Save Me a Seat Read online

  “Uppuma made with pure desi ghee,” she said as she stirred the pot this morning. “Semolina will give you plenty of energy for your first day of school, Ravi.”

  “Too lumpy,” Perimma criticized, looking over my mother’s shoulder as she cooked.

  I am just getting ready to open my stainless steel tiffin box, when Dillon Samreen walks by carrying his tray. I caught a glimpse of his underwear earlier in class. There are red dots on it. I think about my own underwear, clean white Hanes from Kohl’s that my mother insists on ironing. There’s no way I would ever let my underwear hang out like that, whatever that kind of underwear is called.

  I thought Dillon and I would eat lunch together today, but instead he goes and sits down at a table in the corner by the window with some of the other boys. I had been looking forward to having a good laugh with him about Mrs. Beam suggesting that I need special help. But it’s okay. I’m not worried. I’m sure that Dillon and I are going to be friends. He’s been smiling and winking at me all morning.

  A big white kid with yellow hair and a wrinkled shirt comes and puts his tray down at the other end of my table. He doesn’t say hello to me, just sits down on the bench. He’s so big the table shakes and my tiffin box jumps. I recognize him as the guy who sits behind me in class, but I don’t remember his name.

  He doesn’t seem very friendly. He picks up his fork and starts shoving food into his mouth and doesn’t stop eating until his plate is clean. I think maybe he forgot to eat breakfast. And what’s that he’s got in his ears?

  I’m feeling a little hungry now too. I spread the napkin on my lap and bend down, sniffing at the uppuma. Perimma was wrong—it’s perfect, not lumpy at all, so I gobble it down quickly. I need to wash my hands and rinse my mouth, but for some reason, there isn’t any sink in the lunchroom. I look at my watch. I still have ten minutes left until the bell rings, so I tuck the spoon back into the napkin, place it in my tiffin box, and buckle the lid.

  As I’m on my way out of the lunchroom to wash up in the boy’s bathroom, a roar of laughter comes from the table in the corner by the window. Dillon Samreen must have made a good joke because everyone is slapping him on the back and treating him like he’s a hero. I smile to myself. I know exactly how it feels to be that guy. I know something else too: Tomorrow I will not be eating my lunch alone. I will be sitting at the table in the corner by the window right next to Dillon Samreen.

  It’s Monday, so the cafeteria is serving chicken fingers with canned peas and apple slices. I had a big breakfast and it’s only 11:30, but I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. For real. I go through the line as fast as I can. Ethan and Evan and I used to eat at the round table near the milk machine, but things are different now. I have to lie low. After I pay for my food, I carry my tray over to the other side of the cafeteria, keeping my head down the whole time. So far, so good.

  There’s a long table against the back wall. Nobody ever sits there because it’s near the trash cans. Fifth grade has the first lunch period, though, so I figure the smell won’t be too bad yet. I sit down, put in my earplugs, and inhale everything on my plate in about three seconds. I’m still hungry, but I don’t want to take any chances by going back for more. As I’m sucking down the last of my chocolate milk, I notice someone sitting all the way down at the other end of the table. It’s that shrimpy new kid from my class—the one with the big glasses and the long name who sits in front of me. He’s got this weird-looking lunch box open in front of him and he’s eating something that looks like scrambled eggs.

  Robert Princenthal walks by and accidentally bumps my shoulder. At least I think it’s an accident. Robert is another Dillon Samreen wannabe. The difference between him and Tom Dinkins is that Robert isn’t mean when he’s on his own.

  “Sorry about that, Puddy Tat,” he says, and keeps going.

  My name is Joe Sylvester, but thanks to Dillon Samreen, I am known at school as Puddy Tat. It’s on account of that thing that Tweety Bird always says to Sylvester the cat in the old Looney Tunes cartoons. You know, “I tawt I taw a puddy tat.” I wish people would call me Joe, but when Dillon Samreen decides he’s going to call you something, whether you like it or not, that’s what everyone else is going to call you too. So at school I am Puddy Tat, Puddy, or Pud for short.

