Hungry Hearts Read online

  She smiles. “Hello, Neha,” she says in a soft, musical voice. I can’t remember ever having told her who I am, but obviously I must have at some point. A long strand of hair blows in her eyes, and she smooths it away with one small hand. “I have a delivery for you.”

  I look down at her basket and back into her eyes. Something smells amazing in there.

  “But . . . I didn’t order anything.”

  Lila smiles, reaches into the cloth covering whatever goodies are in the basket, and pulls out a concha. The top of the pastry is a swirl of colors—deep purple, inky blue, pink, green, gold. It reminds me of the galaxy, and I stare for a moment, mesmerized, before I take it from her.

  My mouth begins to water. “This smells incredible,” I say. “What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house,” she says, already turning away. “Enjoy.”

  I want to argue, but the urge to bite into the pastry is nearly irresistible now. I’ve never had Mexican pastries before. But first . . . I pick up my phone from the bench and take a picture of the gorgeous creation. Then, putting it back down, I take a big bite and close my eyes. My mouth explodes with flavors and sensations—sweet, yeasty, warm. In another three bites, I’ve eaten the entire four-inch ball of dough and am licking my fingers.

  I look up, but the park is empty. Surely Lila couldn’t have disappeared so quickly? I stand up, squinting in the sun, and really concentrate. But no—she really is gone.

  A light breeze tugs at the hem of my sundress, and, bemused, I sit back down on the bench. I guess that counts as my first day, eating a cuisine I’ve never eaten before. Mallow Park isn’t exactly a restaurant, but it works, I think. And now that I’ve already done my first day, it’s weird. I don’t feel so afraid anymore. In fact, I’m almost eager to go find a restaurant to eat at tomorrow.

  Smiling, I reach for my phone again and begin to tap out a blog post.

  DAY 2, THURSDAY

  I sit at a table inside Manijeh’s, the Persian restaurant on Hungry Heart Row. It’s lunchtime and surprisingly crowded, with people lined up outside the door. I guess it was lucky I got here early and nabbed one of the last few seats.

  The air is redolent with spices and that salty smell of meat that makes my stomach growl. I purposely had a very light breakfast so I could really tuck into the food here. Manijeh’s is one of the best kept secrets in Rowbury. People from as far as DC come on the weekend, just hoping to get a taste, although not many people in Rowbury seem to have caught on yet. My hatred of waiting in lines is so intense, I’ve never even tried to get a table before.

  “What can I get you, Neha?” Laleh says, her pen, notepad, and trademark smile at the ready. Laleh’s almost nineteen, but we went to the same high school. Her family runs this place.

  “That’s one of the hardest questions I’ve gotten today.” I make a face and stare at the menu, and she laughs. “Okay, how about . . . a plate of the chicken kebab, the ghormeh sabzi, a plate of tadeeg, and a glass of doogh?”

  Laleh scribbles on her notepad and then slides it and her pen into her apron pocket. “Great choices. You’ll be full for days.”

  “What I’m counting on,” I say, patting my stomach.

  “So hey, what are you doing with your last summer before you head to college—where are you going, again?” She asks this question with a glimmer of longing in her eyes, and I remember hearing that Laleh had wanted to go off to college when she graduated too. I wonder what happened, but don’t know her well enough to ask.

  “Rowbury University. And just working at the library,” I answer. “Nothing glamorous.” It’s not a secret that I help out on the library’s website, although, of course, exactly what I do there is. We figured people would be more likely to write in if I stayed anonymous.

  “My parents have all these plans to take me home to India, but I think we all know it’s never gonna happen. They’re both too busy with their web-design consultation business.” I sigh.

  Laleh makes a face. “I get that,” she says, looking over her shoulder at the restaurant. “Family businesses. They suck up a lot of time, don’t they?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Speaking of, I better get back. That line’s not getting any shorter or better tempered. Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Your food should be out in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Laleh.”

  She waves and makes her way to the kitchen in the back.

