Page 99 of Reasons We Break

“I looked for them already,” Simran says. Her mother mutters, “Yeah, right,” and marches upstairs. Simran trails after her. To her surprise, her mom wrenches open Simran’s dresser drawer and instantly produces a glasses case. “Did you look with your eyes closed?”

“Mom, I literally can’tsee.”

Her mother ignores this and pops open the case. “How many times do I have to tell you, your life would be so much easier if you kept your room clean?”

As usual, she’s right. Not that that’s going to change her ways. Simran puts the glasses on. They’re an old style, too small, and the prescription isn’t accurate anymore, but she can now read the framed certificates on her wall.

“Simran.”

“Mm-hmm.” She squints at a line of text on the city volunteerism award.

“Where’d you get this?”

Simran turns, her world now in focus somewhat, only for it to fall apart when she sees her mother holding Rajan’s hoodie.

It’s half-turned inside out from when he took it off. Black, oversize, too big for her. Picked up off the floor.

Her mother stares at her glacially.

Terror, sheer terror, grips her. “It’s a friend’s.” There’s no point pretending it’s hers.

“A friend,” her mother repeats. “Or, a boyfriend?”

This horrifying question is framed casually. Almost like this would be okay. Like the consequences wouldn’t blow up Simran’s entire life. TJ’s situation would look cute in comparison.

“No,” Simran says around her dry mouth. “A classmate loaned it to me for a presentation, because I spilled tea on my shirt.”

“Where was your jacket?”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“You always bring one. You say it’s always cold at the university.”

Simranhadsaid that. “I forgot that day.”

“I see. Why didn’t you give this back after?”

“He left before I could.”

“Who?”

“Jassa.”

A pause. “Jassa Singh?”

“Yes.” In front of her eyes, her mother relaxes slightly. Relieved, Simran extends her hand. “I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.”

Her mother glances down at it. “I’ll wash it first.”

Simran suddenly remembers the bullet hole. “Oh, I’ll do it. I have lots of other things in this colour to wash.”

Her mother’s voice is pleasant. “No, no. I’ll wash it special.”

Simran hangs in limbo for a second, wanting to insist but knowing she can’t. A beat passes. Then another. Finally, she drops her arm.

Her mother disappears with Rajan’s hoodie. Simran closes her door softly behind her, then sinks to the carpet, lightheaded. A minute passes. Then ten. Did she get away with it?

The washer turns on downstairs. Simran awaits footsteps returning to her door. Jassa doesn’t wear hoodies, really. And he’s even less likely to wear a hoodie with a hole in it. Or...if there was blood on it...Simran squeezes her eyes shut. Time is limited.Think.