Unwanted Girl. MK Schiller

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СКАЧАТЬ the all-expenses paid guilt trip you’re taking me on. Now, can we table this and enjoy a steak or whatever fancy fusion name they call it in this place?”

      “Watch it, or I’ll downgrade that beard to Grizzly Adam status.”

      Chapter 3

      Shyla checked over the notes from her morning classes. Every day was the same. She went to school, learned first world techniques, and mentally applied them to the third world classroom she’d be teaching. She had worked hard, so hard that in this last semester of her senior year, she had a very light load and little schoolwork left to distract her.

      She started preparing for work. She twisted her long hair into a tight knot and changed into one of her black T-shirts, the uniform she wore at the deli. Each movement set at a precise pace that came with practice.

      “I’m leaving for work,” she told her dorm mate, Elaine, who’d had her nose in a book all afternoon.

      “Oh, okay,” Elaine muttered, running her hands through the purple strand of hair that broke up her natural honey coloring.

      “Must be a good book.”

      “It’s the new Keegan Moon.” Elaine nodded rapidly as if that simple statement spoke volumes.

      Shyla smiled, not because she agreed, but she knew better than to argue with Elaine when it came to her favorite author.

      “Do you want to come out with us tonight? Everyone’s coming over here, and then we’ll probably go to a club or something.”

      Shyla had gone to a club with Elaine before. She didn’t enjoy the experience. Men grabbed her as if they had some claim to her. The other girls fit in with their skimpy outfits and wild laughter. She felt out of place and wondered if the aftermath of her culture shock would ever wear off.

      Elaine wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Joel will be there, and he’s been asking about you.”

      “Maybe some other night.”

      She had gone out with Joel three times. He had seemed like a nice boy until he told her he loved Indian literature. Unfortunately, he wasn’t referring to the Bhagavad Gita, but rather the Kama Sutra.

      She considered Elaine a friend, but they weren’t exactly close. They conversed, but they didn’t have much in common. Elaine wanted to talk about television shows, designer outfits, and boys. Shyla didn’t have insights, much less contributions, on those subjects. It wasn’t Elaine’s fault. She’d made many attempts to socialize with Shyla, but Shyla’s introverted personality presented barriers. Perhaps she wasn’t even capable of forming a true friendship.

      * * * *

      Her shift at the deli bordered on hectic, keeping her mind focused and free of Nick Dorsey, the man who made her toes curl without her consent. Geet Dhillon bustled around the kitchen, her long braid flopping around her as she floated through the space like a passenger on Aladdin’s magic carpet. She’d been like this since her engagement to a successful lawyer.

      “He’s a nice Indian boy with a bright future,” her mother had said. “He will make a fine son-in-law, and they will give me beautiful grandchildren.” Her father had beamed. “He’s Sikh,” her brother, Adesh, had added, perhaps his only criteria in his sister’s arranged nuptials. “He’s hot,” Geet had countered much to her brother’s annoyance.

      Geet sang as she worked with an infectious, bubbly energy. Shyla’s expression faltered as a small pang of sadness took hold of her. The remnants of niggling jealousy followed. She hated the unwelcomed reactions, especially since the Dhillon family embraced her like one of their own.

      The deli had once served the area as a thriving Indian restaurant, but the neighborhood changed and a more corporate ethnic eatery opened nearby with cheaper prices. The Dhillons were smart, though. Instead of resigning to their fate, they simply changed the menu.

      Now the restaurant sold deli sandwiches and, as it turned out, there was a high demand for such things in a city where people rated convenience on par with quality. The Dhillons still sold Indian fare, too, but it was the simple sandwiches that kept them in business. Mr. Dhillon often spoke of the great American dream and how he’d come to this country with very little. There was pride in his voice when he looked at Adesh, the non-verbal passing of the torch conveyed in the exchange.

      Geet turned on the small stereo, slicing through Shyla’s thoughts. Bhangra music, a fusion of Punjabi folk and British rock, permeated the space, the fast-paced drums matching the girl’s enthusiasm. Adesh raised his eyebrows at Shyla. Music, in her opinion, was the greatest barrier breaker that existed. Her body moved to it, responding to his unasked question. He grabbed Shyla’s arm and spun her around while the Dhillon family clapped for them. She moved her hips and managed to shake her shoulders in the demure, feminine way that portrayed the subtle intricacies of Indian dance and the sexiness of Bollywood. For some reason, her shyness didn’t surface with the Dhillon family. It was easy to dance with Adesh. They had clear harmony, even though they lacked chemistry.

      He moved her toward a quiet corner. “I can always marry you and then you can stay,” Adesh said as if the absurd idea added weight to his argument.

      “You’re going to marry a Hindu village girl? And a Gujarati? What will your Punjabi parents say?” she joked, although such mixed marriages were now commonplace. Still, it seemed odd when considering he insisted his sister marry a fellow Sikh.

      “They’ll ask the one question we Punjabis ask. Can she dance? And the answer is yes.”

      Shyla laughed, spinning away from him. “I’m sorry, Adesh, but I have to decline. My family has plans for me.”

      “You know, we can just run away together. Every happy ending begins with a good song and dance number,” he said with an impish grin.

      The abrupt halt of the music drew their attention. A uniformed officer walked through the door, a frown on his face.

      “Is there a problem, sir?” Mr. Dhillon asked.

      “We’ve had a complaint about the music.”

      The deli was empty of customers, and the radio wasn’t loud, but the neighboring businesses always had issues, even though the bar across the street blared music several octaves louder.

      “Our most humble apologies, policeman sir. We will keep it down,” Adesh said, his voice in a high-pitched imitation of the stereotypical Indian accent. His handsome face transformed into a sour expression that bordered on a scowl. Mr. Dhillon winced.

      “Be sure you do.” The officer walked away but stopped and turned back once more, his gaze lingering on Mr. Dhillon’s head covering.

      “This is a turban,” Adesh said slowly, pointing to his father’s head. He held up his hands in a signal of surrender. “No need to freak, officer. We are Sikh. We come from Punjab, which is in India. India is not in Pakistan or the Middle East.”

      “That’s enough,” Mr. Dhillon admonished his son.

      “I am aware of that,” the officer replied. “Keep the music down and make it easier for all of us, please.”

      Adesh went to open his mouth, but his father clasped a hand on his СКАЧАТЬ