What made it worse was that I hadn’t said anything to him at all. I’d just stood there with a tragic look on my face. Now I needed to compose some brilliant parting words that would force him to think twice about his old buddy.
Dear Steve, I wrote. Then I chewed some more, watching the feet of countless strangers hurry by. What should I say next? How could I say good-bye to the star of my late-night fantasies on a four-by-six postcard?
Suddenly a pair of familiar-looking Nikes stopped right in front of me. An even more familiar hand reached down to pull the pen out of my teeth. I looked up and almost fell off the trunk. Was my fantasy life affecting my eyesight? No, it really was him. I couldn’t believe it. Maybe we were going to have the kind of good-bye I’d dreamed about. In the dream version, each of us (Steve first) confessed our secret feelings; then the whole scene faded as we indulged in a steamy, passionate kiss.
I stood up. There we were, face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes. The airport noise faded into the background, and violins began to play. Steve opened his mouth to speak, and—
“Steve!” Eric came bounding up between us. Steve was one of his top three candidates for ultimate hero. The other two were comic-strip characters. “You came to see me off. Awesome!”
We were back in the real world. Mr. Morales must have driven Steve to the airport, because there he was, standing behind his son, looking sleepy and irritable. Mom and Dad walked over, tickets and passports in hand. Helen and Frank followed. The possibility of any private good-bye shrank as the crowd of family members grew.
“Hello, Miguel. How nice that you came,” Mom said. Her voice was warm and welcoming. I watched Mr. Morales’s early-morning grumpiness disappear as Mom and Helen drew him into conversation.
Steve cleared his throat. “May Jazz take a quick walk with me, Mr. Gardner?”
My stomach began to churn. Did he know how much I wanted to be alone with him? Could the guy actually read my mind? If he could, I was in big trouble, because all I was thinking about was kissing him.
Dad looked at his watch and began to shake his head doubtfully. Mom, who seemed totally absorbed in listening to Mr. Morales, jabbed Dad with her elbow.
“Ouch!” Dad said, jumping. “Oh! Of course, Steve. But make it quick. Meet us back here in ten minutes.”
Steve walked away from the crowds to an empty counter, and I followed. We sat cross-legged beside each other on the baggage conveyor belt.
“Jazz,” he said. “Jazz.” And that was it.
I gnawed on my thumbnail. All of a sudden, this scene wasn’t romantic at all. It was just plain sad. What would a whole summer without Steve be like? He’d been there for me ever since that first day in kindergarten. I could count on him. Always. For a moment, it didn’t matter that I was hopelessly in love with him.
“Don’t bite your nails, Jazz,” Steve said, sounding like a brother again. “Here. Read these on the plane.” He handed me the newest editions of Personal Finance and Entrepreneur.
Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back. “Oh, Steve—” I began, and couldn’t finish.
He looked deep into my eyes, and it felt as if the ground was sliding away under me. Suddenly, I realized the ground was sliding away under me. The conveyor belt had started up, and Steve and I were heading for the X-ray machine. We jumped off before the woman sitting there could check out our internal organs.
“Jazz,” Dad yelled. He beckoned to me from the security check-in. “Time to get going.”
I nodded. “Let me say good-bye to my grandparents first,” I said to Steve as we headed over.
Helen and Frank were hugging Mom so tightly, it was impossible to break into their tight knot of three. I could barely see my tiny mom squashed between her parents.
“Don’t get your hopes too high, Sarah,” Frank was saying. “I don’t think you’ll find her.”
“Pay her back for us, anyway,” I heard Helen whisper to Mom. “We owe her so much.”
“I’ll try,” Mom whispered back, and they broke out of their huddle to wipe their eyes.
I got a little teary, too, as Helen enfolded me in her strong arms. “Be ready for monsoon magic, Jazz,” she told me.
After I’d been kissed and hugged by both her and Frank, I turned to Steve. Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do. Should I reach out my hands? Should I take a step forward?
Steve seemed just as paralyzed as I was.
Two frozen people, standing about three feet apart—the scene looked like somebody watching had pressed the Pause button to go get a snack.