  Fifteen minutes. That’s a long time to just sit at a table, isn’t it? I look around. I’m tucked away to one side of the restaurant, but even so, I occasionally feel another customer’s assessing eye on me. Are they judging me? Wondering where my friends are—or even pitying me for not having any? My hands slide automatically into my bag to get my phone out, and then I remember the rules: no phones. Aaaarrrgh. I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and stare straight ahead like a weirdo.

  Then, with relief, I remember that I have my makeup bag on me. Perfect. I’ll touch up my . . . eyebrows. Yes. I’ve wanted to do that for a while, and I’m right by the window, which means the light’s perfect. I pull out my makeup bag, get out my little compact, prop it open so I can see the mirror, and then go to town with my eyebrow pencil.

  I feel myself relaxing as I work. No one’s even looking at me anymore. All they’ll see anyway is a girl doing her makeup—boring. And then, suddenly, I see his reflection behind me. My eyebrow pencil digs into my eyebrow as our eyes meet in the mirror. This is . . . like, a mirage, right? Some trick of light or something?

  But then I turn and realize it’s no trick. It really is him. Prem.

  “Hey,” he says, his black hair flopping into his eyes all sexily.

  I immediately close my fist around my eyebrow pencil and hope to God my eyebrows don’t look patchy or weird. So sexy. “Oh, um, h-hi?” With my other hand, I sweep my compact quickly into my makeup bag and put it in my purse.

  “I thought that was you,” Prem says. “So you like Manijeh’s too?”

  “I do,” I say immediately. Then I feel my cheeks flush. “Um, actually, I don’t know why I said that.” Except I do. I was trying to impress him. “I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard good things, so . . .”

  Prem grins in that easy, confident way of his, and my heart squeezes. “You’re in for a treat. And an unhealthy addiction to the tadeeg.”

  I laugh, but it sounds more like Bugs Bunny choking.

  “Oh, while I’m here,” Prem says, sliding into the seat across from me. Aaaaarrrrghh. I’ve forgotten what to do with my face. And my hands (one of which is still clutching the stupid pencil, the point of which is now beginning to gouge a tiny hole in my palm). And my eyes. “Do you know where the key to the storage room is? You know, back at the library, I mean?”

  I can’t help but smile to myself. He’s asking me for the key? This has to be a ploy to talk to me. Everyone knows Henrietta, the head librarian, is the one who knows all the—

  “Henrietta left for the day, but I thought you might know where the spare is. Since you’ve worked there the longest.”

  Oh. Right. So maybe this isn’t a ploy. The smile falls off my face.

  “I actually don’t know,” I say, surreptitiously brushing my face with my closed fist. I’m pretty sure I can feel an eyebrow hair there. It must’ve dislodged earlier, when I jabbed myself with the pencil. Gross. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, damn,” Prem says, deflating a bit. “I was really hoping to get into storage before the end of my shift. I leave at two.”

  “What do you need in the storage room?” I ask, eager to keep him talking and in my desperate little love-starved orbit.

  He shakes his head and crinkles his nose in that adorable way of his, and I almost die right there on the table. “Just a print of one of my photographs of the Yarrow River. My roommate’s always loved it, and I thought . . . Jordan’s been going through a tough time lately, so.” He shrugs, as if he’s embarrassed to have said
so much, to have cast himself as a caring friend.

  Dead. I am d-e-a-d. Why, Prem, why? Why must you be talented, hot, and sensitive? Do you not possess a shred of mercy? Suddenly I want to run back to the library and bust that storage room door down, just to give him everything he wants. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say instead.

  “Ah, no worries.” He waves me off. “I’ll catch Henrietta later. I guess I’ll get my lunch.” Then, frowning, he leans in closer. “You have a—” He gestures to my cheek.

  I swat at it. “Did I get it?”

  “No, you . . . here, let me.” He leans forward and, very gently, brushes my cheek with his fingers. I stare into his eyes the entire time, my heart trip-hammering, my brain completely melting into sludge. Prem is touching me. Prem’s skin is touching mine. Prem’s mouth is close enough to kiss. He leans back and holds out a finger. “See? Eyelash. Make a wish.”

