Sudha Balagopal
Red Hibiscus
The school principal, Mr. Noss, makes me sit in his office while he calls Amma. “Gowri is a menace, Mrs. Shekar,” he says.
The word evokes images of the squiggles I made in explosive red at age four when my scrawl danced against the cream of our dining room wall. In my box of chewed, blunt and broken crayons, that vivid shade was my favorite. I've never forgotten that hue, like a blast, like my Appa's anger. He, too, called me a menace that day.
I hear Amma on the speaker phone. “We don't pay the high tuition at your school to be insulted, Mr. Noss,” she says.
We students refer to the principal as Nosey. The taciturn gentleman has a mouth that turns down at the edges; he utters words through clenched teeth. We believe that's because he's British, an anomaly at a school in Phoenix.
“We have rules,” he says. “Not defacing school property is one. Gowri has spray-painted a school wall. That's unacceptable.”
Amma defends me. “Are you sure? My daughter's never been a troublemaker.”
She strewed newspapers on the floor of my room when I was young. I held the fat crayons in my fists, one in each hand, and streaked color over the black-printed words.
“I should expel her for vandalism. Come. Right away.” Nosey's tight words land like a slap.
“Fuck,” I hiss before I remember Appa said that word should never exit my mouth. “Uck, Uck, Uck.” Anger, frustration and defeat churn in my belly. I throw my backpack on the floor.
What Nosey labels vandalism, is protest. I'm blood-hot mad, because the school fired my beloved art teacher, Ms. Garcia, last week. My jeans are paint-spattered. I remove the stained gloves, comb my fingers through my hair.
When I see Appa walking across the parking lot with Amma, my fingers turn icy. Of course he has returned early from work today; the Deys are coming to dinner. Appa will be displeased. He won't let me to get my driver's license when I turn sixteen in three months. I'll be stuck with the stupid learner's permit and an adult with me in the vehicle when I drive. He'll ground me forever.
“Uck, Uck, Uck.”
For my fifth birthday, Amma bought me a box of color pencils. I used them to draw a border under the window sill in my room. Appa didn't notice until he went into my room to replace a bulb. He parted the curtains to let in light, blink-blinked at the dots, dashes and diamonds I'd drawn in grape purple and cotton candy pink.
“You bought her those pencils,” he roared at Amma. “Why must you encourage nonsense?”
I wept then, not because Appa said my “idiotic” decoration would bring down the value of our house, but because he ordered me to scrub off the design with soap and water.
Nosey doesn't greet my parents. “Let me show you what your daughter has done,” he says. They lean closer to hear his clipped words, then follow him. I'm left behind. The lingering dusk-sun's light is weak but no matter how hard I cross my fingers, I'm sure my words will be visible on the wall: We Need Art To Feed the
Nosey apprehended me before I could finish the quote.
In kindergarten Amma let me graduate from day-old newspaper to grocery store brown-paper sacks, in first grade to junk-mail envelopes and by third grade, she offered me used printer paper. Amma, an accountant, works from home and is busier during tax season. She smiled when my drawing kept me occupied.
Neither of my parents has an appreciation for art.
I hear Nosey and my parents returning, haul the backpack over my shoulders, brace myself.
Nosey says,“I need your assurance that this obscenity will be gone by Monday morning,”
“I give you my word,” Appa tells him.
He'll probably hire a painter to erase what I've done and yell about the cost. A wave of panic ascends from my belly.
“Uck, Uck, Uck!”
When Ms. Garcia walked into our classroom on the first day of school this year, the boys stared at her tapered skirt and athletic legs. The girls drooled over her turquoise earrings. Like a mantra, I repeated what she wrote on the board: We Need Art To Feed The Soul.
The previous teacher napped at his desk, let us create what we wanted, doled out generous grades. Ms. Garcia proved to be the opposite: passionate, knowledgeable and exacting.
She took us on a field trip to the art museum―none of us had ever been―where we studied an exhibition of paintings by her friend, Tanya Loft. The artist's vibrant market scenes from countries like Vietnam, Thailand and Sri Lanka transported me. I could almost hear the musical chatter of foreign languages, feel the texture of the melons, smell the ripening bananas. I moved away from my group to stand before the painting of a vendor seated under the shade of an umbrella, the sun casting a swath of light on her mound of cucumbers.
During the introduction, we learned Tanya Loft attended Wyatt Design Institute. Desire ignites in my chest. Could I dream so big? Could I hope?
“How can I to go to Wyatt, Ms. Garcia?”
