzano pastelería serves magical food. I posted on my blog about it once, when I did a rundown of all the supposedly magical restaurants on Pepper Street. Lila’s part of the lore too. Apparently she shows up when people are most in need with exactly what they desire. My gaze drops to the basket she holds in her hands.