“So, tell me about India,” he said. “What’s it like?”
I hesitated. What could I say? How could I describe it to him? “It’s amazing, Steve. Crowded. Confusing. Colorful. Oh, I don’t know. Ask me something specific, will you?”
“Okay. What’s been the best thing so far?”
That was easy. “The monsoon. The rains, I mean. They make everything green and fresh-smelling. And the flowers! They’re incredible.”
“You always did like rain. All right, next question. What’s been the worst thing?”
“Well . . . ,” I said. “There’re a lot of poor people here. Beggars, even. Children who don’t have enough to eat. That part’s awful.”
“It must be tough. I mean, you see the poverty on TV, but it must be harder in person.”
“It is. And there’s more bad news. I start school on Wednesday.”
“School? In the summer?”
“Summer in India is in April and May. They actually have a rainy-season term going on right now.”
“Still, I can’t imagine your parents making you go to school.”
“They’re not. But they gave me a choice between the academy or the orphanage.”
“Really? I’d have picked the orphanage.”
“You and everybody else. The nun who’s in charge has already recruited Eric to coach soccer, and—you’ll never believe this—Dad’s going to teach the nuns how to use their computers.”
“I thought he hated teaching. He always says he’s strictly a behind-the-computer kind of guy.”
“He does. He did before coming here, anyway. Now he’s going off to that orphanage, too.”
“Sort of leaves you out in the cold, doesn’t it, Jazz? That’s rough.”
The sympathy in his voice gave me permission to keep going down my list of complaints. “There’s more, Steve,” I said. “Everyone stares at me like I’m some kind of freak. I can’t figure out why.”
“Hmmm,” Steve said. I could tell he was trying to come up with a good explanation. “I bet they’re not used to seeing Asians and white people in the same family. You know. A mixed-race family. We’ve lived in Berkeley all our lives, Jazz. It’s no big deal here, but you might get a different reaction there.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said doubtfully. But why did they still stare when I was on my own?
“Let ’em look,” Steve said. “You guys can be an ad for the American melting pot.”
“So how is life there, anyway? What have you been doing?”
“Not much. Besides work, work, and more work. The Biz has been really crazy this week. I did see some of the kids from school at the Y when I went for a swim.”
Which kids? Guys? Girls? Was Miriam there? Was she wearing a bikini? A skimpy one? I forced myself not to ask any dumb questions. “Why’s the booth so busy?” I asked instead.
“The university had some reunions, and we got a huge rush. All kinds of customers.”
“How much did we make?”
“Enough to give our employees a raise. All of them except one have found rooms to rent, and they could use the money.”
I sighed. Steve was a softie, just like Mom. He could never say no when somebody asked for money. “Just three percent, right? Like we agreed?”
“Yup. But that still leaves plenty to fatten our accounts, Jazz.”
We talked numbers until the grumpy man rapped on the glass door.
“Have to go, Steve. I’m only allowed to talk for ten minutes at a time.”
“Okay. How’s the kid doing?”
“Sweet as ever. Eric’ll never change. The rain makes the bugs here extra huge and disgusting. They’re everywhere.”
“Bring him along to the phone sometime. I’ll pay for the minutes. Get to the Internet, will you? And we’re splitting the cost of our calls, so keep track of them.” He paused. “It’s been pretty boring around here, Jazz.”
You won’t be bored for long, I thought, picturing Miriam’s thick-lashed green eyes, auburn hair, and slender figure in those short skirts she loved to wear.
“Focus on profits, Morales,” I warned him sternly. “Business, business, business. You’ve got to save enough money to buy that jeep.”
“I know,” answered Steve. There was a brief silence. “Call soon,” he said.
“I will,” I promised.
I was halfway up the hill before I realized we hadn’t fixed a time for our next conversation. I couldn’t call randomly in the middle of the night again; I wanted to be sure he’d be there so I didn’t wake up his parents. Now I was stuck trying to get hold of him during the day, unless Dad discovered a quiet place to send e-mail. Hopeless cause, I told myself glumly as I climbed the stairs to our apartment. In more ways than one.
