Read Open Mic for Free Online

but here’s what we had in common: all of us liked guys. It was so much fun to watch, crush on, and, we hoped, date them.
    The only problem was that we were the first Indians to move into this California neighborhood. In fact, we were the only folk of Asian descent for miles around. Also, there were no signs of any Afros like Dwayne’s. The sea of whiteness didn’t hinder my sisters — turned out plenty of Bay Area college dudes wanted tropical teen arm candy to complement their hippie lifestyles. Sonali and Rupali quickly ascended to expert level in the Guy Game.
    Our parents knew nothing about this pursuit — they planned to arrange our marriages to suitable Indian men once we graduated with appropriate degrees in engineering or biology. Their ignorance was our bliss, we decided, especially when it came to dating. I kept my sisters’ secrets, but I also secretly kept score. A sibling got one point if someone asked her out. A second if he gave her a compliment. A quick kiss won her a third. That’s as far as I counted — going after a fourth point with the same guy would put my sisters in territory too dangerous to fathom. Heck, I figured if Baba caught them winning even one point, they’d be shipped to Kolkata and paraded before a bunch of parentally approved prospective grooms. Thankfully, Ma and Baba stayed out of the loop, and my sisters continued to accrue points right and left.
    Sadly, when it came to me, Dwayne’s invitation was still my only score. And it didn’t seem like that was going to change too soon. At first, the other middle-schoolers in this born-in-the-USA neighborhood didn’t know what to do with me. A few mumbled “hey” from a safe distance; most totally ignored my existence.
    I didn’t get why I immediately ranked so low on the social ladder, but in retrospect it’s not hard to figure out. I would have crushed the competition in a Fresh Off the Boat poster contest. I was the whole FOB package — parents with lilting accents, super-strict father who didn’t accept grades less than an A, house that perpetually smelled like turmeric and cardamom, ultra-traditional mother whose idea of party garb was six-and-a-half yards of silk
saree
and a forehead dot that mesmerized our neighbors. Plus, my skin was a color writers usually describe with food products like chocolate and coffee. At least
my
metaphors were addictive and tasty, right? I found it harder to define my classmates’ hues in my diary. They certainly weren’t milky white, but “skin like deli-sliced turkey” didn’t sound too appealing.
    Surprisingly, the second time I gave myself a point in the game came after a few long weeks of peer-group silence. At lunch one day, a group of five geeks approached me. (You know the kind — precursors to today’s
Lord of the Rings
fans who still collect Pokémon cards by the time they get to college.) My ’70s geeks stood silently for a few minutes, elbowing one another to speak. One finally gathered his courage. “We need an Uhura,” he told me. “We’re heading to our usual spot over there. Want to come along?” The others nodded and waited eagerly for my answer.
    I had no idea what they were talking about. After some questioning, I discovered these were Trekkies of a most intense type. They reenacted episodes of
Star Trek
every day in their corner of the cafeteria, each taking the role of a male character in the six-person cast. The sixth character in the show was a brown girl named Uhura, and it was clear (to them) that I’d been beamed down to repeat her few but important lines. I considered the invitation briefly — Spock was hot — before crushing their hopes.
    The remainder of middle school involved episodes like a painful social dance class in PE, where I overheard a popular guy muttering about “fox-trotting with the Unibrow.”
    Mortified, I ran home to the bathroom mirror. Sure enough, my eyebrows were as impermeable as the fence between California and Mexico. My