#vm.e

He still had half a mind to sit out of this one. Being sentenced to wash dishes didn’t sound completely awful. Tiring and laborious, sure. But awful? That was yet to be determined. Given that the threat of menial labor came after their day at the greenhouse, however… He was sure the rest would choose to stand in the center of the room, subjected to 16 pairs of eyes.

Joining in the discordant applause, Vikram looked on as Mrs. Tristan pulled out the next name out of her head. Alison. Not him, which meant he could still sit in the shadows and continue mulling over his decision. He stared at the table in front of him, zoning out as he played with his food.

“Vikram dear, are you participating?”

Without his knowledge, his name had been drawn out of the hat. That either meant Alison finished her performance and he missed it in its entirety or she had withdrawn. How long did he not pay attention, anyway? He took a moment to compose himself, looking up from his plate and meeting Mrs. Tristan’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he mumbled dumbly, not immune to her expectant gaze. It was always hard to say no to Mrs. Tristan, having relied on her all those years he spent in Woodrow. Clearing his throat, he nodded his head in assent.

“Yes,” loud and clear this time, “sorry, I’ll make my way there now.”

“Perfect!” She clapped her hands, equal parts relieved and delighted that he didn’t refuse. You could never be too sure with Vikram, in spite of his apparent predictability at times. “Come now, sweetheart, I can’t wait to watch what you’ve prepared.”

Unfortunately, Vikram thought sullenly as he walked over to the makeshift stage, I haven’t prepared anything. He didn’t share the same musical talents as Reece, Celia or Angus. River as well, odd as his performance was. As far as talent shows went, the acts presented thus far were pretty much standard fare. Celebration of Richard’s love of the arts, indeed. Too bad he couldn’t just pluck any of the pieces he made in Ceramics Club as a teen and showcase them here. By this point, everyone had already seen those.

Finally taking center stage, standing in front of people who were simultaneously familiar and strange, all Vikram could feel was his own heartbeat thudding in his ribcage. Awkwardness and a general unease encompassed his lanky body, as much as he tried to present himself otherwise. The confrontation with Talia that night aside, he hadn’t felt this way in years. Not even when he first started giving lectures in front of hundreds of students. 

“Well…” he started off, stalling a little for time as he quickly racked his brain for something he could do on the spot. “I can’t say I can hold a tune like some of us, even though I might have pestered you guys to teach me when we were younger.”

There’s a wry laugh at that — his own. If anyone else had reacted, Vikram couldn’t hear while he balanced being in his head and being present. Always a toss-up. He couldn’t have both without giving up one thing or another. 

“It’s a shame I didn’t keep up with any arts or crafts. Watching the lot of you performing while having dinner was an amazing experience. Honestly, they deserve another round of applause,” he paused for a bit, clapping as well. His posture straightened, confidence growing the more he spoke. “I can’t wait to watch what the rest have lined up as I finish my dinner.”

Knowing his own tendency for going down a rabbit hole every now and then, he had picked up a few too many things over the years. At best, they were mildly useful and at worst? They served no purpose, shelved away to the back of his mind. Maybe it was time to blow the dust off at least one of them. 

“It got me thinking: the dinner we had together on Monday featured some of his favorite dishes. Dessert was apple pie à la mode,” Vikram squinted a bit then, the spotlight suddenly feeling a little too bright; the segue into what he wanted to do a little too forced for his liking. Being put on the spot really tested the limits of his creativity. Perhaps he should’ve done an introductory class on How to Bullshit instead of Physics, with the way this was going.

“So here’s my favorite slice of pi. Just one hundred digits of it.” Light work, really. But boring them with anything more than that would be overkill, wouldn’t it? “Three point one four one five nine two six five three five…”

“…eight nine seven nine three two three eight four six two six…”

“… four three three eight three two seven nine five zero two eight…”

“…eight four one nine seven one six nine three nine nine three…”

“…seven five one zero five eight two zero nine seven four nine…”

“…four four five nine two three zero seven eight one six four…”

“…zero six two eight six two zero eight nine nine eight six…”

“…two eight zero three four eight two five three four two one…”

“Interested? I don’t believe we’ve met,” he mused absentmindedly, resigned to the same, tired conversation. He inserted the key to his mailbox and turned it, pulling the door open before reaching in to grab his small stack of letters. The mailbox was promptly shut and locked again.

“She was visiting and mentioned seeing you in the lift, so I thought why not set the two of you up! Oh, you two would make such a cute couple. Don’t you…” Shuffling through the letters, Mrs. Singh’s fervent pitch was slowly tuned out as he sorted the letters into urgent and unimportant (or as he liked to put it: things he could reply to whenever he was free, which was few and far in between). A familiar looping cursive gave him pause, the creamy texture and color of the envelope confirming his suspicions. Return address: Woodrow House. This was a level higher than urgent. Vikram ripped the envelope open with a faint sense of dread, pulling the letter free.

