Monsoon Summer (8 page)

FOURTEEN

Danita greeted me with a smile. Her hands were floury and she was kneading a ball of dough. “So nice to see you, Jazz Didi. Where does your mother keep the rolling pin?”

“I have no idea,” I answered, but began to search halfheartedly anyway. Miraculously, it was in the first drawer I opened. I passed it to Danita like a baton.

“I'm making
pooris,
” she told me. “Would you like some tea?”

Yes! Yes! My kingdom for a cup of tea! “I don't want to make more work for you,” I said.

“No trouble at all.” Danita washed her hands. “Sit down. You must be tired after so much studying. Your academy is supposed to be the hardest one in Pune.”

“It must be. We do hundreds of math problems a day. I do algebra problems in my sleep.”

“Math is my sister Ranee's best subject. She took the prize at Asha Bari last year.”

She lifted the shrieking kettle off the stove and poured my tea. I bent my face over the cup, letting the sweet-smelling steam warm my cheeks, and watched Danita tear off small pieces of dough. She was rolling each one into a ball between her palms. I noticed that although the rest of her was small and delicate, like Mom, her fingers were strong and long, like mine.

I took a sip of the creamy tea. Mmmmmm.
Good-bye,
monsoon madness
.

Danita flattened each ball of dough into a thin circle with the rolling pin. A pan of oil sizzled on the stove, and she tossed one of the circles into it. After a few seconds, the dough inflated like a balloon. She flipped it until it was lightly golden on both sides, put it on a plate, and set it in front of me.

As soon as it was cool enough to touch, I took a bite. The
poori
was flaky but light and just salty enough to balance the sweet tea. One after another, three more flat pieces of dough puffed up into small spaceships and landed on my plate.

“I won't prepare the rest until your family arrives,” she told me. “They taste better freshly made.”

“They're delicious,” I answered, trying not to talk with my mouth full. “Everything you make is.”

“Little Ria can eat a dozen of these without stopping,” she told me, smiling.

She was so proud of her sisters. I almost expected her to whip out a wallet full of photos, the way Helen and Frank did with pictures of Eric and me. “Do your sisters look like you?” I asked.

“The little one does. Ranee doesn't really, but most people can see that the three of us belong to the same family.”

I watched her chop a huge slab of meat into neat chunks, carefully slicing away the fat. “What kind of meat is that?” I asked.

“Lamb,” she told me. “Lamb vindaloo tastes wonderful with a little lemon juice squeezed on top. I just need to add some garlic and mix the spices.”

Almost without thinking, I stood up. “Show me how to do the garlic,” I said.

She handed me a sharp, small knife and three cloves of garlic. The cloves were smooth and curved, the color of ivory. “These must be minced into tiny pieces,” she said.

I put the garlic on the cutting board and began mincing away. It was easier to talk when we were both working. “Do the three of you share a room?” I asked.

“Yes. Auntie Das has always made it possible for us to be together. She knows that nobody can separate the three of us. Nobody. Not while I'm alive, anyway.”

I glanced over at her profile, surprised by the intensity in her voice. Then I thought about what she'd said. If Eric and I had no relatives and something happened to our parents, what would become of us? We might be separated, sent to different families as if we didn't belong to each other. No, I realized. I'd take Care of Eric. Just like Danita
wants to take Care of her sisters
.

“Sister Das told us you were planning on getting married soon,” I said. “Will your new home be nearby so that you can visit your sisters?”

Danita had been grinding spices into a yellow paste, and now she spooned them into another waiting pan. The oil smoked and sputtered as the spices cooked, and we both coughed.

“Any man I agree to marry has to take my sisters into his home too,” she said, waving her hand in the air to clear the smoke. “Not many will, so the answer to your question is easy. I'm not getting married. Not until Ranee and Ria are grown up, anyway.”

I was done mincing the garlic, and Danita added it to the lamb, along with some onions she'd chopped.

“I thought you were trying to earn a dowry,” I said.

“That's what everyone at Asha Bari thinks I'm doing. Except Auntie Das. She knows I have other plans.”

What other plans could an orphan like Danita possibly have to take care of her two sisters? I was about to ask when Mom, Dad, and Eric burst into the kitchen, sniffing the air like they shared some kind of family allergy. Danita quickly began frying up the
poories
.

“What's that incredible smell?” Dad asked. “I could eat a horse.”

“You'll have to settle for a sheep,” I told him. “It's lamb vindaloo. And
poories
.”

Eric grabbed a
poori
. “That's enough, my boy,” Mom said, catching Eric's wrist before he could grab another. “You're muddy from head to toe. Hurry and take a bucket bath before dinner. I need to take one after you.”