Mom and Dad had decided they liked the Indian custom of drinking late-afternoon tea and that our balcony was the perfect place for it. They’d plugged in our new CD player, and soft sitar music drifted outside from the living room. I’d been resting in my room, thinking about my conversation with Steve. As soon as I heard the music, I grabbed a pen and a piece of the stationery Helen had given me and joined everyone.
Eric had taken some of his bugs outside to be sociable, but he seemed a little overwhelmed. A wide variety of creatures was crawling around on the balcony floor. Our parents were sitting cross-legged on chairs with their feet tucked under them. I decided not to tempt any biting insects with my toes, either.
Dad was frowning over a computer instruction manual. A company in Mumbai had donated four outdated Russian computers to the orphanage, and Sister Das had left a stack of manuals on our kitchen table as a not-so-subtle hint for Dad.
Mom was still rummaging through the folder Sister Das had given her, smiling over photos of herself at five, seven, and thirteen that Helen had sent to the orphanage. “How’s Steve?” she asked, putting down the folder to pour me a cup of tea. “It sure is strange not to have him around. It feels like part of the family’s missing.”
“Fine.” It feels like part of myself is missing, I thought, but I didn’t say so. “When you go to the orphanage, Mom, could you check and see if any mail came? I’m expecting a letter.”
“Sure, honey. Mail takes over a week to get here, though, so don’t count on it.”
Dad shook his head. “The Internet’s supposed to be all over the place in India, but I can’t find a place to access it. Sister Das didn’t even know what I was talking about when I asked her.”
I unfolded the piece of stationery in my lap. The smell of lavender wafted up, and I held the paper to my nose. Mmmm! Helen, the eternal romantic, had given me scented paper. I hadn’t written a letter on a piece of paper in ages, let alone a perfumed one. But if Steve had already written me, I had to write him back. Somehow, I’d have to compose the perfect letter—a brilliant combination of wit, intelligence, charm, and mystery. Didn’t history prove that even the most unattractive woman could capture a guy’s heart with the written word? I couldn’t think of any examples off the top of my head, but I was sure there were scads of them.
I gazed across the valley to the hills and tried to think of what to say. Faint noises drifted up from the houses and shops below us. Rain clouds gathered behind tall trees on the hills. I gnawed the end of my pen as I watched a triangle of brilliant green parrots visit one magnolia tree after another. Then I started writing.
Great. I was so used to using the Delete button on my computer, I couldn’t finish a sentence without wanting to change it. I was crossing out so much of the letter I’d have to write it over.
“Listen to this one from Frank, Pete,” Mom said, holding up a yellowed letter. “ ‘Sarah is the joy of our lives. It still amazes me that her birth mother managed to find her way to your orphanage, just so that we could become her parents. I was disappointed to hear that there is no way for us to contact her. Are you certain you have no clues about her identity? We’d so like to establish a relationship with her if we could.’ ”
“Your parents
tried for years to find her, Sarah,” Dad said. “You know that.”
Mom sighed. “I know.”
“Anyway, it’s good you have those letters,” Dad said. “There’s something almost magical about reading a letter long after it was written, isn’t there?”
I looked down at the stationery in my lap. A handwritten letter was a lot more heirloomish than e-mail. Maybe, just maybe, Steve would keep it. Years from now he might read it again, just like Mom was reading letters from her parents. Would my words stand the test of time? I reread the ones that weren’t crossed out. They made the letter sound like a business memo written by some stodgy executive, in spite of the lavender paper. Crumpling it up, I stuffed it into my pocket and tasted my tea. It was cold and bitter, and I noticed that everyone else had only taken a sip or two before giving up.
“I’m sorry about the tea,” Mom said, sighing. “Our helper from the orphanage will be here on Wednesday, thank goodness. She’ll come every day at noon and stay till the dinner dishes are done. Except on the weekends, of course.”