“I’ll write,” he said finally.
“I will, too,” I answered.
Then to my total amazement, he reached over, pulled me into his arms, and hugged me. We’d hugged before, when we were little, after exchanging birthday and Christmas presents, but this was different. This was the first time I’d been so close to him in years. I could feel his steady heartbeat and the hard muscles in his arms flexing around me.
But that meant he could probably hear my heart racing and my hard muscles flexing around him. I pulled away.
“Take care, Jasmine Carol Gardner,” Steve said. “Hurry back.”
He’d used my full name again. This time, though, he wasn’t lecturing me, and the sound of it chimed like a bell. Desperate words raced through my mind. Wait for me. Don’t fall in love.
I tried to put everything I couldn’t say into my face. Then I turned and blew a kiss to my grandparents, who were wildly waving big tie-dyed handkerchiefs, and followed Eric and my parents to the gate.
SIX
After the plane took off, a flight attendant handed out steaming white towels and chilled orange juice. I tilted my seat back. Time to slip away to the land of the impossible . . . Steve and Jazz, codirectors of an international Corporation. Me, sauntering through airports at faraway destinations, flying first Class, checking into five-star hotels. Steve, picking me Up in our limo, whisking me off to a suite, where we’d toast each other with Champagne, eat Caviar by Candlelight . . .
Wait a minute. Fish eggs didn’t sound that great. So forget the caviar. Forget the five-star hotel. All I really wanted was Steve, sitting beside me, holding my hand. Of course, that was just as impossible as the other fantasy I’d been indulging in. Plugging in the headphones, I found an oldies station and closed my eyes. “Love me-ee tender, love me true,” begged Elvis as we headed for India.
We’d flown on short trips with my grandparents, so flying wasn’t anything new. But international travel certainly was. We flew from San Francisco to Tokyo, then from Tokyo to Bangkok. In the Bangkok airport, while we waited for the plane to India, Eric stretched out on the floor and dozed off. I read my magazines and tried to stay awake. Mom didn’t seem tired at all. She was getting more and more excited the closer we got. Her face looked like Eric’s when he was standing in line for a roller coaster.
By the time we left for Mumbai, India, we’d already been traveling for about thirty hours. Most of the passengers on this plane were Indian. Men wearing turbans joked and talked loudly in strange languages. I tuned in to the “relaxation music” channel to drown out the noise. After a couple of hours, Eric unplugged my headphones. “Earth to Jazz. Earth to Jazz. We’re flying over India.”
“Finally,” I said. I pressed my nose against the window. Silver rivers wound their way between rolling brown hills and valleys. Small villages floated like islands in a sea of green.
“Rice paddies,” I told Eric, who was leaning over me to look.
“Oh, Pete!” I heard Mom gasp. “I can’t believe we’re really here.”
The plane drew closer to the big city of Mumbai, and the open countryside disappeared. As we descended, I noticed the smoke and dust covering the city. I saw acres and acres of shacks made of cardboard and tin just before we landed.
When we made it to the baggage counter after customs and immigration, our stuff looked like it was in great shape. But after a day and a half of travel, no showers, and hardly
any sleep, three of us were rumpled, crabby, and exhausted.
“Don’t worry, guys, we’ll hop into a taxi right outside,” Mom said. She looked as fresh and lively as when we’d started. “The train to Pune only takes about four more hours. We’re almost there.”
I could tell Dad was anxious. “I hope you remember enough Hindi to get us to the train station,” I overheard him whispering to Mom. “Maybe the kids can help.”
Mom took a deep breath and led the family out of the quiet, air-conditioned airport. What was waiting outside slammed into us like a head-on collision. Eric grabbed my hand and held it tightly. He hadn’t done that for years.
Cars honked. Dogs barked. What seemed like a hundred men tugged at Dad’s clothing, yelling, “Taxi, sir? Taxi? This way, sir! Follow me!” A hundred others tried to pull the baggage cart out of his grip, yelling, “Thirty rupees! One U.S. dollar only, sir! I carry, sir. No problem, sir!”
