The Door Is Open, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Hena Khan
Chapter illustrations copyright © 2024 by Chaaya Prabhat
Spot art copyright © Mironov Konstantin/Shutterstock.com
Cover art copyright © 2024 by Chaaya Prabhat
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Interior design by Carla Weise
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Khan, Hena, editor.
Title: The door is open / edited by Hena Khan.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2024. | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: “A story of community, belonging, and friendship told by South Asian authors through an interconnected anthology, based in the fictional town of Maple Grove, New Jersey, and centralized at the town community center.”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023007020 | ISBN 9780316450638 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316450836 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: South Asian Americans—Fiction. | Communities—Fiction. | New Jersey—Fiction. | Short stories. | LCGFT: Short stories.
Classification: LCC PZ5 .T555 2024 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023007020
ISBNs: 978-0-316-45063-8 (hardcover)
978-0-316-45083-6 (ebook)
E3-20240312-JV-NF-ORI
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHECK YOURSELF by Veera Hiranandani
ALOK AT THE DANCE by Maulik Pancholy
WEDDING BLUES by Aisha Saeed
SMILE NUMBER SEVEN by Mitali Perkins
SWEET AND SOUR by Reem Faruqi
A TASTE OF SOMETHING NEW by Simran Jeet Singh
HOW TO SPELL “DISASTER” by Supriya Kelkar
OUT IN THE OPEN by Rajani LaRocca
ANSWERED PRAYERS by N. H. Senzai
TOGETHER AT THE CENTER by Hena Khan
THE MAP OF HOME by Sayantani DasGupta
Acknowledgments
About the Contributors
To everyone
looking to find
their place in
the world
CHECK YOURSELF
by Veera Hiranandani
I PICK UP THE QUEEN AND TWIRL HER BETWEEN MY forefinger and thumb. I can see my path. My opponent has left his rook unguarded, and my queen can take it. It will leave my bishop open to his knight, but my other rook will take it if he does, so I’m protected. I make my move and look him in the eyes.
I once read that the queen wasn’t always the most powerful piece on the chessboard. In fact, the queen didn’t use to be the queen at all. She was only an advisor to the king, with very little power. Her power grew over the years, especially during the rise of Queen Isabella I in Spain, when chess traveled all the way from India, to Persia, and then to Europe. Queen Isabella sounded like a terrible person, though, because she forced all the Jews and Muslims to leave Spain. During that time, the queen chess piece started to change into what she is now. My queen is not like Isabella. My queen protects all her people.
The air sits still around us, and I can hear the creaking as my opponent leans forward in his wooden chair, studying the chessboard. He squints a little and rests his chin on his clasped hands as the steam of his coffee rises from the mug on the table. A few minutes go by.
“Well, Grandpa?” I say.
“It’s a good move,” he says, but then he moves his other knight and takes one of my pawns. “Check.”
“Darn it,” I say, and check. How did I not see his other knight just two moves away from my king? I scan my eyes over every spot on the board, drawing imaginary lines where each piece could go and to see what pieces they could capture. I try to stay a move or two ahead, but it’s hard to think into the future like that. That’s what the game of chess is about, though. The present, yes, but mostly it’s about imagining the future.
The pieces are made from marble. My queen is black with little white marble veins running through her—all my pieces look like that. The pieces on Grandpa’s side are white with little black veins running through them. He gave me the set last spring on my twelfth birthday. It’s smooth and shiny, and the pieces have a nice heavy feel in my hand. Though sometimes I prefer the simple wooden board I bought with my own allowance when I first started to play. But I wouldn’t tell Grandpa that.
I look at my queen again and now see that Grandpa’s queen from all the way on the other side of the board can move in a straight diagonal and capture my king. How did I not notice? I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. Come on, Chaya, I tell myself. You’re a better player than this.
“Grandpa, I think I need a break,” I say with a smile so he doesn’t suspect the sinking feeling that is taking over my stomach.
“Okay,” he says, “but we’ll practice again tomorrow. You only have two days before the tournament.” Then he leans back in his chair and repeats what he’s said many times before. “Remember, don’t think about the player. Think about what’s happening on the board.”
“I know, I know,” I say lightly, but inside I still feel a weight in the bottom of my stomach. I pad in my sock feet toward Grandpa’s cozy kitchen with its yellow table and white cabinets. He moved into the apartment down the street from our house ten years ago when my grandma died. I don’t really remember her. Over the years, Grandpa taught me how to play chess, and now I stay at his apartment after school most days until Mom and Dad get home from work.
