I looked through my schedule. Somehow, Mr. Kadam had managed to get me, a freshman, into 300-and 400-level classes. Not only that, but he had also booked my classes for both the fall and the winter terms— even though winter registration wasn’t available yet.
WOU probably received a big, fat donation from India, I thought, smirking to myself. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a new building going up on campus this year.
KELSEY HAYES, STUDENT ID 69428L7
WESTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY
FALL TERM
College Writing 115 (4 credits). Introduction to thesis writing.
First Year Latin 101 (4 credits). Introduction to Latin.
Anthropology 476 D: Religion and Ritual (4 credits). A study of the religious practices around the world. Delineates religious observance as seen through anthropology, while focusing on particular topics including: spirit possession, mysticism, witchcraft, animism, sorcery, ancestor worship, and magic. Examines the blending of major world religions with local beliefs and traditions.
Geography 315: The Indian Subcontinent (4 credits). An examination of South Asia and its geography, with emphasis on India. We will evaluate the economic relationship between India and other nations; study patterns, issues, and challenges specifically related to geography; and explore the ethnic, religious, and linguistic diversity of its people historic and modern.
WINTER TERM
Art History 204 A: Prehistoric through Romanesque (4 credits). A study of all art forms of that time period with specific emphasis on historical and cultural relevance.
History 470: Women in Indian Society (4 credits). An examination of women in India, their belief systems, their cultural place in society, and associated mythology, past and present.
College Writing II 135 (4 credits). Second-year class expanding research-based document writing and skills.
Political Science 203 D: International Relations (3 credits). Comparison of global issues and the policies of world groups with similar and/or competing interests.
All of the courses sounded interesting, especially religion and magic. Mr. Kadam’s selections were subjects I probably would have picked for myself, other than Latin. I wrinkled my nose. I’d never been too good with languages. Too bad WOU didn’t offer an Indian language. It would be nice to learn Hindi, especially if I’m going back to India at some point to tackle the remaining three tasks outlined on Durga’s prophecy that will break the tiger’s curse. But Latin would be good for me, too.
I still had a week until classes started, but I thought it might be a good idea to look around campus. All of my classes were located in the Humanities and Social Sciences building, which would be convenient. I set aside my course schedule, pulled out a map of the campus, and found the HSS building. It looked like I could park in Lot F, which was right next to it.
Grabbing the keys and my new credit card, I slid into the convertible, pushed the garage door button, and waited for it to clear. The Porsche was terribly expensive, which made me feel extremely paranoid. My plan was to eventually return it or sell it, so I backed out carefully and drove like a grandma down the hill, wincing every time I passed a tree branch that came too close.
Parking in a visitor spot, I easily found the HSS building and walked to the bookstore where there was already a line of new students waiting to get their ID cards. I waited with them and got my ID. Then I suited up like every other WOU freshman by buying a red hooded sweatshirt which had the school mascot, a western wolf, printed on the front.
I followed the cashier’s directions to the administration building for a student parking permit. When I got to the front of the line, I told the lady my name. She said that someone had already issued a parking pass in my name. Of course they did.
On the drive home, I found the parking pass in the glove box and tried out the satellite radio stereo system. I turned the button to Lite Pop. My hand was on the dial in an instant when a love song belted out. I switched to Top 40, just in time to pick up a breakup song, skipped right over Love, and landed on New Country.
I should have known better. Carrie Underwood’s “I Told You So” blared from the high-tech speakers. I couldn’t seem to shake sad love songs, no matter how many stations I tried. Maybe the universe was sending me a message? Well, if that’s the case, then bring it on.
The song was about a girl who realized she made a mistake leaving the man she loved. If she returned to him, would he laugh and say, “I told you so,” or would he send her packing? Would he admit he’d been lonely without her or would he have moved on? I couldn’t have picked a better song to beat myself up with if I tried. Perfect. Thank you, Carrie Underwood. I hope YOUR guy took YOU back. I chewed my bottom lip and my vision became blurry.