  “Giving a person a nickname is a way of saying you like them,” my mother said when she found out about it.

  “Trust me,” I told her, “Dillon Samreen doesn’t like me.”

  “What’s not to like?” she’d asked, kissing the top of my head.

  She always does stuff like that, which is why we had to have the “big talk” this morning.

  “Pretend you don’t even know me,” I told her. “And promise you won’t do any of your corny mom stuff.”

  “I promise,” she said, then made an X over her heart with her finger.

  We’ll see, I thought.

  The new kid is busy eating his lunch, and I’m done with mine, so I just sit there for a while watching Dillon Samreen. I do that a lot—not because I want to, but because I have to.

  One time in second grade, when I put my jacket down on a bench out on the playground, Dillon filled the pockets with dirt. Another time he slipped one of those little packets of ketchup in my homework folder and pounded on it with his fist to make it pop. He’s always grabbing the back of my shirt, or trying to punch or trip me when nobody’s looking. His favorite thing of all is to sneak up behind me and make a loud noise because he knows how much that freaks me out.

  It wasn’t until last year that I realized Dillon was a klepto. His parents are loaded, so he doesn’t need the stuff he steals. He just does it for fun. He’ll take anything he can get his hands on—a pencil sharpener, a glove, a retainer case—it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, he shoves it down the front of his pants for safekeeping. Since I never take my eyes off him, I’ve seen him do this a million times. But I don’t ever tell on him, because what good would it do? He’d just fast-talk his way out of it and find a way to pay me back double.

  After my mom found the dirt in my pockets, she suspected something might be going on.

  “Is that Samreen boy bothering you?” she asked.

  “No, Mom,” I lied.

  “We can talk to Miss Frost about it,” she suggested.

  “No!” I shouted. “Everything’s fine.”

  “I worry about you, Joey. You never have anyone over to the house.”

  “I have lots of friends at school,” I told her.

  “Like who?”

  “Ethan and Evan.”

  “The Burdock twins?” she’d said. “Those boys are so wild.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. Ethan once stole his father’s car keys and drove around the neighborhood in his pajamas, and even though Evan never got caught, I knew for a fact that he was the Bathroom Bandit of Einstein—notorious for drawing dirty pictures on the bathroom walls and throwing wet toilet paper balls on the ceiling.

  Dillon and his buddies are busy yukking it up, so I figure it’s a good time for me to go empty my tray. I guess the new kid must have left when I wasn’t looking, because he and his funny-looking lunch box are gone now. I pick up my tray and make it as far as the trash cans before my luck runs out.

  “Hey, Pud.” Dillon comes over to me and puts his arm around my shoulders. “How’s it going?”

  My heart starts pounding and I feel myself go wet under the arms. Dillon Samreen is like one of those crocodiles you see on the Discovery Channel, lurking underwater with just his eyes showing, waiting to grab anything dumb enough to come within his reach.

  “I’m good,” I say, trying to duck out from under his arm.

  He tightens his grip on my left shoulder, and with his other hand pulls the earplug out of my right ear, drops it on the floor, and crushes it with his shoe like a bug.

  In-two-three, out-two-three.

  “Listen, Pud, before you go, can I ask you something?” he says.

  “I guess so.” I
look down at my shoes. It feels weird having only one earplug in. Lopsided.

  “Is it my imagination or does that new lunch monitor look familiar?”

  Dillon puts his mouth so close to my ear it makes me squirm.

  I don’t say anything, just keep my eyes glued to my shoes and breathe. In-two-three, out-two-three. I notice one of my shoelaces has come untied.

  “Take a look, Puddy,” says Dillon, jerking his head back to shake the hair out of his eyes. “Tell me if you recognize her too.”

  I don’t move.

  “Oh. Was that question too hard for you, Pud? You need me to talk a little slower? Take … a … look.”

  I don’t want to look, but what choice do I have? I lift my head. My mom is standing over near the milk machine. She’s wearing a red-and-white-striped apron and she has a whistle around her neck. When she sees me looking at her, she smiles and blows me a kiss.

  I honestly think I might be having a heart attack. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. It’s the whole reason we’d had the big talk.