I rummage through the kitchen cabinets looking for the exact snack that will distract me from worrying about Saturday’s tournament. It’s the final local tournament, and whoever wins will compete for the state chess championship. Last year, I lost to Andrew Pierson in the final game and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Though I do think about the board, I also think about the player—well, particularly one player: Andrew.
I probably wouldn’t win state anyway, because New Jersey’s pretty competitive. I just want to beat him. I can’t stand the way he struts around at chess club giving everyone tips they didn’t even ask for. It’s like he thinks he invented the game.
I find the snack I am looking for in the back on the bottom shelf—soup nuts. Grandpa usually saves them for soup, but I like to eat them straight out of the can. Soup nuts are not even nuts at all, but puffy little round crackers that are kind of crunchy and a little bit salty. They remind me of cold winter days and Jewish holidays when my mom makes matzo ball soup. My dad likes them too, even though he was born in India and didn’t grow up eating them like my mom did. I open the can and stuff a big handful in my mouth.
“Blah!” I say with my mouth full. I run over to the garbage and spit them out. “Gross!”
“What?” Grandpa says as he comes into the kitchen.
“These are so stale,” I say as I wipe my mouth. I grab a glass, fill it with water, and take a big gulp, washing away the stale taste. Then I look at the expiration date.
“Grandpa, these expired a year ago!”
He waves his hand. “I don’t pay attention to those dates. They just want you to throw out perfectly good food and buy more.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Grandpa. I feel like I’ve just been poisoned,” I say, and put my hand around my neck, sticking out my tongue.
“Oh, you’re fine,” he says. “Stale soup nuts never poisoned anyone.”
He finds a box of chocolate chip cookies, peers through his thick glasses, and reads the side of the package. “These don’t expire until a month from now, so eat up.”
I smile and we both dig into the cookies.
Later that night, at dinner, as I push around the aloo gobi and rice on my plate, I can’t stop thinking about the game Grandpa and I never finished and that I would have probably lost.
“What’s wrong?” my mother asks.
I shrug and take a bite of rice.
“School okay?” she asks.
I nod.
“How was Grandpa’s?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Nervous about the tournament?” she says.
“Nah,” I say.
My dad looks up from his food. “I’ll play a game with you tonight,” he says, and wipes his mouth.
“That’s okay, Dad. I’m good. Thanks, though.”
He nods, and then he and my mom start talking about their workdays, which can get boring, so I head upstairs, grabbing more cookies on the way. If I tell them I’m nervous, they’ll go into very annoying problem-solving action, and the truth is my dad’s not the greatest chess player. I always beat him. My mom’s a little better, because Grandpa taught her, but she never seems to have time to play.
That night, my belly full of too many cookies, I lie on my bed and imagine the future. I imagine beating Andrew. I think about the last game of the tournament, everyone else tired and disappointed and Andrew and I facing off. I think about the moment when I can say “Checkmate,” and his cheeks turn a little red. I think about standing up, being a good sport, shaking his hand, and how he would have to shake my hand, smile, and be gracious. Then I think of calmly walking to the bathroom, making sure I’m alone, and punching my fist in the air with a burst of glory so delicious, I’ll coast on it for months.
I feel a little mean, thinking all of this, but I heard Andrew say once that a girl had never beat him, which first of all isn’t true because I’ve beat him in chess club practice games and so has Maha Iqbal. So, if he’s going to lie like that, maybe he deserves to lose to one of us, the only two girls in chess club. Because there aren’t as many girls, some people (mostly boys) think that girls aren’t as good at chess. I know that’s not true, but the only way to prove it is for one of us to win the tournament.
Thinking about this, I try extra hard with Grandpa the next day after school and manage to beat him in three out of the five games we play.
“You’re ready, Chaya, and no matter what happens, you’re doing it because you love the game.”
“I don’t know. Yesterday was a mess.”
“Just nerves. If you stay focused like today, you’ll be golden.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I say, and we fist-bump. I hope he’s right.
Saturday morning comes, the day of the tournament. Mom makes my power breakfast: scrambled eggs and buttered wheat toast because she says the protein in the eggs and the fat in the butter will keep my energy steady. I force myself to eat it even though my nerves rattle through my body.
She drops me off at the Maple Grove Community Center, which I’ve played at many times. I love having tournaments here because I know exactly how they’re set up and the main room has nice high ceilings and big windows. Sometimes I’ve had to play in much smaller rooms or hot and musty school basement spaces, which make me feel like I can’t breathe, especially if things aren’t going well.
“Good luck! We’re here for you no matter what happens,” my mom says, but I can see the hope in her eyes. She’s hoping I win, not just for me, but because she knows how grumpy I get for days when I lose a big tournament.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, and shiver a little at the cold air that hits my face. I walk in and see a big sign in black marker—THE FUTURE OF THE COMMUNITY CENTER IS IN OUR HANDS! TOWN HALL MEETING NEXT THURSDAY!—which makes me more nervous. I’m not sure what’s going on with the center, but I push these thoughts out of my head. Focus, Chaya.