“Well, start building your portfolio,” she said. “It's not enough to have talent. It's not enough to have desire. Show them.”
She taught us to coax emotion from art whether we used water color, oils, charcoal, or regular pencils. “The point is not to simply hurry up and finish. Linger, marinate, dwell.”
Days before she was fired, she said we shouldn't be afraid to experiment with surfaces. She lifted her sleeve all the way up to her shoulder and showed us her glorious tattoo―a red hibiscus with silky petals, dew-drops clinging to them like pearls.
“This is art on skin,” she said. “Look at the exquisite detailing.”
The boys hovered near her soft shoulder as if to study the intricate design. The girls gushed over her garnet earrings. I stared at the flower, tried to memorize the shy droop.
Next thing we heard, a passing staff member had reported Ms. Garcia. Whispers sprouted wings, whooshed around the school's corridors: the school has a strict no-tattoo policy for teachers; she shouldn't have lifted her sleeve quite so high; she should have maintained a physical distance from her students.
Appa inserts the key into the ignition, doesn't start the silence-wrapped car. I rub my knuckles together. Just when I think we're going to sit in the car all evening, he starts driving and ranting.
“This is beyond shameful. This is completely disgraceful. Gowri, you have a major blemish on your school record when you should be thinking about your SAT scores.” His angry spittle sprays the steering. “How will any good college admit you?” He slams the steering wheel with his fist, turns to Amma. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You were the one who got her the colors and crayons and all that garbage. You watched her run that horrible orange on our white leather couch. When I asked Gowri to wipe it off, you did it for her.”
From the back seat, I can see Amma twisting her ring. I've learned she chooses the right moments to confront Appa: he shouldn't be tired, he shouldn't be stressed with work issues, he shouldn't be hungry. I shouldn't be around.
I press my lips together. We're about a minute from home.
As Appa steps out of the vehicle, he says, “We have company for dinner this evening.” His eyes turn into slits and his jaw tightens. “You will stay in your room and do your SAT practice. I want to see the score later.”
Through my room's closed door, I hear my parents heap-pour words over each other.
“Call the Deys and cancel. Tell them something came up,” Amma says.
“I will do no such thing,” Appa shouts.
“But don't you think we should talk to Gowri, see what she has to say?”
“I'll deal with her later.”
I jump into the shower. When I come out, the altercation has not ceased.
“Be reasonable. This is not drugs or alcohol,” Amma says.
“It's serious enough for Mr. Noss to consider expulsion,” Appa says. “Fact is, you didn't set priorities.”
“She painted a wall at school. We can resolve this,” Amma says.
“And what happens the next time and the time after?”
“See, this is what you do. You extrapolate,” Amma says.
A door slams. The eruption stops.
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten anything since the grilled cheese sandwich at lunch. The alluring scent of Basmati rice hangs in the house. I catch the fragrance of coconut from a curry.
A soft knock sounds on my door. Silverware tinkles against the plate Amma leaves outside.
The words of the test blur.
I miss my teacher, Ms. Garcia. She spoke my art language; she said I could apply to Wyatt.
My brush handles are adorned in dried-up colors: startling navy, temperate teal, muddy ochre. A plastic bowl that served as my palette flaunts jewel-like blobs of encrusted paint. Everything I've created under her instruction is hidden under the bed, my portfolio wrapped in a dupatta. I painted the dupatta when Ms. Garcia instructed us to decorate fabric. The dull green scarf came alive after I created a paisley border.
I haven't gathered the courage to discuss my plans with Appa. An impossibility when he's been tossing out statements like, “Art cannot offer a regular income. It cannot give financial security.”
Amma always backs him up. “You can always pick up hobbies later, dear.”
She doesn't have any.
My classmates and I huddle-plotted to bring Ms. Garcia back. We launched “Operation Protest.”
I volunteered to paint the wall because no one else would, which meant I carried the paints and the accessories. As I worked, twelve of my classmates shielded me in a wide semi-circle.
Until they saw Nosey making his way to the wall. Then, they scampered off. Every single one of them.
I got caught with color on my gloves. “Uck! Uck! Uck!”
Our doorbell rings.
Mr. Dey has an authoritative manner and Mrs. Dey squeaks like a rubber duck. I'm not sure if his commanding presence is a by-product of Mr. Dey's position―Appa tells me he's slated to become the next CEO of his company―or whether he achieved his rank as a result of his bearing. Appa and he grew up together, attended the same undergraduate engineering school back in India. My father reveres success. Sometimes I think he's friends with Mr. Dey only because of his title.
Their voices waft into my room.