The wind whipped through my hair as the words whipped my heart. Brushing a tear away from my eye, I considered that he probably would find somebody new very soon. I wouldn’t take me back if I were him. Letting myself think about him for even a minute was too painful. I tucked away my memories and folded them into a tiny wedge of my heart. Then I shoved a whole bunch of new thoughts in place of the painful ones. I thought about school, my foster family, and being back in Oregon. I stacked those thoughts like books, one on top of the other, to try to suppress everything else.
For now, thinking about other things and other people was an effective distraction. But I could still feel his ghost hovering in the quiet, dark recess of my heart, waiting for me to be lonely or to let my guard down, so that he could fill my mind again with thoughts of him.
I’ll just have to stay busy, I decided. That will be my salvation. I’ll study like mad and visit people and . . . and date other guys. Yes! That’s what I can do. I’ll go out with other people and stay active and then I’ll be too tired to think about him.
By the time I headed for bed, it was late and I was tired. Patting Fanindra, I slipped under the sheets and slept.
The next day, I studied my new text books for five hours and then took a break by going shopping in Salem. At a toy store, I bought two orange and black stuffed animal tigers, which seemed appropriate. As I headed toward the checkout counter, my eye drifted upward.
Hanging over the top shelf was a large, stuffed white tiger. Its bright blue eyes stared down at me.
The salesclerk saw me gape at it. “Would you like to see it?” she asked hopefully, bringing over a stepstool. “Here, let me get it down for you.”
The tiger was half as big as she was. The clerk set it on the counter, and I mumbled, “How much?”
“Two hundred and forty dollars, but this is a high-end product. It’s made to look lifelike. It looks almost real, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it’s pretty real looking, alright,” I admitted and thought sadly, I should know.
The woman smiled at me. “Would you like to add it to your purchase today?”
I nodded, and before I knew it, she had placed a small bag over my wrist and pressed the white tiger into my arms. I grabbed the tiger around the middle and buried my face in the fur. It was soft but didn’t smell right. He smelled wonderful, like sandalwood and waterfalls. This stuffed animal was just a disparate replica. Peeking out from the side, I thanked the woman and walked out to my car.
Back in the driver’s seat, I looked over at my new passenger, who was staring at me with glassy blue eyes. His eyes were bright cobalt. This poor thing’s were an imitation, a lifeless, dull blue. And its stripes were different.
What on earth is wrong with me? I shouldn’t have bought it. It was just going to make forgetting him that much harder.
I drove home, dragged my stuffed tiger upstairs, and threw it on my bed. Then I pulled out a change of clothes and got ready to visit my foster family.
As I drove through town, I went the long way around so I could avoid the Polk County Fairgrounds and more painful memories. When I pulled up in front of Mike and Sarah’s house, the door opened wide. Mike hurried toward me . . . but couldn’t resist getting a better look at the Porsche
and ran past me to the car.
“Kelsey! May I?” he asked sweetly.
“Knock yourself out,” I said and laughed. Same old Mike, I thought and tossed him the keys so he could drive himself around the block a few times.
Sarah put her arm around my waist and guided me toward the house. “We’re so glad to see you! Both of us are!” She yelled and frowned at Mike who waved happily while backing out of the driveway.
“We were worried when you first left for India because we didn’t get too many calls from you, but Mr. Kadam phoned every other day and explained what you were doing and told us how busy you were.”
“Oh? And what did he say, exactly?” I asked, curious to know what story he had made up.
“Well, it’s all very exciting, isn’t it? Let’s see. He talked about your new job and about how you will be interning every summer and working with him on various projects from time to time. I had no idea that you were interested in international studies. That is a wonderful major. Very fascinating. He also said that when you graduate, you can work for his company full time. It’s a fantastic opportunity!”
I smiled at her. “Yes, Mr. Kadam’s great. I couldn’t ask for a better boss. He treats me more like a granddaughter than an employee, and he spoils me terribly. I mean, you saw the house and the car, and then there’s school, too.”
“He did speak very fondly of you over the phone. He even admitted to us that he’s come to depend on you. He’s a very nice man. He also insists that you are . . . how did he say it . . . ‘an investment that will have a big payoff in the future.’”
