My own feeling is that, if we are to be married someday, I must endeavor to be as honest with you as possible to show you my True Self, so that you will get to know me.
I suppose I should ask you all sorts of questions, such as, What do you like to do in your leisure time? What movies are your favorite? What kind of music do you like? These are questions relating to our personal compatibility. I do not think they matter greatly.
More important are questions of a cultural or religious nature. For instance, do you want to have a big family someday? Perhaps this is too big a question to ask so early in our correspondence. As for myself, I come from a very big family so I am used to a lot of commotion around the house. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a smaller family, as is becoming more common.
I believe my parents have told your parents about my aspiration to become a programmer for a major firm like Google or Facebook. My dream has always been to live in California. I know that Delaware is not close to there, but that it is close to Washington.
In my leisure time I enjoy watching cricket and reading manga. What do you like?
In closing, may I say that I thought you extremely nice-looking when I saw you at my great-uncle’s house. I am sorry I could not say hello but my mother told me it was not customary to do so. The old ways are often curious but we have to trust in the wisdom of our parents, who have the experience of a longer life.
Thank you for the photograph you sent. I keep it close to my heart.
If the boy had sat down with the intention of revolting Prakrti with every word he wrote, if he were a Shakespeare of pure annoyingness, he couldn’t have done better. Prakrti didn’t know what she hated most. The mention of children, which assumed a physical intimacy she didn’t want to imagine, was bad enough. But somehow it was the phrase “extremely nice-looking” that bothered her more.
She didn’t know what to do. She considered writing back to tell Dev Kumar to stop bothering her, but she worried that this would get back to her mother.
Instead, Prakrti googled “age of majority U.S.” From the results she learned that, when she turned eighteen, she would obtain the legal right to buy property, maintain her own bank account, and join the military. The phrase that encouraged her the most, however, was where it said that turning eighteen “brought the acquisition of control over one’s person, decisions, and actions, and the correlative termination of the legal authority of the parents over the child’s person and affairs generally.”
Eighteen. A year and a half from now. By then Prakrti would already be accepted to college. If her parents didn’t want her to go, or wanted her to go somewhere nearby, it wouldn’t matter. She would go on her own. She could apply for financial aid. Or win a scholarship. Or take out loans, if necessary. She could work part-time during college, ask her parents for nothing, and owe them nothing in return. How would her parents like that? What would they do then? They’d be sorry they ever tried to arrange her marriage. They’d repent, and grovel before her. And then maybe—when she was in graduate school, or living in Chicago—she’d forgive them.
When Kylie was Meghan and Prakrti was Jasmine, they were lazier, slightly dumber, but more daring. One time, Kylie had gone up to a cute boy and said, “So I’m taking this psych class? And we’re supposed to give someone this personality test. It’ll only take a few minutes.” She called Prakrti over, as Jasmine, and together they interviewed him, coming up with questions off the top of their heads. What was the last dream you had? If you were an animal, what animal would it be? The boy had dreadlocks and dimples, and after a while, the inanity of their questions seemed to register on him. “This is for a course? For real?” he said. The girls started giggling. But Kylie insisted, “Yes! It’s due tomorrow!” At that point, the fiction they were creating doubled: they weren’t just high school girls pretending to be in college; they were college girls pretending to be giving a psychological test in order to talk to an extremely cute guy. In other words, they were already inhabiting their future collegiate selves, the people they might someday be.
Now all that felt far away. Prakrti looked at the girls in the leggings and rain boots. At other tables kids were typing, or reading, or meeting with professors.
She had thought she belonged among them, not as Jasmine from Queens, but as herself.
She felt dizzy. Her vision dimmed. It was as if the floor of the coffee shop were giving way and a chasm opening between her and the other students. She grabbed hold of the edge of the table to steady herself, but the dropping sensation continued.
Soon she realized it wasn’t a dropping so much as a retarding or encircling; a claiming. She was the one chosen. Closing her eyes, Prakrti pictured them coming toward her, as they did through the halls of her school. With their dark, downcast eyes, murmuring in foreign tongues that were her own, looking like her, and reaching out with their many hands to haul her in. The Hymens.
She didn’t know how many minutes went by after that. She kept her eyes closed until the dizziness passed, and then got to her feet and made her way toward the front door.
Just inside the entrance was a bulletin board. It was covered with flyers and announcements, business cards, and tear sheets for tutoring or sublets. In the upper-right-hand corner, only partially visible, was a poster advertising a lecture. The topic meant nothing to her. What caught Prakrti’s attention were the date of the event—next week—and the photograph of the speaker. A pink-faced man with sandy hair and a boyish, friendly face. A visiting professor from England. No one from around here.
*
When the girl came to his hotel room, Matthew had already made his decision.
He was planning to offer her a drink. Sit, talk, enjoy her company, the nearness of someone so young and pretty, but nothing more. He was drunk enough to be content with just that. He felt no strong physical desire, only a rising sense of exhilarated apprehension, as though he were crashing an exclusive party.
Then the girl swept in and her powdery smell hit him with full force.
She didn’t meet his eyes or say a word, merely unshouldered her backpack onto the floor and stood with her head down. She didn’t even take off her coat.
Matthew asked if she wanted something to drink. She said no. Her nervousness, her possible reluctance to be there, had the effect of making him want to reassure or persuade her.
Stepping forward, he put his arms around the girl and buried his nose in her hair. She allowed this. After a while, Matthew lowered his head to kiss her. She responded minimally, without opening her mouth. He nuzzled her neck. When he returned to her mouth, she pulled away.
“Do you have a condom?” she said.
“No,” Matthew said, surprised by her directness, “I don’t. I’m afraid I’m not part of the condom generation.”
“Can you go get one?”