RANI PATEL IN FULL EFFECT is a work of fiction. All names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagaination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.
RANI PATEL IN FULL EFFECT. Copyright © 2016 by Sonia Patel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Patel, Sonia.
Title: Rani Patel in full effect / by Sonia Patel.
Description: First edition. | El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, [2016]. |
Summary: Rani Patel, almost seventeen and living on remote Moloka’i island, is oppressed by the cultural norms of her Gujarati immigrant parents but when Mark, an older man, draws her into new experiences, red flags abound.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016013016 | ISBN 9781941026519 (e-book)
Subjects: | CYAC: Self-esteem—Fiction. | East Indian Americans—Fiction. |
Immigrants—Fiction. | Sexual abuse—Fiction. | Hip-hop—Fiction. | Family life—Hawaii—Fiction. | Molokai (Hawaii)—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Sexual Abuse. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Marriage & Divorce. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / General. Classification: LCC PZ7.7.P275 Ran 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016013016
Cover Illustration by Zeke Peña
Design & Layout by Rogelio Lozano / Loco Workshop
Hats off to AMBER AVILA, JILL BELL, STEPHANIE FRESCAS & SANTIAGO MONTOYA.
We pushed you around, but you learned quick.
Go interns!
For Hansa, my mother, my foundation.
For James, my husband, my inspiration.
CONTENTS
Widow
Pacific Eyes
Smoking Rose
Kanemitsu’s
Guilt
Butter Pecan
Still a Loser
Three Strikes
Water Over Family
Mom’s Emancipation
Rap Saved My Life Yo!
Butterflies High on Coke
Atheist Nightmares
The Professor and Me
Fake Ass Bravado
My Hero
Crush My Crush
Royal Elevation
Love Drug Junkie
Evolution
Playing With Fire
Hold Up, Lemme Take My Hoops Off
Spittin’ Da Truth
Papohaku Pleasure and Pain
The Sins of the Father
Love Supreme
The Peace of the Roses
Schooled
True Colors
Love and War
Socially Conscious Sexiness
Like Father, Like Daughter
Bright Flower
It Ain’t Pakalolo
The Dark Side
Tlc
Broken Promise Beat Down
The Counsel of My Boyz
Love Drug Rehab
Gauntlet
A Fresh Start
Love Outlawed
B-Girl Stance
But I Love You
Righteousness
Rani Revolution
Author’s Note
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Moloka’i, 1991
I caught him. Red handed. In the alley behind Kanemitsu’s.
My father and the barely out-of-adolescence homewrecker, making out.
I can’t stop bawling.
I grab the scissors and electric razor from the closet. I rush to the deck of our pole house, almost tripping over the leg of the piano bench. The ocean air stuffs itself in my nose. The sticky breeze doesn’t do anything to cool me. I flip on the light, toss my black Clark Kent glasses onto the table and start cutting. Clumps of hair and sloppy tears cover my face. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I just cut. That’s me, a cutting slashing machine.
When I’m done, I throw the scissors onto the table and take hold of the razor. I switch it on and shave my scalp clean.
I’m friggin’ bald now. I catch my breath and blow and push the little hairs from my face with my breath and my shaking hands. I turn off the light, stand under the starry sky and imagine that the electric razor in my hand is a Star Trek communicator. And I’m the alluring Lieutenant Ilia. Cocoa skin, oval eyes, and high cheek bones now accentuated by my bare head, made all the more resplendent by the daggers coming out of my eyes.
I put on my glasses, searching for the outline of Lanai across the wide Moloka’i channel. I find it. My index finger and eyeballs trace it. I relax and listen to the Pacific’s gentle grazing of the naupaka on the miniscule patch of south shore beach below. My troubles and my hair are gone, at least for this minute.
Sniffling interrupts the tranquility.
It’s my mom. She’s behind me. She says, “I heard the buzzing, Rani.”
The wooden deck planks creak as she takes a step closer. Then I feel her rough fingers running down the back of my head. I don’t turn around. Or move.
“Betta, why?” she asks in a heavy Gujju accent. The concern in her voice is unsettling. I haven’t heard that before.
Really? I had to shave my head for you to notice me?
She walks around me, inspects me as if I’m a statue. “Widows are forced to shave their heads in India,” she mumbles. She crosses her arms and pauses, ruminating. Then she laments, “Vidhwa ne kussee kimut na hoi. Thuu vidhwa nathee.”
Yeah, Mom, I feel just like a worthless widow. A kimut-less vidhwa.
I picture myself in a thin, white cotton sari. It’s draped over my bald head. I’m standing close to a scorching funeral pyre. Like countless other widows in India, I’m ready to fling myself into the conflagration. For a