Of Cakes and Names

“Hurry the hell up, Jelly!” Anjali’s little brother hollers up the stairs.

“Coming!” She yells down, carefully finishing the wing on her eyeliner. She considers changing her tank top, which bears the lesbian flag, but decides against it. It’s Pride Month.

Anjali makes the concession of adding a sweater to hide the tattoo on her shoulder, then hurries out the door. She bounds down the stairs quickly, and nearly collides with Mohan, who’s sitting on the bottom step, absorbed in a game on his portable Nintendo Switch. She gives him a gentle kick in the side, which he ignores, and hops around him onto the ground.

“I’m ready!” She announces, presenting herself to her mother. “How do I look?”

Radha looks her over critically, then tries to fix her hair.

“Ma,” she complains, batting her hand away.

“You look very nice, kanna,” Radha says, her voice rich and heavy with her Tamil accent. “Only thing I don’t like is this thing,” she gestures to Anjali’s septum piercing. “Everyone will think my daughter is a bull.”

Anjali rolls her eyes, used to this old argument. “It’s the piercing or the tattoo, Mom. Pick your poison.”

She’s only joking, but her mother looks critically between her nose and her concealed shoulder, before finally deciding, with a heavy sigh, “The tattoo. Take out that bloody nose ring.”

Anjali rolls her eyes and shrugs off the sweater before popping out the septum ring with an exaggerated eye roll. “Happy?”

“Verrrrry much so,” her mom says, clapping her hands sarcastically. “Alright, let’s go.”

…

Forty minutes later, Anjali is sitting boredly at a table by herself. She doesn’t even know the person whose grad party this is: Her family moved houses while she was away at school, and this is the high school grad party of one of the new neighbors’ kids.

Someone slips in front of her: “Hey, you look bored.”

Anjali looks up, and is faced with a beautiful girl with a razor sharp jawline, pretty blue eyes, and an undercut.

“Oh, hi!” Anjali says, scrambling to sit up straight, and nearly knocking over her glass of water. She grabs it, embarrassed. “Uh, you can sit down,” she gestures, and then, hastily, “I mean, if you want! You don’t have to. Obviously.” She flushes.

The girl grins at her, slightly buck-toothed. “Yeah, I’ll sit,” she agrees easily, smoothing down the back of her blue dress before sitting down. “This party sucks, huh?”

“There’s a lot of old people,” Anjali agrees, looking around. There are a couple of kids who look to be around Mohan’s age, but she can’t see anyone their age, which is weird for a grad party. “Do you, uh, know the kid this is for?” Anjali asks. She screws up her face, trying to remember the name on the invite. “Jason? Or something.”

The girl goes a little stiff. “No, not really,” she says.

“Me neither,” Anjali says, “My mom dragged me. But free food, right?”

“Free food,” the girl agrees, her eyes skimming the crowd.

“Um, I’m Anjali,” Anjali ventures after a while, wondering if the other girl is gay and if she can tell that Anjali is gay without her septum ring.

The girl looks at her for a second. “Jasmine,” she says, her lips quirking up slightly.

“Cool. I’ve always liked that name. Loved Aladdin as a kid.”

“Me too,” Jasmine says, smiling fully. “You in college?”

“Yeah,” Anjali says. “You?”

“Starting in the fall,” Jasmine tells her.

“Where?”

Jasmine makes a self-deprecating face. “Stanford.”

“Oh God,” Anjali groans. “Eww.”

Jasmine’s grin widens. “Never gotten that reaction before.”

“They waitlisted me,” Anjali explains, scrunching up her nose. “Not that I wanted to go there anyway,” she jokes.

“Oh yeah? Where do you go?”

“Cal,” Anjali sniffs. “You know, a place where we actually have to work for our grades.”

Jasmine throws her head back and laughs. “Oh no, are we mortal enemies?”

“I think we are,” Anjali tells her solemnly. “But don’t worry, you can transfer after you realize you hate slumming it with all the rich slackers, and I won’t hold it against you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jasmine tells her, looking amused. A piece of hair falls in front of her eye.

“I have a septum piercing,” Anjali blurts out. “Usually, I mean. My mom made me take it out. Not, like, permanently. Just for this.” She gestures around vaguely, her face burning. “She let me show my tattoo as a compromise.”

“Yeah?” Jasmine asks, leaning in to inspect the tattoo interestedly. “Is that a Japanese crane?”

“Yeah,” Anjali says, heart beating quickly. “I guess it, like, represents immortality. But I also just thought it looked cool, you know.” It had been her present to herself for coming out to her mom and brother; she’d felt on top of the world, like she could live forever.

“I like it,” Jasmine says, looking up to flash a quick grin. “I also like your shirt.”

“Oh!” Anjali says, looking down. Is that a hint? Does she recognize the lesbian flag? Or does she just like the colors?

Before Anjali can fish for any clues, a woman stalks over, and Jasmine’s face goes tight. The woman is wearing pinchy heels and an equally pinchy look on her face, and she’s carrying a garment bag.

“Hi,” the woman says to Anjali, flashing a clearly fake smile. “I hope you’re having a good time. Can you excuse us for a sec, please?”

“Oh,” Anjali says, caught off-guard. “Um.” She looks at Jasmine, but Jasmine is not looking at her. “Uh, yeah, okay?” Anjali says uncertainly, getting up. “I guess I’ll just go find my brother,” she mumbles. The pinchy woman gives her another fake smile.

As Anjali leaves, the woman turns on Jasmine and hisses, “What the hell are you wearing? Are you trying to embarrass us?”