Dear Vikram, It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today…

The creeping dread set in immediately, gloom weighing down the air in the room. It was almost suffocating, as he struggled to take a steady breath in. Some part of him wished this was an elaborate setup of someone’s sick and twisted idea of a joke. Yet the handwriting was unmistakably Mrs. Tristan’s, and she was never one to tread lightly around such matters. His hand gripped at the letter firmly, skimming through the contents of the letter as his jaw clenched tighter with every word read. Just how… He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Dr. Mehta? Are you alright? You look like someone just—” Died. The word was never said, left to hang at the tip of her tongue as she was on the receiving end of his hateful glare. Taken aback, the woman watched quietly as he scrubbed his face in exasperation, seemingly much more haggard and exhausted than he had been a couple minutes ago, and sighed. What a pitiful man… All lonely too. If she had scrutinized him a little closer, she would’ve noticed the tremor in his hands. 

“Sorry. I need to go.” 

Vikram wasn’t really all that sorry, but the importance of courtesy was ingrained in him whether he liked it or not. She was left sputtering as he swiftly exited the mailroom; walking briskly at first before progressing into a jog, then fully leaping over steps as he made his way up to his flat. His hands shook as he tried to unlock the door, the key missing the keyhole a few times. “Fuckfuckfuck…” was the newfound mantra of a man who had trouble believing in the truth even though the facts were laid out bare for him. When the door finally unlocked, Vikram quickly entered and slammed the door shut, breathing hard. In, out, in out… 

The letter’s crushed up and thrown to the side as he made a few calls. The lead researcher, the colleague who asked him to give an introductory course on Quantum Mechanics, that one person who asked to get dinner together… No, that could just be a text. Then, how to get there; a one and half hour train ride to London and an eight hour flight from London to New York. At the earliest, probably tomorrow. The amount of tasks to do just kept growing.

You busy yourself the only way you know how: work. Grief is a strange thing to process when you have yet to accept the dying. It doesn’t feel real unless the dead body’s right in front of your eyes as proof; kind of like Schrödinger’s cat. Richard is still alive in your mind. If you don’t go back to New York, to Woodrow, he could possibly be just a call away. The thought briefly sat in his head, lingering as he threw items into the suitcase haphazardly. It’s such a dangerous thought to entertain. To have hope, only to be crushed by reality. Out of an inane need for confirmation, he picked up the letter from the floor all balled-up. Unfurled it and smoothing out the wrinkles, then read it word for word once again. (For all his hoping, they remained unchanged.)

…our dear Richard has passed away… …bid him farewell…

The sensation of disconnect was just as overwhelming the second time, threatening to swallow the very ground he stood on. It was just for a few minutes but it felt like hours had passed. Vikram had never personally dealt with the complexities of death before, only ever hearing about it from people or discussed in books, and he never had people to grieve for. When he had thought to search for his biological parents in India, he found out they had passed away years ago. All it took was a few phone calls. How do you grieve for people who were essentially strangers? This was truly the first time. Even after death, it seemed Richard was intent on giving him a lesson.

VIKRAM MEHTA, AGED TWELVE —

You wished your life were easier than this.

The odds were stacked against you, you know this. Being touted as the poster kid for the Boones’ generosity, and presented as some kind of poor orphan they picked up from the slums of Mumbai. Not wholly true of course, but it’s not as if you had grasped much of the language at that point to set the facts straight. How they hand picked you from a crowd of neat, well-manicured children, that you were picked because they found it fascinating that you had taught yourself some English with nothing but the books available to you. Even if you did, what of it?

In the end, fascination hadn’t been enough. They grew tired of your countless questions and the incessant prejudice from the neighbors (maybe the adoption would’ve been received better if they still lived in the city but this was way out in the sticks). Then there came the news of a baby on the way. When compared to the other kids in the area, you were different and around these parts, different stuck out like a sore thumb.

Different was terrifying in the face of normal.

That’s how you ended up here, after they had dissolved the adoption by spinning some tale that you posed a danger to their newborn baby. Another orphanage, another set of children you had to get along with. Yet from the get go, you were an outlier. How you behaved, why you were dropped off, the color of your skin, the way you looked; there was always a reason. You never would have fit in, even if you tried your best. The odds just kept stacking up against you.

That’s how you ended up here, in the bathroom, curled up in a fetal position as they took turns stomping and kicking at you while screaming names. The kids here are full of rage, and have deemed you fit to be their punching bag. Whatever mettle you may have started out with slowly whittled down as you learned not everyone who worked here actually cared about the children’s well-being. Your well-being included. Not to mention, it always got worse after you ‘squealed like a pig’ to the adults. You knew better now.