  I look at his finger. It isn’t an eyelash; it’s a thick eyebrow hair. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Really?” I ask, still not completely able to believe that I hadn’t just fallen asleep and stumbled onto this amazing dream.

  “Really. It’s against the law to not make a wish on a fallen eyelash, you know,” he says, raising his eyebrows all mock seriously.

  My heart thuds out a rhythm, and the rhythm is: I. Like. You. I. Like. You. “O-okay,” I say, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. Then, closing my eyes, I make a wish and blow.

  When I open my eyes again, Prem’s staring at me. I’m staring at him. We’re both staring at each other.

  This is my chance. This is it; it’ll never be this perfect again.

  “So, I—” I begin, not sure what to say, but not wanting this to end, either. This is part of being brave, right? Maybe I could tell Prem about my challenge to myself. Maybe I could ask him for restaurant recommendations. Maybe he’ll go with me—

  “So. I’ll, uh, see ya,” he says at the same time, his bigger voice swallowing mine. And then he pushes his chair back, stands up, and is gone.

  My perfect chance is gone. I’ve wasted it.

  I don’t get to marinate in self-pity too much longer before Laleh comes back with my gigantic platter of food.

  My stomach grumbles immediately and insistently. “Wow, thanks. This looks delicious!”

  She grins. “Best Persian food in this part of the country. Enjoy!”

  “Oh, I will—believe me.” I take a picture of my plate to post on the blog later and then, without preamble, dig in. I’ve always found putting food on top of my feelings is a much more pleasant way to deal with any kind of crisis than actually, you know, dealing with the crisis. And in this case, I don’t think you can really blame me.

  The chicken kebab is moist and fragrant; the chicken chunks fall apart when I bite into them, and the aromas of turmeric and parsley flood my senses. I have to close my eyes to take in all the flavors—spicy, salty, meaty. The doogh is equally delicious; I swear I’ve never drunk something so creamy, so minty, so refreshing. For the few minutes that I’m eating, I actually forget that whole awkward interaction with Prem. All that exists is the food in my mouth, my ecstatically exploding taste buds, and me.

  I sit back when I’m finished eating and sip the last of the doogh, my stomach pleasantly distended under my shirt. But the food endorphins (foodorphins) are fading. My head begins buzzing with discomfort again, and I feel heat creeping back into my cheeks. People are definitely staring at me. No one here is eating alone; this is the kind of place you come with your friends or family. What do they think about me, sitting alone at my table clearly intended for two? I can see the thought bubbles rising up from their heads: Did she get stood up? What’s wrong with her? But I force myself to take my time with my drink. This is part of growing up, facing life full in the face. So I messed up with Prem earlier, but that doesn’t mean I have to mess this up too. Finish your meal, I tell myself. And don’t even think about getting your makeup bag out again. Be comfortable with just being.

  But no matter how comfortable I force myself to be, I can’t help but feel exposed, open, raw. This is harder than I thought. I wonder how Ansella is faring.

  DAY 3, FRIDAY

  For my third date with myself (I refuse to think about how pathetic that sounds) I go to the Indigenous Gastronomist, or the IG, as it’s commonly called on Hungry Heart Row.

  The IG is this massive, high ceilinged, open restaurant with really cool accents—like that giant painting of a buffalo herd hanging on the wall. The copper pendant lights above the bar and the exposed pale-brick walls all add a kind of modern-rustic, romantic charm that makes it a popular spot for couples on date night.

  I was hoping to avoid all the happy people with hearts in their eyes by going on a Tuesday night. I’m sorry to say I misjudged.

  In sharp contrast to all the happy couples, though, I catch snippets of a very heated argument between a middle-aged woman and someone who seems to be her daughter. They’re off to the side, each of them wearing half aprons, but the daughter’s face is flushed and her voice is ringing higher and higher, while her mother darts nervous glances around the restaurant and makes hand motions that clearly mean Keep your voice down. Yikes. Prickly.