“I don’t know why Sister Das thinks we need help,” I said. “We managed fine in Berkeley on our own.” The last thing I wanted was an orphan from Asha Bari lurking around our apartment.
“We’re going to be busy this summer, Jazz. Especially now that your father’s decided to come to Asha Bari, too.” She beamed at Dad. “Besides, I want this girl to teach me how to make Indian food. The real stuff.” There were lots of cheap takeout options in Berkeley, but nobody in our family ever had much time to prepare home-cooked meals. Unfortunately, we loved eating them.
“How much are we paying her?” Dad asked.
“Only about three dollars a day. I wanted to pay her more, but Sister Das insisted we pay the market rate. Anyway, the girl’s name is Danita. She’s just your age, Jazz. Fifteen. She has two younger sisters at the orphanage.”
“Isn’t fifteen sort of young to have a full-time job?” I asked.
“Not really. Danita’s finished Asha Bari’s academic program. She speaks excellent English. Working for us is a good chance for her. She needs to earn money for a dowry.”
“What’s a dowry?” Eric asked, looking up from a gigantic caterpillar he was trying to lure into a small jar for transport back to the living room.
“It’s the money a bride’s family agrees to give the groom’s family when they get married,” Mom explained. “Danita doesn’t have parents, so she’ll have to come up with the money herself.”
“Doesn’t the groom’s family have to give anything?” I asked. “Besides, this girl’s too young to be thinking about marriage.”
“Not in India,” Mom answered. “Girls from poor families don’t have much choice. They’re considered a liability because they can’t earn money. That’s why they pay dowries. Sister Das asked us to hire Danita as a favor to the orphanage. They simply can’t afford to pay dowries for all the girls.”
“Sounds like a favor to us,” said Dad, tiptoeing gingerly around the bugs to collect the full cups of tea. “We’ll certainly need the help, what with Jazz starting school and the rest of us at the orphanage.”
School. I’d been worrying so hard about writing a letter to Steve that I’d almost forgotten what loomed ahead for me in three short days. Slumping in my chair, I watched the caterpillar squeeze itself into the jar. Run for your life, I wanted to yell, feeling a strange connection to the creature.
TEN
On Monday morning, Mom and I walked down the hill and climbed into an auto-rickshaw. Leaning forward, she gave directions to the driver. We were heading to the center of the city to visit a tailor who sewed the academy’s uniforms.
I steeled myself as we arrived at our destination. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with morning shoppers, vendors, stray dogs, and beggars. A group of brown-haired children ran over immediately and surrounded me, asking for money in high-pitched voices. They didn’t pay any attention to Mom until she dug in her bag for change and began passing it around.
Word spread quickly and more kids dashed over to tug at Mom’s sleeves. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. People goggled as they passed, lowering and then raising their heads to check me out from top to bottom. Would Mom never run out of money? Was every kid in Pune going to ask her for a handout?
A short, thin clerk darted out of one of the air-conditioned boutiques behind the sidewalk vendors. “We sell so very nice salwars,” he told me in broken English. “Come inside our shop. We give you the cold cola.”
Another shoulder-high man popped out of nowhere, tugging at my other elbow. “Nahin! Nahin! Do not go with that cheating fellow. Come with me. We give best value for good price.”
Neither of them seemed to notice Mom, who was still fishing through her purse for stray coins. I tugged on her sleeve as eyes roamed from my face to hers.
“Yes, yes, your maidservant can have cola also,” the first clerk told me. “Come this way only.”
I glanced quickly at Mom, wondering if she’d overheard. She was gazing down at an older woman selling bracelets on the pavement. “Come on, Mom,” I urged. “There’s the store we need. Let’s hurry!” I tugged her inside and closed the door firmly on the faces of the disappointed clerks.
A chubby, beaming tailor stood up to greet us. “We heard you were coming this morning,” he told me, holding both of his hands out in welcome toward me. “Sister Das said to keep one eye open for an American girl and her mother.” He peered around Mom as though looking for somebody. “But where is your mother? You didn’t come alone, I hope.”