I shot Sarah a dubious look. “Well, I hope he’s right about that.”
She laughed and then sobered. “We know you’re special, Kelsey. And you deserve great things. Maybe this is the universe’s way of balancing the loss of your parents. Though I know nothing will ever take the place of them.”
I nodded. She was happy for me. And knowing that I would be financially secure enough to live comfortably on my own was probably a big relief to them.
Sarah hugged me and pulled a strange-smelling dish out of the oven. She placed it on the table, and said, “Now, let’s eat!”
Feigning enthusiasm, I asked, “So . . . what’s for dinner?”
“Tofu and spinach whole wheat organic lasagna with soy cheese and flax seed.”
“Yum, I can’t wait,” I said and wrestled a half-smile to my face. I thought fondly of the magical Golden Fruit that I had left behind in India. The divine object could make the most delicious food appear instantly. In Sarah’s hands, maybe even a healthy meal would taste good. I snuck a bite. Then again . . .
Rebecca, six years old, and Samuel, four years old, ran into the room and bounced up and down trying to get my attention. I hugged them both and directed them to the table. Then I went to the window to see if Mike was back yet. He had just pulled up in the Porsche and was walking backward to the front door, staring at the car.
I opened the door. “Umm, Mike, it’s time for dinner.”
He replied over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the car, “Sure, sure. Be right there.”
Sitting between the kids, I scooped up a wedge of lasagna for each of them and took a tiny piece for myself. Sarah raised her eyebrow, and I rationalized it by saying that I’d had a big lunch. Mike finally came in and started chatting animatedly about the Porsche. He asked if he could take Sarah on a date and borrow the car some Friday night.
“Sure. I’ll even come over and babysit for you.”
He beamed while Sarah rolled her eyes. “Are you planning on taking me out or the car?” she asked.
“You, of course, my dear. The car is just a vehicle to showcase the beautiful woman sitting at my side.”
Sarah and I looked at each other and snickered.
“Good one, Mike,” I said.
After dinner, we retired to the living room where I gave the kids their orange tigers. They squealed in delight and ran around growling at each other. I felt bad about buying them here, but the tag still said Made in India, and they didn’t seem to mind.
Sarah and Mike asked me all kinds of questions about India, and I talked about the ruins of Hampi and Mr. Kadam’s house. Technically, it wasn’t his, but they didn’t need to know that. Then they asked me about how the tiger was adapting to his new home.
I froze, but only for an instant, and told them that he was doing fine and that he seemed very happy there. Thankfully, Mr. Kadam had explained that we were often out exploring Indian ruins and cataloging artifacts. He’d said my job was to be his assistant, keep records of his findings, and take notes, which wasn’t too far from the truth. It also explained why I was going to minor in art history.
Being with them was fun, but it also wore me out because I had to make sure I didn’t slip up and tell them anything too weird. They’d never believe all the things that had happened to me. I had a hard time believing it myself sometimes.
Knowing they went to bed early, I gathered my things and said goodnight. I hugged them all good-bye and promised to visit again the next week.
When I got home, I spent a couple of more hours studying and then took a hot shower. Climbing into bed in my dark room, I gasped quietly as my hand brushed against fur. Then I remembered my purchase, shoved the stuffed tiger to the edge of the bed, and tucked my hand under my cheek.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wondered what he was doing right now and if he was thinking of me or if he even missed me at all. I felt like I was playing whack-a-mole with my thoughts. Every time I punched one thought down, another one would surface in a different place. I couldn’t win; they kept popping up from my subconscious. Sighing, I reached over, grabbed the leg of the stuffed tiger, and pulled it close. Wrapping my arms around its middle, I buried my nose in its fur and fell asleep on its paw.
COLLEEN HOUCK’s debut novel, Tiger’s Curse, has already achieved popular digital success and was named a finalist for the 2010 Next Generation Indie Book Award in YA Fiction as a self-published eBook. Tiger’s Curse is the first volume in her multi-book Tiger Saga. Colleen lives in Salem, Oregon, with her husband and a white stuffed tiger.
To find out more,
visit www.tigerscursebook.com.
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