  My face feels like it’s on fire.

  “Come on, Pud,” says Dillon. “You don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you? Blow her a kiss back.”

  “What’s going on, Dill?” asks Tom Dinkins. He and Robert and this weird kid, Jax, have come over to empty their trays.

  “Pud is about to blow a kiss to his mommy, the lunch monitor. And then she’s going to change his poopy diaper.”

  Tom laughs.

  “What the heck?” says Jax.

  “No kidding, Puddy, is that really your mom?” asks Robert.

  The bell rings, making me jump. Suddenly everybody starts rushing around, cleaning up and getting ready to go back to class. Dillon grins and winks at me, then lets go of my shoulder and walks away. He’s done with me for now, but I’m not stupid enough to think it’s over. My knees are shaking, but I manage to dump my tray and get out of there as fast as I can.

  The rest of the afternoon is a total waste of time. Mrs. Beam calls on me twice, even though my hand isn’t up.

  It’s only the first day of school and fifth grade already sucks.

  The questions begin as soon as I step out of bus number 7A.

  “How was your first day at Albert Einstein Elementary School, Ravi?” my mother asks. “Did you make any new friends? Do you have homework? Was the bathroom clean?”

  “How many other Indians are in your class?” asks Perimma.

  Amma and Perimma have been waiting for me at the bus stop. I could see them stretching their necks to find me even before the doors had opened.

  Amma takes my green backpack off my shoulder and carries it as we begin to walk towards our town house. I would rather carry it myself, but she insists.

  “My teacher’s name is Mrs. Beam,” I tell them. “Homework is just some reading. And the bathroom is fine.”

  “How many other Indians are in your class?” Perimma asks again.

  “None,” I say. I don’t tell her about Dillon Samreen because I know how Perimma feels about ABCDs.

  As we pass the big pond located in the middle of our community, Amma points to it. “Promise me you won’t go near that water, Ravi.”

  “You might fall in and drown. And I’ve heard there are leeches,” warns Perimma.

  The wind is blowing their sarees. Amma holds on to hers with her right hand. Her left hand is still carrying my backpack.

  “Did you eat your lunch?” she asks.

  “Please, Amma, can we first get home? I will tell you everything,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Why can’t you tell us now?” asks Perimma. “Did you not like the uppuma, Ravi? Don’t blame me—didn’t I say it was too lumpy?” When Perimma wants to make a point, she goes on and on about it like the rotating end of an electric drill. Perippa has a trick for that. He wears hearing aids, and when Perimma gets going on one of her long rants, he waits until she’s not looking, then he turns them off.

  Amma puts down my backpack. I can’t believe what is happening. Right there in the middle of the street, she is checking my tiffin box to prove to Perimma that I’ve eaten my lunch. A few kids walk by, looking at us curiously. I bend my head, embarrassed, and stare at the spot between my sneakers. My glasses slip down my nose, and I push them back up.

  “It’s empty,” says Amma proudly, holding the box out for my grandmother to see.

  Perimma sniffs. “How do you know he didn’t throw the lunch away?”

  Amma doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head and puts the tiffin box back in my backpack.

  She and Perimma got along much better when they didn’t live in the same house.

  I reach over and grab my backpack from Amma, then run as fast as I can towards number 83. When we first moved to Hamilton Mews, I had trouble telling which house was ours because they all looked the same, but now I can tell without even looking at the number.

  “Wait, Ravi! The door is locked. Perippa is napping and Appa is at the office!” my mother shouts, running after me, keys waving.

  I wait on the doorstep until she and Perimma catch up with me and open the door. As we enter the house, I close my eyes and breathe in. The air is filled with the smell of Amma’s cooking. She has already prepared my evening tiffin, a plate of dosas and a cup of Ovaltine—the same thing I ate every day after school in India.

  I give her a hug and whisper in her ear so Perimma won’t hear. “The uppuma was delicious.”

  “Thank you, raja,” she whispers back.

  * * *

  DINNER IS LATER than usual because Appa’s train is delayed and he doesn’t get home until almost eight o’clock. After each bite, Perimma complains about the food.