“You forgot to feed your bugs again,” I told Eric. “We're starting to bond, and I'm not sure I want to.”

He groaned, his mouth full of
poori
. “Oh, no! Sorry, Jazz. I should have come home earlier, but we were having such a great game. It was our first one, you know. We lost, three to two, but the guys played great.”

“Did you play in the rain?” I asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “Rain makes it much more fun.”

“Rain makes good things better, I think,” Mom said. “But it also makes bad things worse. The whole neighborhood behind Asha Bari reeks. The city won't collect garbage there because the people built their homes on public land they didn't pay for. Let me tell you, wet garbage smells much worse than dry garbage. The ironic thing is, it's the middle of the monsoon, and there's not enough water out there. About twenty or thirty families have to share one toilet and a water tap, and nobody wants the responsibility of keeping them clean.”

“No wonder so many of them get sick,” said Dad, munching on a
poori
. “The nuns are trying to help them get more water, but they don't have much clout with the city officials.”

Mom led Eric to the door by his shirt collar. “Take a bath, young man. And go check on those bugs.” After he slinked away, grumbling, Mom turned to Danita. “Let me help you with dinner,” she said. “I've always wanted to learn how to make
poories
.”

Danita smiled. “Most of the work is done already. Sit and rest, Auntie,” she told Mom. Indian kids usually called people in their parents' generation Auntie and Uncle, even if they weren't related.

“I'm never going to learn to cook unless we get home earlier,” Mom said to me, obeying Danita with a sigh. “Your dad took forever to leave. Actually, I used the time well. I finished writing my supply list for the clinic. Sister Das insists that we open next week, so I suppose I'll have to stop my visits. I had tea this morning with two girls who seemed like sisters. It turned out they were wives of the same husband.”

“What!”
Dad and I exclaimed together.

Mom reached over to take Dad's hand. “Hindu and Christian men can only have one wife at a time. Muslim men, on the other hand, can have up to six. They're subject to their own Islamic law when it comes to families.” She smiled at Dad. “Don't get any ideas about converting to Islam, darling. I don't think I could share you with another woman. Even when you drive me crazy like you did today. What kept you so long?”

“I'm sorry, Sarah. Sister Catherine wanted to know how computers actually save things in their memory. We had a fascinating discussion about how computer terminology has a lot in common with religious language. You know— words like ‘saving,' ‘justifying,' ‘converting.' Even words like ‘sleeping' and ‘shutting down' have their theological dimensions.”

Mom was gazing at Dad with that new, starry-eyed look. I gawked at him, too, but not for the same reason. Had he really spent the entire afternoon having a theological discussion with a nun? Not that my father had anything against nuns; it's just that he usually avoided talking much with people outside the family. He was a great conversationalist at home; with strangers, he was a man of few words. Or at least, he used to be.

Dad smiled at Danita, ignoring the stares of the women in his family. “Could you make me another cup of your nectar-like tea, Danita?” he asked. “I'm starting to get addicted to that stuff, and nobody makes it like you do.”

Hearing him speak to Danita so warmly, as if she was part of the family, made me feel nervous, as if the ground beneath my feet was beginning to tip. If Dad left my introverted corner, our whole family would be out of balance.

“How long till dinner?” I asked.

“About half an hour,” Danita answered. “I want to let the lamb simmer while I run down the hill. It looks like we used the last lemon yesterday.”

“I'll go,” said Mom immediately. “Want to come, Jazz?” She actually liked going grocery shopping and always asked me to join her when she went to the market.

“Uh, no thanks,” I answered. “I've still got a lot of homework.” Mom didn't have to know I'd finished it already.

I wasn't going to spend any more time as a public spectacle than I had to. It was even worse going out with Mom. I hated the way people overlooked her and catered to me, curiosity obvious in their faces. And it did something to my insides watching her study the face of every older, darker-skinned woman, as though waiting for one of them to recognize her.

Mom gave me one of her “I know what you're up to and I don't like it” looks but left without saying anything.

Dad began to ask Danita about Sister Agnes. Apparently, she was an elderly nun who was refusing to participate in his computer training sessions. Dad and Sister Das were trying to figure out a way to lure her in.

“I'm going to my room,” I said, but I wasn't sure anybody heard me.

FIFTEEN

“Jazz brought in a photo of Prince Charming!”

“What? Let me see!”

“Hand it over!”

The girls at the academy were still convinced Steve and I had a thing going. They'd been bugging me every day to tell them more about him. Finally, I caved in. I brought my favorite photo to school, a candid shot I'd snapped at the track when nobody was looking; Steve was chatting with the guy he'd just outjumped, his expression happy but gracious. He was wearing a white sweatshirt that made his teeth look even whiter than usual. He looked absolutely perfect. He always did.

