Page 1 of The Bad Boyfriend Curse
CHAPTER ONEThe Predictable End to Meera the Good Girl
No one, no matter how hard they work at it, or how much they want to, can ever—and I meanever—escape their fate. And, apparently, my fate is to becursedfor eternity.
My eyes blur as I sit alone in the back of a police cruiser, watching a cop putliteral handcuffsonto the wrists of my date, Gabe. Not even an hour after my first kiss with him—my first kiss ever.
My grandmother—Nani—has been warning me my whole life about the curse placed on our family four generations ago by a witch doctor in India. Should a girl in Nani’s bloodline choose to romantically involve herself with a boy before her seventeenth birthday, the girl becomesdestinedfor trouble that will haunt her for her entire life.
Mom and Nani gave me a list of rules to follow so the curse wouldn’t ruin me: put my education first, never lie to my family, associate only with people with the same values as me (i.e., high achievers), and most important, don’t date at all until my seventeenth birthday. If I followed the rules, I would be unharmed by the curse and would be the first girl in my family to go to university. I would be the first to be able tolive the life that I wanted to live. Of course, I followed the rules with precision—my life goals are way too important for me to risk ruining them.
So, on my seventeenth birthday, when Gabe Bautista, the smartest guy in my grade, asked if I wanted to go for a walk on the weekend, I said yes. I was seventeen—it would be fine. I was tired of being the only one of my friends who’d never been on a date, and I wanted a little escape from worrying about year-end school projects and Mom’s wedding. But to be extra careful I did a ton of research and made an epic avoid-curse spreadsheet, listing methods from around the world of how to stay safe from curses. I zeroed in on methods that are used in South Asian cultures, since this curse started in India, and on the ones that are most practical. (Like, I didn’t think it was a great idea tokilla descendant of the man who cursed my family.) Before my date I ordered a protection talisman online—a black tourmaline bead necklace with an evil-eye amulet on it—then took a bath in salt water and burned a candle while repeating some mantras.
I did everything right.
But on my date, with only one kiss under my belt, I wasarrestedbecause of some stupid social media stunt Gabe pulled at a carnival. It turns out that costume jewelry, salt water baths, and waiting until my seventeenth birthday were useless. There wasnothingI could have done to escape my fate. This curse has ruined the life of every woman and girl in my family forfourgenerations… Why would it spare me? All the work I did to escape itfailed. I wipe the tear on my cheek with the back of my hand.
A back seat door opens, making me flinch, and a woman slides into the car next to me. “I’m Officer Martel,” she says. She’s not in a uniform but in black dress pants and a dark blue collared shirt. She eyes me suspiciously. “How are you doing, kid?”
I’m upset, embarrassed, and angry at Gabe. Mostly I’m furious at the curse. But I don’t say that. I shrug.
“Okay, so your full name is…”
“Meera Parveen Noorani,” I say quietly. I already gave someone my driver’s license (okay, fine, it’s a learner’s permit), so she should know this.
The woman nods. “Your mother’s name is Neelam Noorani, correct? She’s not answering her phone.”
Of course she’s not. “She’s in Italy… on her honeymoon. She’s technically Neelam LeClair now.” I bite my lip. “She’s supposed to be back today.”
The woman’s eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me. To be honest, I can’t believe my mother got married either, but that’s beside the point right now.
“Where are you staying while she’s gone?” the officer asks. “Can we call your father?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a father. I moved in with my grandparents after the wedding.” I wince, imagining my grandfather’s reaction to having to pick me up at the back of apolicecar. “But can we not call them? They’re…harsh.” Nanabapa, my grandfather, will probably ship me off to Vancouver on the next flight. Or ship me farther.
I inhale a shaky breath. Just like I was warned, dating has ruinedeverything. I want to ask if universities will have access to my criminal record, but I know it’s best to say aslittle as possible to the police without a lawyer. Do I need a lawyer? How will we afford that?
Another cop sticks his head in the window. “The mother answered her phone. Her flight just landed. She said she’ll pick the girl up at the station in about an hour.”
Officer Martel nods. “One heck of a way to end her honeymoon. You’re going to be apologizing to your mother until you’re fifty.”
I don’t say anything, because really shouldn’t it beMomapologizing? She’s the one who passed this curse on to me in the first place.
At the station they put me in a little sitting room behind a closed door, telling me to wait for my mother. I put my head in my hands. I cannot believe this is happening to me. I’ve never so much as jaywalked or skipped school, and now I’m worried about acriminal record.
This arrest could affect my university acceptances and my chance of getting into the architecture mentorship program I’ve been counting on. And I can pretty much give up on my dream of being valedictorian next year. I will no longer be the first girl in my family to get a university degree. I won’t be the one to break the curse for future generations, like Nani said I would be. If I had my phone, I’d make a spreadsheet of all the ways that this situation will ruin my life forever, but the cops confiscated everything I had on me—includingmy mirrorless camera that has all the evidence of Gabe’s failed stunt on the memory card. I clutch the amulet on my necklace.
The door to the little room opens, and my mom walks in.Thankfully, her boyfriend, Jason—wait, herhusband, Jason—isn’t with her. She’s wearing leggings and a white Italy sweatshirt, and looks very, very angry. Like, imagine the angriest, the most disappointed a person can appear, and then multiply that by one hundred.
“Don’t be mad,” I say quickly before she can speak. “I told Gabe not to use the paint bomb.”
Mom shakes her head. “Meera, I came straight from myhoneymoonto a police station. Please, tell me how I should feel?”
I look down, my eyes welling with tears again. I feel Mom staring at my face for a long time.
“I’m not mad. I’mdisappointed,” she finally says. “I thought you were better than this.”
Not mad but disappointed.It’s such a cliché thing to say, but right now I’m the most cliché of cliché good girls gone bad. I’m in apolice stationbecause I went along with my date’s plan to create a viral video for his socials. I may even have a hickey on my neck, judging by what Gabe and I were doing on the merry-go-round before he set up his prank. And if they drug-tested me, they might detect the secondhand smoke from the joint Gabe smoked, to my surprise, before he pulled out the—double surprise—paint bomb he had stashed in his backpack.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I say quietly. “It’s the curse, remember?”