“Hey, what’s going on in that head of yours?!” Ringleader sneered, baring his ugly teeth. He signaled the other boys to cease their assault on you, squatting down near your head as he deigned to lower himself down to your level. He poked at your forehead spitefully, forcefully prodding after each word spoken. “What’d I tell you about thinking, huh?”

A pause. Your mind sluggishly provided the words, ‘not to’, but you weren’t sure if he actually wanted an answer after last time, when you answered one of his questions, and it was promptly dismissed as backtalk.

“Hah… Look at this little bitch. Hey, know-it-all, you raise your hands all willy-nilly in class ‘cos you know all the answers to the questions, don’t ya? And you don’t wanna answer mine?”

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, I guess.

“I reckon it’s because you ain’t Heather,” Right Hand interjected, which caused the other boys to guffaw and Ringleader to lick his lips thoughtfully.

“Huh. That’s true, ain’t it? You’ve been staying back after class to go on little dates with Heather.”

Snickers are all abound in the bathroom, echoing off the walls and penetrating your eardrums. All because Miss Perkins had grown excited over your smarts and had scheduled tutoring lessons with Heather as a pretext to get her to persuade you to join the school’s Academic Decathlon team. It was nice when the teachers suddenly started asking you to join their competition teams because it meant a valid reason to get away from them for a while. Was it wrong to have wanted that?

“So you won’t mind if I do this, then.”

Ringleader slowly rose to his feet and kicked you squarely in the solar plexus. All the other kicks had hurt but his had you gasping for air, sputtering and wheezing for dear life. If you were a football during one of Ringleader's kickoffs, you would already be hurtling through the air. Instead, your hands were grabbed as you attempted to hunch over in pain, your limp body dragged to rest against the wall upright on your feet. Ringleader must have noticed some semblance of question on your face as he called someone with a jerk of his head. “C'mere, Glasses. Tell the kid what he did wrong.”

Your eyes were bleary as they opened at the familiar name, looking up to catch a glimpse of the silhouette of a figure in oversized clothes and the aforementioned glasses, which had tape around the nose bridge. Still so timid even after he had gained a few extra inches, and promoted to lackey after your arrival.

(Maybe it’s the guilt.)

“...his girlfriend.”

“Stop mumbling before you piss me off too.”

“Heather’s his girlfriend… So don’t even think about it!” He shouted hotly, cheeks flushed and fists clenched by his sides. Slinging his arm over Glasses’ shoulders, Ringleader chuckled. “Naw, Glasses, you don’t gotta be so hard on our little Vik over here. You know he wouldn’t know since his only friend is the teach. Isn’t that right, Vikky?”

Oh. Was that what all this was?

“Yeah,” you croaked out, resigned to your fate. Judging from the sinister look in his eyes, it would be better for you to speak up now. However it only made him grin gleefully from ear to ear, like a child who had finally found his favorite toy. (A certain sort of twisted truth within that statement.) Ringleader shoved Glasses forward, causing the smaller boy to stumble closer to you.

“But I guess… Someone’s gotta teach him a lesson, right?” Wrapping one of Glasses’ fists with his own, Ringleader delivered a jab square on your nose. Immediately, ringing sounded in your ears as you staggered forward, a little dazed by the hit.

“Say thanks, Vik!” An enthusiastic goon hollered.

“I think he needs a little more, don’t he love a good lesson?”

Through blurry vision, you observed Glasses as Ringleader whispered something in his ear before patting both his shoulders and stepped back. Apparent conflict twisted his face for a good while before he ultimately came to a decision and slipped something on his finger. As his punch connected, you felt something slice into your skin, barely missing your right eye. It was a solid cross punch, that much you could appreciate even as your head spun and you fell back onto the floor again, completely losing your balance.

“Fuck! Look at that.”

Unbeknownst to you, the gash under your eye began to bleed almost uncontrollably. While they had planned to injure you to further intimidate you, the unexpected seriousness of your injury scared them in turn. The boys turned and ran, not wanting to be held responsible, leaving Glasses shell-shocked at what he had caused.

“Ah, sorry… I’m so sorry, Vikram…” He cried, wiping at the blood on the floor. “I just wanted to– I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry…” As your vision of the ceiling eventually faded into darkness, you absentmindedly thought it was a little silly of him to apologize. You never really blamed the guy. He had been in your position once, though never quite as brutal. If anything, the blood was on the older boys’ hands. If the two of you had met elsewhere, maybe he could have been one of your first friends. What fancy.