“Teachers and his tutor. Apparently, he’s most focused during art class and story time.”
“Maybe I should work on cracking his picky eating.”
Peter’s brow rises. “What do you mean? Didn’t you get the list?”
Hiram frowns. “What list?”
“Of course she didn’t give it to you.”
“Explain.”
“Antaris got a walk-through of the school kitchens. They made a list of everything he likes. It was given to Simran, but I guess she didn’t pass it on to you.”
“No, she didn’t.” Antaris barely touched the meat loaf and mashed potatoes he made last night, but hedidcatch him eating baby carrots and apple slices later. He didn’t say anything at the time, just felt grateful his kid was eating. Meanwhile, there was a goddamn list.
Is he surprised? No.
His mother has always liked to control the narrative, twisting details so she comes out on top. She’d rather let Hiram spiral into failure, to swoop in like a hero with a solution she already had.
He excuses himself to call his mother, who doesn’t answer. He tries twice more; the last call is declined after one ring. A strategic avoidance tactic. Irritated, he calls his father, who answers and tells him that his mother is playing games, but can’t remember where she went. Hiram knows, though.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asks Peter. “Watch him while I step out?”
“Of course.”
After telling Antaris that he will return, just like he wrote on his note, which earns him a cautious look, Hiram leaves.
Simran is a creature of habit, like Hiram. She loves board games, and has a short list of places she frequents. Hiram pulls up outside Zephyr, the members-only lounge his mother has frequented since his childhood. The sign outside confirms she’s probably here. It’s Mancala Day. Simran prefersPallankuli, but this is the closest she’s found in America. The entry fee is exorbitant for nonmembers, but Hiram pays with his Imprint and ignores the hostess asking where he’d like to sit. He’s not staying.
Inside, the ambience is a strange mix of pretentious displays of wealth and the casualness of a bar. Music hums beneath the chatter of the city’s elite. Some drink and laugh; others gamble over pachisi gameswith more money than most people earn in a month. He spots her instantly, surrounded by older women, a white porcelain teacup in her hand—masala chai, knowing her—smile wide and gleaming.
It falters when she sees him, then snaps back into place, too tight. “Hiram, love. What brings you here?”
The table turns to look. He flashes a polite, practiced smile. “Afternoon, ladies. I just wanted to borrow my mother. It won’t be long.”
“Take her,” one woman says. “She’s been beating us for the last hour.”
“I cannot help that you are all sore losers,” Simran preens.
They playfully mock her as she leads Hiram to a quiet corner. Her smile vanishes the moment they’re alone. She’s not happy with him.Good. It’s mutual.
“How rude of you to barge into my game. What is it that you need?”
“The list.”
“What list?”
Hiram stares at her. “The last thing I’d ever describe you as is stupid.”
Simran’s eyes harden, but she pulls a folded paper out of the pocket of her navy saree. Hiram scans it, folds it, then slips it into his jacket pocket.
“Where is Antaris?”
“At home painting with Peter.”
“I have several friends with grandchildren his age. Th—”
“No,” Hiram cuts her off. “You’re not doing this today.”