I figured that after the girls saw Steve, they'd get it through their thick heads that a guy like him could never be in love with a girl like me.

Sonia held the photo in her hand for a long time. “Mmmmmm,” she said, licking her lips. “Yummy.”

I fought the urge to snatch it back and Rini grabbed it. “Oooooh,” Rini moaned, clasping it to her heart and swaying from side to side. “I'd leave India in a heartbeat for a boyfriend like this. You're so lucky to have him, Jazz.”

“Unfortunately, I don't ‘have' him,” I told her, reclaiming the picture from Lila, who was drooling over it in turn. “He's just my best friend. Not my boyfriend.”

“Not yet, maybe. But absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Sonia said. “He's bound to be pining away for you. They always do in the films.”

I wondered if I'd heard right. Did this girl actually believe that somebody who looked like Steve could be interested in me? Either she needed her vision checked or she had the worst case of monsoon madness in India. In either case, I had to set her straight. “My life is
not
like a Bollywood film, Sonia. Not at all.”

“Yes, it is, Jazz. First, your mother, trapped in an Indian orphanage, is rescued by a rich American family. She manages to capture a handsome man's heart and they get married. And the sequel features her daughter—you. Rich. Beautiful. With a handsome American boy choosing you as the love of his life.”

Beautiful? Had she said “beautiful”? This time I was sure I'd heard wrong.

“Steve's just a good friend, like I told you,” I said. “And money's always been tight in our family. I'm certainly not rich.”

Sonia flipped a hand at me. “Stop it. You Americans are always pretending to be poor. We Indians don't try and hide our money. You've got your own personal bank account, don't you?” she asked. “With thousands of dollars in it, right?”

“Yee-es,” I answered reluctantly. I didn't add that I'd earned every penny of the money myself. By Indian standards, I
was
rich. The American dollar was worth so much more than the Indian rupee that I had more in the bank than most Indian families.

But not more than the Seths. Not by a long shot. Sonia was right—they certainly didn't hide their money. In the mornings, a sleek, white car with tinted windows dropped her off at the school gates. The driver hopped out, giving us a glimpse of red plush seats in the spotless interior.

At lunch, while most of us settled for the school's curries and rice, another servant from the Seth household brought containers full of steaming hot food, which he spooned onto a china plate. The plate and shining silver utensils were set on the table, and a cloth napkin was spread on Sonia's lap. The servant waited quietly in a corner of the large lunch room.

I couldn't help noticing the amount of food Sonia left on her plate. When she was through, the servant scraped the leftover food into a plastic bag, securing it with a tight knot. Nothing was wasted in this country—paper, bent nails, Styrofoam, cardboard, wood shavings, and even leftover food were put to good use. It was the most efficient recycling system I'd ever seen.

“Are you wondering why I'm dieting, Jazz?” Sonia once asked. “I do have to keep an eye on my figure.”

I discovered soon enough that Sonia was not the only one keeping an eye on her figure. A lot of other eyes were just as interested as she was. When the last bell rang, guys of all shapes and sizes congregated outside the gate, wearing uniforms from several different schools.

“Upper-school boys finished their exams yesterday,” Rini explained as we headed to the cloakroom to pick up our raincoats. “They've been studying like mad after school, but now they're back. Thank goodness the rain's slowed to a drizzle.”

In the bathroom girls vied for space in front of the mirrors, unbraiding their hair and styling it back into trendy hairstyles, clipping on earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, and in Sonia's case, quietly unbuttoning the top two buttons of her blouse. No raincoat for Sonia. Or Lila, either. Rini zipped hers up glumly; her aunt was somewhere nearby, and she was supposed to be an example to the rest of the girls.

My own slicker was navy blue, hoodless but huge. I'd picked it out mainly because it covered my whole uniform. A crowd of guys was waiting outside the gates, and I found myself wishing for a hood so that I could use it like the thick black veils some Muslim women wore. It wasn't raining hard enough to whip out my enormous umbrella; I'd probably draw even more attention if I did. Instead, I hid behind Sonia, Rini, and Lila, hoping I could leap into a getaway auto-rickshaw before any of the boys noticed me.

But it was no use. A pack of them magnetically headed our way. The guy in front was slightly shorter than I was, and I couldn't help noticing that he seemed nervous.

“Are you new?” he asked me. His voice was polite, but it cracked, and the other guys snickered. Clearing his throat, the first guy glared at his friends and continued. “Welcome to Pune. We're delighted that you're here. I'm Arun.”