Glasses clink. “Cheers,” Appa says.
The last time I saw Mrs. Dey, she flaunted stretched, wrinkle-free skin and a tight smile. Mr. Dey had a gray beard and shaggy eyebrows, both in need of a trim.
I know my test score tonight will be abysmal. Appa will probably send me to coaching classes. I foresee a series of weekends filled with techniques to boost the numbers. “No!” I groan, knock my electric pencil sharpener to the floor. Shavings spill; some carry hints of color from pencils I've worn down to stubs.
Outside, Mrs. Dey says she went to Senator McNeil's fundraiser lunch. “Cindy, his wife, and I play tennis at the club you know.”
If I were Amma, I'd say, “I don't know Cindy. I don't play tennis. I'm not a member of any club, nor do I want to be.”
Appa inquires about the Deys' son.
“Keshav loves Boston,” Mr. Dey says. “Harvard is perfect for him. He got into Yale, too, but he chose Harvard.”
“I'll need your advice when Gowri starts applying,” Appa says.
My heart panic flutters. I want to travel like Tanya Loft, I want to depict life in other countries.
“Uck, Uck, Uck!”
My phone ding-ding-dings with messages.
Sorry we left you.
Nosey's crazy.
What did he do?
Police?
He's sca . . .ary!
Were you arrested?
We're still friends?
Are you mad?
I receive bushels of emojis. I delete them all.
From my window, I can see the Deys' yellow sports car on our driveway, Amma's car on its left.
The men are louder now, after a couple of drinks. Appa keeps Scotch in the house because that's Mr. Dey's preference. Amma is walking back and forth from the kitchen. I hear the kitchen faucet run, the oven door open, then close, and chairs scraping against tile in the dining room.
Mrs. Dey tells Amma she had her blouse special-embroidered. “I like to wear one-of-a-kind,” she says. “Nothing worse than going to a party only to find another lady in the same outfit.”
I check my backpack―flashlight, stencil, tape, paints, gloves, apron, mask, rags, goggles―before I slip into the kitchen. Amma's keys are hanging on the hook. I grab them, stand still. Everyone's at the dining table.
The car engine sounds inordinately loud as I turn the key in the ignition.
I hold my breath.
Appa will go incandescent if he finds out I left. I'm supposed to be in my room. I'm supposed to ask permission before I leave the house. I'm supposed to drive with an adult. “Uck, Uck, Uck!”
I shift the car into drive.
I park on the street by the football field. The lights from the empty field are bright. I won't need the flashlight.
There's no one around, not even old Pedro, our short-sighted janitor with his shuffling gait. I shoulder my backpack, make my way to the wall which will be covered up by personality-less beige paint within forty-eight hours.
I run my hand over the rough, uneven surface of the wall. Adding the word “Soul” to the quote is the easy part. It will be harder to recreate Ms. Garcia's hibiscus. I didn't take a photo when she lifted her sleeve to show us the tattoo. My flower may not turn out as dewy or as detailed.
I look at my phone. Time's sprinting. I must slide back into my room before my parents notice, before the Deys leave. I'm holding the stencil and tape in my hands when, from the corner of my eye, I catch an unexpected brighness. The lights are on in Nosey's office.
“Uck, Uck, Uck!”
My knees want to fold. If Nosey finds me now, this will be the end. The end of my Wyatt dream. I start shoving everything into my backpack, stop.
“When unfinished, a piece of art is like an incomplete sentence, a thought left hanging,” Ms. Garcia said.
I cannot, should not, stop. Not now. I tape the stencil to the wall. Once it sticks, I hold my right hand with my left to still the shaking. I reach, I bend, I sweep paint. When I finish, I gulp air before I yank off the tape, remove the stencil. I thrust everything into my backpack, glance at my flower. My hibiscus is lame. Messy. Ill-defined.
“Uck, Uck, Uck!”
I fast-tiptoe on the concrete path to muffle my footsteps. At the car, I press my hand to my chest.
I take another look at the wall.
The hue of the hibiscus on the wall is the explosive red of my childhood, the petals a rich crimson. A hint of turmeric yellow offers sunshine to the stamen.
I pull out my phone, take a picture, send it to Ms. Garcia.
My fingers pause, before I add: For you.
Sudha Balagopal is an Indian-American writer whose recent work appears in Fictive Dream, Doric Literary, and JMWW among other journals. In 2024, her novella-in-flash, Nose Ornaments – runner-up in the Bath novella-in-flash contest, was published by Ad Hoc Fiction, UK. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top 50.