Everywhere I looked, dark faces stared at us. Dark eyes watched our every move. Dark hands pulled at our sleeves, palms up, waiting to be filled. Wet heat wrapped around us. Mom was mopping her forehead with her handkerchief. My jeans felt thick and heavy, and trickles of sweat dripped down the back of my knees. Dad’s shirt was drenched by the time the four of us crawled into a taxi.
Nobody said a word during the drive to the train station. It started to rain just as we drove away from the airport—hot, steaming rain that fell in sheets. The driver muttered under his breath, leaning on his horn as the wipers smeared mud and rainwater across the windshield. The taxi skidded and screeched through a maze of potholes, buses, goats, motorcycles, puddles, cows, and people.
The train station was a madhouse, but somehow we managed to find the right platform. The taxi driver helped us get our things on board, grinning over the huge tip Mom handed him. We found four seats facing each other, and Eric and I slid in next to the windows.
As the train pulled away from the station, I sighed with relief. The city of Mumbai was too sprawling and unfamiliar, the platforms in the station too crowded and noisy. We left the modern, bustling urban streets behind and began to pass through smaller towns, villages, and wet, green fields.
“It’s the start of the monsoon season here,” Mom told us.
“What’s that?” Eric asked.
“The wet season. It’s going to last till just before we leave in August.”
Rain drenched the thatched shacks lining the tracks on the outskirts of each station. Children with matted, tangled hair and ragged clothes splashed and danced in the puddles. Women clustered around a well, covering their heads with the loose, flowing end of their sarees.
I knew India was a poor country, but it was still a shock to see it with my own eyes. A lot of the children wore rags, and very few of them wore shoes. How did their makeshift houses survive the heavy rains? The walls were made of everything from old crates to rubber tires. One hut was covered with paper bags from a fast-food chain. Somebody had carefully pasted a pattern of golden arches around an entryway.
The train began to climb over the mountains. As we rounded a curve, a caterpillar blew in through the window. It landed on Eric’s shirt collar. To me, it looked relieved, as though it had found shelter in a world that loved to smash furry green things. Gently, Eric pulled it off his collar, placed it on his palm, and stroked it with one finger. “I’ve never seen one like you before,” he crooned.
“We’ll get you a book on Indian bugs, Eric,” Mom promised.
Eric didn’t hear her. I’m sure he heard nothing else during the rest of the time it took for the train to reach Pune. Eric and bugs, bugs and Eric—they’d always been inseparable. If this incredible caterpillar could find him on a train, he’d be sure to find a ton of exotic specimens; insects of every size, shape, and color; insects he could spend a whole summer classifying. Some things never changed, no matter where in the world we were. I felt myself begin to relax.
Dad looked up from a book, frowning. “What if nobody comes to the station to meet us? This guide book doesn’t say much about taxis or buses.”
Mom and I smiled at each other. When Dad wanted to solve a problem, he disappeared into a book or a computer instead of asking for help. More predictability—just what I needed.
“Why don’t you put that away, Pete?” Mom said gently. “The scenery’s gorgeous now that we’ve left the city. Sister Das promised to pick us up. She’ll be there, don’t worry.”
Sister Das had been at the orphanage when Mom was a baby. Now she was the director of Asha Bari, or House of Hope. She’d arranged for us to stay in an apartment nearby that had been donated to the orphanage.
At each station, vendors boarded the train, shouting out what they were selling and getting off at the next station. “Chaa! Chaa!” the tea sellers called, swinging hot kettles in one hand and carrying stacks of cups in the other. The rickety train wound through the hills, and I wondered how they kept their balance. One of them almost lost his footing when he passed by, his eyes fixed on me. As he steadied himself, I realized he wasn’t the only one staring. Dozens of eyes were watching me from every corner of the train.
“Mom,” I whispered. “Why is everybody staring?”
“They’re curious, I guess,” she whispered back. “It’s not considered rude to stare here.”
