"Kiara Moussa and Emre Ersoy...now I have high hopes for this partnership. And I think it would be a great idea for you two to take on Bollywood films...," Ms. Monroe trailed with an excited smile on her face as she nodded. "Oh, I just love all that singing and dancing in those movies. And the love stories, Gosh...so much passion, so many feelings; it's a kick to the gut most times," she continued gushing all misty eyed.
Kiara with big round eyes quickly glanced back at Emre and stifled a laugh at the disgusted look on his face. She quickly raised her hand, "Ms Monroe, Emre is of Turkish Ancestry. Not the Indian subcontinent...not where Bollywood is from...," she said chirpily, as she pushed her round glasses back up her nose.
"I'm sorry, what?" Ms Monroe said, her face falling immediately as she blinked confused. She watched as Ms Monroe nervously wiped her hands on the cloth of her burgundy slacks. She nervously tucked her dark blonde hair behind her ear before saying, "I...uhm...didn't realise that..."
"Well," Oliver drawled, "if you did put them together just because you thought they were both connected to the Indian Sub-Continent...well, there is a word for that, isn't there Ms. Monroe?" Oliver said with exaggerated innocence.
Kiara covered her mouth with her hands, as she tried to hide her laughter. She watched as Ms Monroe's fair skin flushed red, her plum painted lips pressed into a thin line, her brown eyes darting between Kiara and Emre.
"Racist," came Rachel's voice from the front. "The word is racist," she repeated haughtily, rolling her eyes as she flicked her long blonde hair back.
There were times that Kiara hated high school with all her heart but today, she absolutely loved it. Even though she wasn't particularly close to Rachel and Oliver, she loved the fact that they were brave enough to speak up. Especially since they fit the bill of the typical American high school seniors; blonde hair, light eyes, fair, Ivy-League shoo ins.
Kiara could say that she was lucky; growing up in New York she was exposed to all sorts of ethnicities from all over the world. She never felt weird or odd, even though many tried to single her out simply based on her looks. Her dark, almost jet-black hair contrasted harshly with her fair skin. She was one of those Desis that didn't tan, she burned under the sun. Her thick brows which she loved from before the Delavignes of the world made trendy, framed her large espresso coloured eyes. While her nose, a typical Pakistani nose- high bridged and sharp, had an aristocratic tilt to it; her lips seemed to be permanently upturned, as though there was something constantly amusing her. Yes, she was Pakistani, she looked it, and she was proud of it. But really, expecting her to do a review of Bollywood for History class? She rolled her eyes as she looked at her books, a smile still tugging at her lips.
She was so used to the stereotyping, to the putting her in a box, that she just accepted it. Not to mention she played the role of overachiever so well that no one saw the effort and the work she put in anymore.
Her fingers started tapping a silent tune as she rested her wrist on her desk. She watched her fingers tap the desk as her ears heard the notes that she was playing.
"Ms. Monroe, does this mean that you paired Vin and I together because we are both Italian?" Mila, Kiara's best friend asked incredulous. The expression of her face gave away that she was geared up for an argument. Something which all teachers surreptitiously tried to avoid with Mila.
"What, no...no..." Ms Monroe stuttered, a nervous smile on her lips. "I was just putting the idea out there for Kiara and Emre," she said nervously.
Scanning the room quickly, she smiled as she noticed Emre ruffling his dark brunette locks in frustration. "It's fine Ms Monroe, I'll do the Bollywood movies with Kiara," she heard Emre say, in his deep baritone â frustrated and annoyed. Third row from her right, the very last seat with the type of voice that could make a fortune reading for audiobooks.
The bell rang signalling the end of class and she could see the tension leave Ms. Monroe's shoulders as all the students got busy with gathering their things and getting up to leave. One...Two...Three..., "Look, if you are uncomfortable working the Bollywood angle with skater boy over there, you can tell me okay. I'll make Ms. Monroe change it," Kiara heard Mila's voice next to her as expected.