That is my mother, you idiot! I thought furiously, but I managed not to say it.
“I’m here,” Mom said, stepping forward. She was frowning, too, I noticed. “My daughter needs this uniform by tomorrow night. Can you finish it by then?”
“Of course, madam,” the man answered, managing to cover his surprise. “We’ll deliver it to your place for free. I’m sorry, madam. I didn’t know you were together.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mom said. “Shall we get started?”
A boy about Eric’s age brought us two bottles of cold orange soda. A female clerk measured every inch of me, knee to thigh, underarm to wrist, shoulder to hip, and all the way around me in three places. She raised her eyebrows over some of the figures and remeasured me several times.
I noticed a barrel of jumbo umbrellas for sale in a corner of the shop. “Could I get one of those, Mom?” I asked when the clerk was finally finished.
Mom paid the tailor for the uniform and the umbrella and gave him our address. One of the clerks hailed a rickshaw for us, and the tailor walked us to it himself, using his bulk as a human shield until we ducked inside.
“Allah wa akbar!” Muslim leaders proclaimed five times each day. “The Only One God is Great!” Amplified chanting from tall minarets called faithful Muslims to prayer. Sister Das had told us that the city of Pune was mostly Hindu, but there was a large Muslim minority as well as a tiny Christian one.
Buttoning the two collar buttons of the starched blouse, I muttered my own prayer for survival. The tailor had come through on his promise and delivered the uniform to our apartment late Tuesday night. The blouse had to be tucked into the elastic waistband of the uniform’s dark skirt. My knees gleamed palely beneath the pleats, and I groaned at my reflection.
The dreaded uniform outlined me like a tight figure eight, exposing some of my best-kept secrets. In a certain type of bathing suit (which I’d never wear in a trillion years), I could easily pass for one of those old-fashioned movie stars from the 1950s—the ones with round hips and big, pointy brassiere cups. That’s why I always felt more comfortable when my curves were camouflaged under loose T-shirts and baggy jeans.
Eric, Mom, and Dad were waiting for me downstairs. As I descended, I could tell they were fighting to keep the shock from showing. Eric failed completely; his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged out of his head.
“You look great, Jazz,” Dad said, recovering fir
st. “That uniform fits perfectly.”
I groaned again. “It’s got so much starch in it! I feel like I’m wearing a guitar.”
“Well, you look terrific, Jazz,” said Mom. “You have such a beautiful figure, darling.”
Beautiful? Hah! Bountiful is more like it, I thought. I didn’t say it aloud, because like Steve, my parents hated it when I put myself down.
“Your saree looks terrific, Mom,” I said instead.
I couldn’t help envying how slim and small she looked. She’d managed to wrap and fold a saree around herself perfectly, even though she’d worn one only once or twice before in Berkeley. The one she was wearing now was green, with small yellow flowers embroidered along the border. It was an inexpensive cotton, like the sarees poor women wore on the street, but Mom’s looked new.
“Thanks, honey. I’m so nervous about making a good first impression,” she said. “I’ll start right away by visiting that settlement beside the orphanage.”
Sister Das had told us that the women who lived around the orphanage rarely visited doctors or hospitals. When they got pregnant, they took care of things themselves. Some of the babies were born too early and had to fight just to survive. And some of the women died in childbirth. The grant the orphanage had won would provide enough money to pay for doctors, nurses, and supplies. On top of that, the clinic would offer any pregnant woman in the community one nutritious meal a day of rice, lentils, eggs, and vegetables. Mom was hoping the free food would draw them in, that they’d visit the clinic for checkups during their pregnancies and decide to have their babies there, too, where it was clean and safe. She was going to visit them first, though, so they’d know they could trust her.
I wasn’t at all worried about Mom. Making people feel welcome was her specialty. Everybody she met in that community was sure to love her. They always did. No, it was my father who might not make it through the day. He looked as nervous and pinched in his shirt and tie as I felt in my uniform.
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