Great. A whole summer in a country where people thought it was normal to ogle you. I shrank down in my seat and turned my face away from the interested eyes. The train was just pulling out of another hilltop station. Beside the tracks stood a pregnant girl wearing a wet orange saree that clung to her body. She was barefoot, and the brass pot she was balancing on her head was as round as her stomach. The rest of her was angles, thin and bony. She looked about my age.
The train gathered speed and left the girl behind. I shivered and closed my eyes. Maybe it was going to be tougher to survive this summer than I’d thought.
“Feeling okay, Jazz?” Mom leaned over to tuck a loose wisp of hair into my French braid. It was a familiar caress from my childhood.
“I’m exhausted, Mom. Could I put my head in your lap and stretch out a bit?”
“Of course, honey.” Mom folded her sweater into a pillow, and I let the safety of her lap and the rocking of the train lull me to sleep.
SEVEN
When the train pulled into the Pune station, a stately, gray-haired woman in a crisply ironed saree was waiting on the platform. Her only ornament was a plain pewter crucifix that dangled from a silver chain around her neck. She greeted Mom with a traditional Indian namaste, placing her palms together in front of her face and bowing slightly.
“Greetings, dear Sarah.” Her voice was deep, and she had a British accent. She sounded like all the butlers in movies I’d seen about England.
“Sister Das? Is that you?” Mom furrowed her brow, studying the nun’s face. Then she threw her arms around the older woman and buried her face in the white saree. My throat started feeling funny.
The nun patted Mom on the back. “There, there,” she said. “Welcome home, Sarah, dear.”
When Mom finally pulled away, Sister Das offered her a clean white handkerchief. Mom used it to dry her eyes while the nun turned to namaste Dad. “Welcome, son-in-law of India,” she said.
“What do we call her?” Eric asked in a whisper, close to my ear, as Dad awkwardly returned the gesture.
The woman’s hearing was keen. “The children of Asha Bari call me Auntie Das,” she said, walking over to us. “The two of you may do the same.” She lifted Eric’s chin and studied his face intently. “The image of your mother, I see. Same delight in the eyes, too,” she said. Then she smiled at me. “Welcome, Jasmine,” she said. I noticed she didn’t say anything about which parent I looked like.
“It’s so good to see you again, Auntie,” Mom said. “I was especially glad to hear that you’d be picking us up.”
After recovering her handkerchief from Mom, Sister Das began counting our bags. “Oy! Coolies!” she called, beckoning t
o two red-turbaned men, who walked over and bowed slightly. In rapid Hindi, she began negotiating their fee. I was surprised at how much I could understand. The word “coolie” was the Hindi word for porter. Those long hours of language lessons were actually paying off.
“At that price, you two can certainly manage this load,” Sister Das finally informed the two men. Then she turned to us. “Come, all of you. The van is waiting outside.”
We watched in stunned silence as the Coolies piled suitcase after suitcase on top of their heads. The men seemed to grow bigger under the load, as if the nun’s words had convinced them of their own abilities. I felt a pang of guilt that these thin men, who probably weighed less than I did, had to carry our stuff, including my weights in that trunk. Incredibly, we had to hurry to keep up with them. They jogged through the crowded platform, into the terminal, and outside to the city of Pune.
We stopped at a white van that was surrounded by a group of ragged children. As the Coolies hurled our bags into the back, Sister Das distributed bananas to the children. She turned to tip the Coolies, and judging by their delighted smiles, I could tell she’d been more than generous. The children giggled, grinned, and devoured the fruit, waving as we climbed into the van.
Sister Das gripped the steering wheel tightly as we screeched away. “I prefer my own driving, so I came to pick you up myself. The orphanage’s driver crawls along like a snail.”
I chewed my fingernails as the van navigated one obstacle after another. The nun leaned on the horn, pedestrians scattered, and a sea of motorcycles parted to let us through. We careened around rickety old double-decker buses and barely missed vendors balancing baskets of golden mangos on their heads.
“Didn’t the rains come early this year?” Mom asked as we headed toward the outskirts of the city. “I thought they usually arrived around the middle of June.”
Monsoon Summer Page 3