Kiara smiled at her friend as she hoisted her bag over her shoulders and slowly walked passed Ms. Monroe's table. "It's fine really. I mean, I love Bollywood so it's fine by me but poor Emre, he's the one stuck with this assignment," she shrugged.
"God, Kiki...why are you always thinking about other people!" Mila said exasperated. "And by the way, you don't just love Bollywood; you're kinda obsessed with it," Mila muttered rolling her eyes.
"Well, then how would I be voted 'The Sweetheart' this year if I stopped caring?" Kiara asked with a snort as she laughed at herself, walking into the busy school hallway. One more class and it was done for the day.
"But you do know that you are though, right?" Mila said sing song voice as she skipped next to Kiara.
"Yeah, yeah," Kiara giggled at her friend. "Oh and there is nothing wrong with obsessing over Bollywood."
"So, you looking forward to working with him?" Mila shrugged her shoulder in Emre's decision. She watched as he bent down to fish out his skateboard from the locker and promptly slammed it shut with a loud noise. Kiara flinched at the sound, her face portraying the discomfort as the noise travelled through the body.
She found herself walking towards him, stopping at where he had knelt as he stuffed his skateboard into his backpack, pausing when her booted feet came into view.
"Nice boots," he said quietly, without looking up.
"Thanks," she said sweetly. "These are Chelsea boots." She said as she tapped her heels together.
Blinking, Emre looked up at her in question, "Who's Chelsea?"
Distracted by the way his thick dark lashes fluttered over his pale green eyes as he blinked, it took more than second for Kiara to register that he had said something. "What?" she asked confused, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears.
Her eyes moved with him as he rose to tower above. "Oh my God, how tall are you?" she squeaked out again, cringing at her own voice.
"5' 11"," he answered her, his brows knitted together.
"Huh, I would've thought that you'd be 6 feet or whatever," Kiara said with a chuckle, laughing more at herself than anything.
"Okaaaay," Emre trailed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. The bell rang and both their eyes snapped to the clock on the wall in the hallway.
"So, um...I've got to go," he said shifting nervously on the spot.
"No, yeah. Of course, I've got class too," Kiara smiled at him. "Um, maybe we could exchange numbers so that we can figure out the History final," she blinked up at him.
The bell rang again, and Emre started walking backward, away from Kiara. His eyes locked on her bright smile as it dimmed with confusion.
"Wait...But I don't have your number...," she called.
"I'll text you later...," he said, running his fingers through his wavy hair again before turning to sprint his way through the halls trying to make it into class on time.
"...But you don't have my number," she mumbled to herself sadly, pouting her lips as she watched him leave. Kiara spun on her heels and shrieked when she saw the principal standing behind her with his arms crossed across his chest.
"Get to class Ms. Moussa," he said sternly, trying to swallow the laughter that was bubbling in his chest, and watched as Kiara nodded her head quickly and speed walked to her class.
***
The sharp rap of the metal pointer against her knuckles made Kiara flinch as she made a more conscious attempt of sitting up straighter and making sure her wrists were perfectly positioned as she continued playing the notes of Moonlight Sonata. She gritted her teeth when the metal pointer rapped against her knuckles again, the sound of the metronome now felt mocking as she finished the piece off perfectly.
"How is she today Mrs. Jones?" Kiara heard her mother ask from the doorway of the piano room. Mrs. Jones with her stoic face, and greying hair pulled into a tight bun, shook her head.
"No posture. No grace. Nothing. Mechanical, that's what she is. Mechanical," Mrs. Jones said. "Her mind was elsewhere today," Mrs. Jones said as she looked at the reddened knuckles that Kiara tried to hide by sandwiching her hands between her thighs. She watched as Kiara swallowed heavily, her eyes trailed on the indoor shoes she puts on when practicing the piano.