I wish Grandpa were here, but they don’t let parents or grandparents or any guests of the players watch, which is probably for the best. The times my mom watches practice games, she makes all these concerned faces if I’m losing and happy faces if I’m winning. My dad tries to focus but glazes over at a certain point, so I’m either worried that they’re paying too much attention or too little. But when Grandpa watches me play, he’s in the story of every game just like I am, wondering how it’s going to end.
Every chess game has its own story. Some games start out bold and fast, some slow and careful. The pieces have different personalities, depending on who’s playing them. There are little pawns who become fierce and overwhelming, chipping away the opposing forces like death from a thousand papercuts. There are subtle, sneaky queens and assertive ones and hyper ones. There are quiet, cowardly kings hiding behind everyone else, and kings who do their best to support everyone working hard to protect them. Then of course there are the rest of the supporting pieces, who are all important.
Though I love the queen, because who doesn’t, my favorite piece is the knight. The knight has the most unexpected move. It can fly. Well, not actually fly, but jump over other pieces to reach its destination. The knight, especially for newer players, is often the piece you don’t see coming.
I put my backpack in a locker, check in, and look at the pairing list. Then I find the table for my first game. I sit down, glad my opponent isn’t there yet, and take in the room. The familiar smell is comforting to me, a combination of polished wood floors, coffee, and the orange-scented soap used in the bathrooms. My first opponent is Ben Geller.
“Hi,” he says. I say a quick hi back, but I don’t smile. I like to keep it serious while I play. I beat Ben pretty quickly and play a few more easy games. In the beginning, the lowest-ranked players are matched against the highest-ranked players, and usually by the end of the tournament, only the strongest players are left playing each other.
During the lunch break, I go and find my secret spot on the basement floor down a long hallway. It’s dark and quiet. I don’t like to talk to people during a tournament. It makes me feel too competitive, and I start getting distracted by thoughts of winning rather than paying attention to the story on the board, as Grandpa says. Even so, I’ve kept my eye on Andrew and Maha, and they also beat out the lower-ranked players.
I sit and eat my energy bar and apple and imagine different chess openings. I try not to think about Andrew, but it’s impossible. When I finish, I get up and hear some kids talking. I freeze at the sound of their voices and stand back behind the corner of the hallway. Then I peek around, hoping they can’t see me. It’s Andrew, Ben, and another kid, Aiden. What are they doing down here?
“Maha and Chaya are the ones to beat. I’ve lost to them both today,” says Ben.
“Well, I’m about to go up against them after lunch, so their winning streak will end,” says Andrew.
“Be careful. You’ve got to watch out for those Indian girls,” Aiden says. “They’re good at that kind of stuff.”
“What do you mean?” Ben says.
“You know, math, chess, science, computers. They’re all good at that stuff.”
“Maybe,” Andrew says. “But I can beat any girl who comes my way, Indian or not.”
“Not if I beat them first,” Aiden says.
Ben just shrugs, but my heart is pounding so hard, I feel the thudding in my ears.
“Do you have the magic?” Aiden asks.
“Yup,” Ben says, and takes three cans of Mountain Dew out of his bag. What’s so special about Mountain Dew?
“Bring on the sugar rush,” Andrew says. “Those girls are going down for sure.” Then they all clink the cans together and chug the soda.
I duck back behind the wall while they finish and wait for them to go back upstairs. My head is spinning with everything I’ve just heard. First, they think Maha and I are good at chess only because of our Indian background, even though Maha’s family is from Pakistan. Second, they think we’re not as good at chess because we’re girls. Third, they drink some stupid sugary soda because they think it will make them better at chess!
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, something my father taught me. I count for five on the inhale and five on the exhale. After I do it a few times, I feel more relaxed, more like myself. I think again of Aiden’s words—the part about being Indian and good at chess. I didn’t even know that was a thing people thought.
I usually like things that make me feel more Indian because only my father is Indian. Sometimes when I’m around people who have two Indian parents, I don’t feel Indian enough, almost like I’m pretending. But I don’t want anyone to think that I’m good at chess just because of my Indian background.
I look at the clock on the wall. I have to be back in the main room in five minutes. I lift my arms over my head and stretch, then pick up my backpack and head upstairs. It seems like Andrew and his friends don’t want to give me, the actual person I am, credit for being good at chess. I’m either not good enough because I’m a girl or too good because I’m Indian. What would they think about the fact that my Jewish grandfather is the one who taught me how to play?
