“I’m not sure that’s an altogether relevant analogy, but whatever,” Prashant said.
“What Chaz means,” Doug tried to clarify, “is that you’re not going to get any ass until girls don’t feel retarded saying your name.”
“Yo, don’t call me Chaz, dude,” Charlie said.
Slack-jawed, Prashant looked at Charlie. “You don’t want to be called Chaz, but I can’t be called by my real name?”
“Shut up, Ass-shunt,” Charlie said. “Or I’ll make that your nickname.”
Later that evening, as Prashant unscrolled Kavita’s flyer from under his mattress and viewed it against the glare of his bedside lamp, he thought of what he might use as a moniker (he also thought of how lucky he was to have a single room). Did he go with a slightly embarrassing spinoff of his own name? How about just “P”? Did he dare take up “Pras,” who had been a member of the Fugees? He wasn’t exactly the most perceptive social animal, but he did know that trying to copy a rapper’s coolness was a sure route to embarrassment. When he was in sixth grade, an eighth-grader had given him the name “P-Dawg,” and at the time, it had felt good to feel at least slightly gangsta. But that would not hold water now. He needed a man’s name.
*
It killed him that people pronounced Kavita’s name just fine. There were some people who couldn’t put the soft t into her name, making it rhyme with margarita, but most people had learned the proper way of delivering the right sound. For the first time, he resented her. How dare she hijack his college experience? How dare she show up with her perfect smile and heaven-made hair and hell-made ass and make him question his own name?
He ran into her at the student center, a utilitarian mass of gray concrete, mauve-painted brick, and wood-varnished tables among striped couches. Unlike many of the other students, who opted for sprawling on those couches, Kavita was perched with great poise at a table, her shoulders hunched and one hand stroking the black magic of her ponytail. Her bearing was unmistakable even when her face wasn’t visible. The feeling he had seeing her, alone at this table in the busiest of places on campus, was likely the same feeling he would have had seeing a celebrity at a coffee shop. It was actually not that bad a comparison, for she often had a gaggle of people surrounding her, especially after the announcement of her campaign.
This opportunity in the student center was unique. It provided unobstructed access to her. He felt a slight panic when he realized that, at any given second, someone may approach her and ruin his chance. No worry—he deserved to approach her. If his professors were to be believed, he was a chemical genius. He was going to change the face of chemistry, and he would need a woman with disparate interests to complement his brilliance. He was going to graduate from one of the best schools in the country and get some wildly high-paying job for some enormously grand company and make more money than his parents had ever dreamed of. Why shouldn’t he feel compelled to speak to the prettiest girl on campus? He was Bill Gates and Steve Jobs before jowls and unruly facial hair. This was his chance.
She greeted him first. “Prashant! How are you?”
“Good, good,” he said, trying to sound calm.
“Can you believe we have only a week till fall break? Everyone always said how fast our time would go here, but this is crazy, man.” She was the type of chick who said “man” unironically. He might explode.
“Yeah, it’s crazy how fast our time is going here.” He sounded like a kid who had been taught to repeat a question when providing its answer.
“You doing anything fun for it?”
“I’m just going to be back at my parents’ house. Might see some of my friends from high school. How ’bout you? You doing anything fun?” He was impressed with himself for asking a question.
“Actually, my masi in Chicago is very ill, so I’m going to go out there to help her.”
Are you fucking kidding me? he thought. Could she be any more perfect? He imagined her in Mother Teresa’s blue and white sari, and something stirred below. Great. Blasphemous nun-lust. He was one sick fuck.
“I’m so sorry to hear she’s ill. What is the prognosis?”
PROGNOSIS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
“She’s not expected to make it, sadly.”
“Oh. I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“That is so sweet of you, Prashant. I really appreciate it. Would you like to sit down?”
“Um, sure,” he said, taking a seat. He had come to the student center for a quick slice of pizza at the food court, but his hunger had vanished. He felt particularly meager next to her, with no backpack while she had an arsenal of books and papers in front of her. “What are you working on?” he asked.
“I have a biology midterm coming up.”
“Biology? I thought you were an English major.”
The slight widening of her eyes showed him his mistake: How did he know her major?
“Yeah, I’m an English major, but I’m actually thinking of doing a double-major in mol bio.” Mol bio = molecular biology. She was double-majoring in English and biology? OK, this was just getting cruel. To his surprise, he found himself saying as much:
“OK, now you’re just being cruel.”
She laughed loudly. Prashant could feel the envy of everyone within a hundred-foot radius, as if it were a collection of poisoned darts shot into his skin.
“Really? A double English and biology major?” he said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“What can I say? I’m a closet science dork. Don’t tell anyone.” She whispered this last part jokingly. The tone of her voice alone made him want to confess his undying love for her. She was wearing a white blouse and black sweatpants, and he understood what Shakespeare meant about being a glove against Juliet’s cheek. Oh, that I were a stitch in that blouse, that I might touch Kavita Bansal’s boob.
“Have you gone to any of the SASA meetings?” she asked.