Kiara felt deflated when Mrs. Jones stood up and collected her things, after stilling the steady tick tock of the metronome. Heaving a sigh, her fingers plucked at several of the ivory keys of the baby grand piano as her eyes looked out the window.
Kiara felt a sharp slicing pain across her back and sat up straight, her eyes wide with fear. "Sit up straight Kiara," her mother whispered fiercely, the thin narrow cane in her hand. "We are going to practice this until you get your posture perfect," she hissed out, as she sat in the seat Mrs. Jones left empty.
Kiara's head bobbed as she swallowed thickly, not allowing her eyes to mist over even once as she pasted a smile on her face and let her fingers take over her actions. Not even once did she look at her mother as she played.
She repeated playing the piece and never stopped even though she knew the front door would open and her father would be calling for her. Her mother, statue still stiffened even more as she looked at the time. The cane sliced through the air with a whooshing sound and landed on Kiara's knuckles again and she faltered, missing a beat.
Her father, Moussa Abdulla closed his eyes at the front door as he stepped in exhaling harshly. Knowing what Salima had done. Kiara never missed a note. Taking off his shoes, he arranged it neatly in the shoe cabinet by the front door. Slipping on his indoor sandals, he walked straight to the kitchen leaving his leather messenger bag by the kitchen counter. Opening the fridge, he pulled out the ice box.
Grabbing a clean kitchen towel, he placed some ice cubes in the towel and walked with purpose to the piano room. Walking in he caught Salima's defiant expression, cane still in hand, as he stood behind Kiara.
"That's enough now, beta-ji. That's enough practice for today," he said gently as he placed his palm on Kiara's stiff shoulders. The silence was defeaning as the music stopped abruptly the moment her fingers stilled on the keys.
"Dinner, Salima," Moussa commanded in a quiet voice, so that she will give him and his daughter a moment alone. He watched as Salima stalked out the door, her head held high as though she had no remorse even though she had hit Kiara, their only child.
"Show me your hands," he said, his hand outstretched as he sat next to her on the piano bench.
"It's nothing, Baba," she said with a bright smile, but she hissed in pain as he pressed the ice on her knuckles.
"What happened?" he asked gently, his brown eyes studying his daughter's face intently.
"Nothing, just my mind was wondering during practice. My focus was elsewhere, my posture was all wrong. Mrs. Jones said it was all mechanical," she grouched, twitching whenever her father shifted the position of the ice.
"What were you thinking about?" he asked her gently, bumping shoulders.
"Just this History project that I have to do for school," she said smiling leaning on her father's broad shoulders.
"Do you still want to do this?" Moussa asked her suddenly. "Say the words and you will never have to pressure yourself to practice this hard anymore. No more recitals, shows, exhibitions..." he said as he tightened his grip on his daughter's hand when he felt her pulling away.
"No! No way, Baba! I've worked so hard for this; it's Carnegie Hall!" she exclaimed her eyes wide with worry.
"I just...," he trailed, as he clasped Kiara's hand tightly, unease radiating off of him. Neither one of them noticed Salima had been standing at the doorway, listening to them.
"Dinner is ready," she said coldly looking between Kiara and Moussa. Moussa lifted himself off the piano bench, his hand gripping onto the kitchen towel with a white knuckled grip. He stalked out of the piano room with his jaw clenched tightly.
Kiara heard her mother follow after her father and breathed a sigh of relief. She quickly closed the piano and collected the notes. She trudged through the house and could hear the distant voices of her parents; her mother's loud and sharp while her father's low but rumbly, like there's a storm brewing under the calm.
She looked at her phone and realised too late that it was dead, plugging it in into the charger, she changed into her pyjamas, not really in the mood for dinner. Rubbing on a calming lotion for her knuckles Kiara slipped on her wrist guards. She removed her glasses and she stretched out on her bed while tucking her feet into the duvet. As she gazed at the pink roses on her vanity, she fell asleep wondering when peony season would come.