  The waitress, smiling stalwartly in spite of the growing commotion, says, “Follow me, please!” I dutifully do, and she seats me at a small table for two right in the middle of the restaurant. There’s a crimson rose in a bud vase, and a candle flickers on the table, setting the mood. I smile and tell her it’s a great seat, even though I wanted the one in the back, by the bathrooms, where I won’t look like a complete loser.

  Still. I look around surreptitiously while holding my menu in front of my face. There are quite a few couples here, but at least all of them seem to be completely focused on each other. No one’s even noticed me. I relax a little and begin to peruse the menu. There’s so much yummy food here, and all of it is farm-to-table, which—

  “Neha? Is that you?”

  I jerk my head up to see Eleanor Fields, who was also in the senior class at Rowbury High. I hesitate to say we went to high school together, because I’m sure the Rowbury High Eleanor-the-class-president-and-homecoming-queen knew was quite different from the one Neha-the-writer-nerd knew.

  Eleanor is one of those people I want to hate, because everyone thinks she’s gorgeous (tall, white, thin, blond—all markers of classic beauty in the US, amirite?), has an easy-to-pronounce name, a family who owns a million malls across the country, and she graduated with a 4.0 GPA. She’s also one of those people who’s impossible to hate, because, in spite of all of that, she’s a really nice person. She always made an effort to go out of her way to talk to me.

  “Hey,” I say, forcing a smile and willing it not to wither as I take in the fact that Eleanor’s here with a gorgeous, college-aged guy, and three other equally hot, equally well-dressed couples, all of whom are regarding me and my empty table with a mixture of pity and derision. “How’s it going?”

  The other three couples take a seat at the table directly across from mine. Oh great. Now I’ll have to listen to them laughing and having a good time while I sit here without even my phone to keep me company. Why did I say I’d do this, again?

  “Great, great,” Eleanor says, walking over on her six-inch heels, her glittery clutch held in front of her. Noooo. Go away, Eleanor. Go take your seat and just pretend I don’t exist like any other popular person would do. She tosses a strand of blond hair over one shoulder. “We’re just doing a couples’ date night, you know, before college starts up.” She smiles. “You’re going to Rowbury University, right? Full scholarship?”

  “Yeah,” I say, touched that she remembered. “And you’re headed off to . . . Boston University?”

  “Harvard,” she corrects easily, without any arrogance. “I guess I should get ready for some freezing-cold winters.”

  She laughs, I laugh, and then there’s a slightly awkward pause. “Well, I should head back to . . .” S
he points behind her at the table, where her friends are waiting.

  “Sure,” I say, waving. “See you later.”

  Eleanor half turns and then looks back at me, hesitating. “Unless . . . You’re welcome to join us if you’re not waiting for anyone,” she says, looking at my single place setting. “My friends would love to get to know you more.”

  “Oh, no . . . that’s okay. Thank you, though.” I smile to show I really appreciate her offer. And I do. Eleanor’s got class.

  “Okay.” She waves one last time and walks over to her table.

  I order the fragrant bison meatballs in a tart cranberry sauce to start, and then move on to other mouthwatering things—the roasted-vegetable platter sprinkled with just the right amount of herbs and pepper, and the honey-roasted rabbit, which practically falls apart on my tongue. It’s all really, really good, but I can’t help but think that something feels very slightly off. I can’t put my finger on it, but I immediately wonder if the heated fight between the mother and daughter had anything to do with this.

  And as I ponder that, eating alone while Eleanor and her friends laugh and chatter and twinkle together, the funniest thing happens—I begin to not care at all.

  I don’t care when people look pityingly at me, probably wondering if I’m going to cry (the assumption being, of course, that I’ve been stood up). I don’t care when couple after couple is led to their seats, where they sit holding hands or gazing deep into each others’ eyes.

  I realize this is brave, what I’m doing, sitting here, experiencing a cuisine I’ve never experienced before, by myself. And I realize it is doing something positive for my self-confidence. Because what does it say about me, that I’m willing to do this? That I’m willing to face the raised eyebrows? That I’m willing to do what I advised my reader to do?

  Only good things. Only brave things. As I pay my bill, I’m smiling to myself.