Jasmine Kapadia
my piano teacher's halloween party
they light my candle wax body on fire at the party and i do not wake up.
just five more minutes, i whisper to the tray of mini tacos at the buffet table. i shovel them in my mouth and pretend not to notice the already empty container beside it:
my mother’s dumplings are shoved greedy into the white woman’s mouth. they take them and squeeze, feigning surprise when the juice squirts out. she has leek between her two front teeth and i am obsessed with this glorious image.
someone passes me a cup of cranberry juice. i pour it over my dress. i will try to hide the stain from my mom when i get home. my skin is hot. i notice things. the white woman has pinned her bun up with chopsticks; just kidding, there is no white woman here. i have decided to stop noticing.
i catch my reflection in the mirror down the hall, pull out a few curls from my braid because i look lonely. at ten pm i have decided i will slap my left hand into the punch bowl and ruin the tablecloths because i am thirsty for something other than small talk.
sometimes when they are home i pretend i am not peeking with binoculars into their houses from the wrong side of the road. they tell me to speak english and i feed them more dumplings to shut them up.
the white woman has gotten wasted and is playing something on the piano. i catch my mom’s eye across the room, “a mess.” and i offer her more mini tacos. tonight i will help her take off her mascara. tonight she has forgotten about me. these days i hold my breath: the pinyin in the air is toxic.
i have swallowed the sun and now i am glowing.
just five more minutes, i whisper to the tray of mini tacos at the buffet table. i shovel them in my mouth and pretend not to notice the already empty container beside it:
my mother’s dumplings are shoved greedy into the white woman’s mouth. they take them and squeeze, feigning surprise when the juice squirts out. she has leek between her two front teeth and i am obsessed with this glorious image.
someone passes me a cup of cranberry juice. i pour it over my dress. i will try to hide the stain from my mom when i get home. my skin is hot. i notice things. the white woman has pinned her bun up with chopsticks; just kidding, there is no white woman here. i have decided to stop noticing.
i catch my reflection in the mirror down the hall, pull out a few curls from my braid because i look lonely. at ten pm i have decided i will slap my left hand into the punch bowl and ruin the tablecloths because i am thirsty for something other than small talk.
sometimes when they are home i pretend i am not peeking with binoculars into their houses from the wrong side of the road. they tell me to speak english and i feed them more dumplings to shut them up.
the white woman has gotten wasted and is playing something on the piano. i catch my mom’s eye across the room, “a mess.” and i offer her more mini tacos. tonight i will help her take off her mascara. tonight she has forgotten about me. these days i hold my breath: the pinyin in the air is toxic.
i have swallowed the sun and now i am glowing.
Biography
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Jasmine Kapadia (she/her) has work in or forthcoming in Superfroot Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, the Eunoia Review, Malala Fund’s Assembly, All Guts No Glory, and elsewhere. When not writing, she can be found stanning Beyoncé or (re)-binge-watching RuPaul’s Drag Race. Find her on Instagram: @jazzymoons
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