The rest of the guys introduced themselves. I tried to remember their unfamiliar Indian names—Sunil, Mahesh, Binoy, Arvind. As we walked toward the Seths' car, I realized that this was the male half of my academy buddies' exclusive clique.

Rini giggled in my ear. “These boys are terrible. Always on the hunt for gorgeous girls. Did you see how they stared at you?”

I stepped smack in the middle of a puddle. Shaking the water off my shoes, I wondered if I should get my hearing checked. Sonia had used a strange adjective during tea break, and now Rini was doing the same thing. “Beautiful.” “Gorgeous.” When would the monsoon madness end? I hailed an empty auto-rickshaw and it stopped at the curb.

“Don't go, Jazz,” Rini said. “We stay here and chat for a while. Then Sonia's car takes us home. Now that the boys are back, we're heading for the disco. The best clubs in town open their doors early for teenagers on Fridays. Why don't you join us?”

“No thanks, Rini,” I said, climbing into the rickshaw. “I'll take a rain check.”

“You don't know what you're missing, Jazz. . . .”

Rini's voice faded as the auto-rickshaw pulled away. Feeling a twinge of guilt that I'd left so abruptly, I leaned out to wave good-bye. Sonia and Lila were arranging themselves on the hood of the car, like ornaments in a display window, and Rini was already hurrying to join them.

Rini was wrong, I thought, settling back into the rickshaw. I knew exactly what I was missing. Or who, rather.
Why
hadn't Steve been home when I'd called?
Why
was he so busy, anyway? It was three in the morning in California; he'd have to be home now. I decided to risk waking Mr. Morales.

I stopped the driver outside the store with the so-called public phone, although so far the elderly woman and the bald guy were the only people I'd seen use it besides me.

“Jazz?” answered a cracked, sleepy voice after only one ring. “Is that you?” Thankfully, it was Steve and not his dad who'd grabbed the receiver.

“
Where
have you been lately, Steve Morales?”

He yawned in my ear. “Give me a minute to wake up, will you?”

“I got your letters,” I said, relenting a little. “Thanks.”

“Well, I haven't heard from you yet,” he said, sounding almost grumpy. “And I'm exhausted. Business is booming, and you're not here. My mother's had to supervise the booth in the afternoons while I'm at practice.”

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

He was waking up now, all business. “We can afford to hire someone else, can't we? Just part-time in the afternoon. None of our ex-homeless employees want to supervise each other—they've become too close, like a family or something. I taped a Help Wanted sign on the booth, but so far the applicants are way too young.”

“All girls, right?”

“Yeah. How'd you know? Anyway, that's not the point. We need help, and we need it now. I don't care if it's male or female.”

You may not Care, but I do, I thought. “What about asking at the senior center?” I asked, with a flash of inspiration. “Plenty of them have experience. They like to hang out on Telegraph anyway. Especially on summer afternoons.”

“Great idea, Jazz! I knew you'd come through. I'll go there today.”

“Good. That's settled. Now let's fix a time for our phone calls so we don't waste any more money on the answering machine.”

“Can't you figure out a way to use the Internet?”

“There's a cyber café in town, but Dad told me to stay away from it.” Besides, real letters are so much more romantic. “Too crowded, I guess. He's trying to set up a system at the orphanage, but that won't happen for a while.”

We decided I'd call on Saturdays at noon in India, which would be Fridays at midnight in California. “Write soon, Jazz,” Steve said. “Think of those A's you get in English. You're a great writer.”

“You too, Steve,” I said, my heart beginning to hammer. “I've loved reading your letters.”

The receiver started to crackle, sounding like Eric's favorite cereal when he poured milk over it. “Okay, Jazz. I—” something . . . something . . . mumble...something—“you.”

I shook the receiver and wiggled my finger in my ear.

“What?” I shouted. “What did you say?”

But the line had gone dead. I walked home replaying our conversation, sheltered in the privacy of my umbrella. What had those missing words been? If only the connection had stayed clear! Now the words were drifting in outer space somewhere, and I'd never find out what they were.

For a minute I let my imagination soar out there with them. Maybe . . . just maybe, absence
did
make the heart grow fonder. Or maybe some kind of monsoon magic had transformed
me,
and I'd sweep Steve off his feet when I got home. I remembered the words the girls at school had used to describe me.

But then I pictured Miriam Cassidy and landed back on earth with a thud. I was just Jazz, Steve's good old buddy, the big, quiet shadow he was used to having around. There was no way I could take the opinions of those upper-class Indian girls seriously. If anyone lived in a dream world, they did. I sighed as I clomped up the stairs to our apartment. It was too bad, really. In Bollywood, I might actually give Miriam Cassidy some competition.