  “The rasam is too runny, and it tastes like dishwater. Have you ever heard of spices, Roshni?”

  Appa comes to my mother’s defense. “Let her be,” he tells Perimma. “Roshni is doing her best. She is not used to having to do all the cooking herself.”

  “And I am not used to having to eat her runny rasam,” Perimma snaps back at him. “Did you know poor Ravi had only lumpy uppuma for his lunch?”

  I glance at my mother and quickly change the subject. “Most people at Albert Einstein Elementary School don’t bring their lunches from home,” I say. “They buy school lunch, which costs two dollars and fifty cents.”

  “Is it vegetarian?” asks Amma.

  “I wouldn’t take their word for it,” Perimma interrupts before I can answer. “I hear their salad oil has lard in it.”

  I decide not to tell them about the chicken fingers.

  Mom is parked at the curb, waiting in the car when school lets out. Her old parking sticker from Mercy Hospital is still stuck to the windshield. She used to be a nurse there, but she and a bunch of other nurses got laid off right before Christmas last year. After that, everything changed. None of the other hospitals around here were hiring nurses, so Mom had to go on unemployment and Dad took a job driving a truck route because it paid more than he was making at his old job at Walmart. At the end of August when Mom found out Einstein was looking for a new lunch monitor, she applied for the job without even asking me first.

  “Hop in,” she tells me now, leaning out the window.

  “No,” I answer, too mad to even look at her.

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” she says. “It was an accident. Force of habit. Would a slice of pizza help make up for it?”

  I shake my head. She broke her promise big-time. A million slices of pizza isn’t going to make up for that.

  “Hop in,” she says again.

  “No,” I tell her. “I’m walking home.”

  Walking helps me think. Not that I really want to think about all the crummy stuff that happened today. Is it possible to have a worse first day of school?

  After my mom drives away, I hear someone calling my name.

  “Joe!”

  I turn around and see Mr. Barnes hurrying to catch up.

  “I was hoping I might run into you,” he says. �
�How did it go today?”

  I feel something hard swell up in my throat, and for a minute, I’m scared I might start crying. But I swallow a couple of times and the feeling goes away.

  “It was okay, I guess,” I tell him.

  “How do you like Mrs. Beam?” he asks.

  I shrug. “She’s shorter than me,” I say.

  Mr. Barnes laughs and pulls a pack of sugarless gum out of his pocket. He offers me a piece, but I shake my head. Sugarless gum gives me a headache.

  “How’s our old friend Mr. Samreen doing this year?”

  I think about the name Dillon called Mr. Barnes behind his back the day he brought his pink Hacky Sack to school. A word my mother would wash my mouth out with soap for saying.

  “He’s not my friend,” I say. “And no offense, but I don’t think he’s your friend either.”

  “The world is full of Dillon Samreens, Joe,” Mr. Barnes says, unwrapping a piece of gum and putting it in his mouth. “The trick is not to let them get to you.”

  I wonder if Mr. Barnes has ever seen the look on the face of a zebra who’s just stepped into a crocodile’s mouth.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I say.

  “If you want, I can write it down for you,” Mr. Barnes says, pulling a pen out of his pocket.

  The hard thing swells up in my throat again. Mr. Barnes knows I have trouble remembering things unless they’re written down.

  “That’s okay,” I tell him. “And by the way, I like your new tie.” I wonder if anyone in Mr. Barnes’s class this year will memorize his ties the way I did.

  Mr. Barnes looks at his watch. He says he’s sorry he has to run to a faculty meeting, but that I should feel free to stop by his room anytime to chat.

  “Hang in there, Joe,” he tells me as he walks away.

  My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten anything since lunch. I think about my mother’s offer to take me out for pizza, and get mad at her all over again. How could she do that, blow me a kiss right in front of everyone? What part of no corny mom stuff does she not understand?

  Normally it takes me half an hour to walk home, but I’m not in any hurry today. Mia, my dog, is waiting for me at the door when I finally get there. She’s so happy to see me she falls all over herself, wagging her tail and trying to lick my face.