Anjali frowns to herself. Jasmine is wearing a perfectly respectable blue dress. It’s knee-length and doesn’t show cleavage or anything. Even high school-era Radha would’ve let Anjali leave the house in that.

“Yes, Mom,” Jasmine bites out, her voice low, “Everything I do is to embarrass you.”

Anjali hides a grin.

“I don’t need your cheek,” the woman fumes. She shoves the garment bag at Jasmine. “You’ve had your fun. Go get changed, right now. And wipe that ridiculous stuff off your face, for Christ’s sake. Everyone’s asking where you are.”

“I’m right here,” Jasmine says hollowly. “I keep telling you. Why can’t you see that?”

Anjali backs away, realizing she should feel guilty for eavesdropping, and bumps into a pillar. She slides behind it.

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy,” The woman snaps, her voice carrying before she reins it back into a heated whisper. “Your father and I have given up so much so that you could grow up with the best of everything: Private violin lessons, private swim lessons, a damn Mercedes-Benz on your sixteenth birthday! This is what I get for spoiling you. Your father always said I was too soft on you—”

“Can we not do this here?” Jasmine sounds so tired, and Anjali’s heart aches in sympathy.

In response, the woman once again thrusts the garment bag at her daughter. “Go get changed,” she says tightly. “Wash your face, and come back. Now.” She leans in. “Or no Stanford.”

Anjali’s eyes widen in shock. She and her mother have had some fights in their day, but Radha would never threaten something like that.

At the table, the two women’s eyes are locked on each other, tense, until Jasmine finally slumps and accepts the bag.

Anjali slips back behind the pillar, heart hammering and palms sweating. She definitely should not have been listening. She wipes her sweaty hands on her pants, takes a deep breath, then goes to find Mohan.

She finds him outside, engrossed in his video game.

“Hey, Mog Frog,” she says, bumping his shoulder as she sits down next to him.

“Sup, Jellyfish,” he grunts, then curses as his character dies on the little screen of his Switch. “Damn it! What do you want, Jelly?”

'Nothing.” And then, “I accidentally eavesdropped on this girl fighting with her mom,” she confesses.

“Was she cute?”

“Yeah,” Anjali says drily, and pokes one of his armpits before attempting to tickle him in earnest. “But way out of your league, Mog Frog.”

“If she’s out of my league, then you’ve got no chance,” Mohan gasps, twisting his body to evade her. “Stop it, Jelly! Let’s get some cake, I think they’re cutting it soon.”

“Cake sounds good,” Anjali decides, and grabs Mohan around the shoulders so she can noogie him as they walk back inside.

A man is indeed bringing out a cake when she and Mohan reenter, Mohan swatting at her. It is a big, juicy-looking chocolate number, with the words “CONGRATS JASON!” emblazoned on it in red icing, along with a crude approximation of the Stanford tree.

Jasmine’s mom, the pinchy woman, is standing near the front of the event hall. The man puts the cake on the table in front of her and she cooes at it. “I’ll work this off on the Peloton later,” she laughs, putting a hand on the man’s arm.

As Anjali and Mohan shuffle into the back of the crowd, she spots a figure enter through one of the side doors, head slumped.

“Now, where is Jason?” A woman next to Jasmine’s mom asks. “I haven’t seen him all night!”

Jasmine’s mom’s face looks strained and she looks around desperately, before her eyes alight on the new arrival.

“There he is!” She says exuberantly, holding out an arm. “Come here, Jason!”

The slumped figure raises their head weakly, and Anjali jolts in shock: It’s Jasmine.

Her face is wiped clean of makeup, her mouth turned down, and she looks incredibly uncomfortable in an expensive-looking suit, but it’s definitely Jasmine.

Oh.

Jasmine’s eyes meet Anjali’s for a brief second, and then she looks away, forces a weak smile, and crosses the room to her mom, who wraps an arm around her.

“My son, Jason!” Jasmine’s mom announces, smiling widely. Jasmine winces. “He’s heading to Stanford in the fall! We’re so proud of him, aren’t we?”

Before she knows quite what she’s doing, Anjali is pushing her way through the crowd, all the way to the front. Her blood is boiling. She locks eyes with Radha, who shoots her a look that clearly says what are you doing, but she ignores her mom.

Finally, Anjali reaches the cake. Jasmine’s mom’s smile is fixed, even as her eyes frown slightly at Anjali.

“That’s a stupid cake,” Anjali hears herself say brazenly. And then, locking eyes with Jasmine’s mom, she thrusts a hand forward and plunges it into the cake. She lets her fingers curl in, the icing and sponge giving way as she grabs a fistful of gooey chocolate.

Jasmine’s mom gasps, and the entire hall is silent, but for the squelch of Anjali’s hand in the cake.

“Anjali!” Radha barks, sounding aghast.

Jasmine gapes at her. Anjali rakes her fingers through the cake, decimating the name “Jason.”

“There, I fixed it for you!” Anjali beams to Jasmine’s mom, who is looking at her in open-mouthed shock and horror.

“Oh my Lord, I am so sorry,” Anjali’s mom babbles, rushing forward, grabbing Anjali’s arm. “I don’t know what came over her; we’ll of course pay for the cake—”

Anjali raises her head and winks at Jasmine.

Jasmine blinks back, bewildered, and then, slowly, she smiles. Her smile broadens until it’s just the two of them, grinning at each other, amidst the din of mothers yelling and fathers harrumphing.

Jasmine ducks out from under her mom’s arm. “It’s okay, Aunty,” she assures Radha, “No harm done.” She turns to Anjali. “Wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

Anjali extracts her hand with another squelch and licks the chocolatey goop off her palm. “Absolutely.”