Instead, I focused on the conversation I was about to have with Steve. How could I avoid botching that, too? I plodded down the muddy hill, holding the huge umbrella so that it obscured my face and upper body. I kept my eyes on the ground, rehearsing casual questions delivered in just the right light tone. So how was the party, Steve? Did you have a good time? I had to keep him from hearing the note of despair in my voice.
The practicing didn’t help. “Hi Steve did you go to Miriam’s party,” I blurted out as soon as he answered the phone. I sounded like a prosecuting attorney.
He was quiet, taken aback. “Hello to you, too. And yes, I did go. It was tonight.”
“Oh. You’re back, then.”
“Yeah, Jazz. I came back early to wait for your phone call, remember?”
“Oh. Did you have a good time?” That was better.
“I guess. Some of the guys on the team showed up.”
I couldn’t help myself—I had to know the worst. “Was there dancing?” How Close did you hold her?
“Lots. And tons of great food. Miriam’s parents served those egg rolls that you love from the Yangtze River restaurant.”
“Did you dance?”
Now he sounded impatient. “What is this, an interrogation? Yes, I danced. We all did. You know I love to dance. Or maybe you don’t. You’ve only danced with me once.”
I grimaced, remembering that junior high fiasco. “Well, here’s a surprise for you,” I told him. “I went to a disco yesterday.”
“What! You did? Who with?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
“I’m just curious. Who’d you go with? Did you dance?”
“I went with some friends from school. And no, I didn’t dance. Not this time. It was kind of hard to keep saying no, though,” I couldn’t help adding.
“Oh, really,” he said, his voice even. “Somehow I can’t imagine you at a disco.”
“Why not?” I could hear the cool edge in my own voice.
He was quiet. Then: “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just so . . . not you. You hate dark, noisy places and you can’t handle crowd scenes. Besides, when’s the last time you went to a party or a club without me twisting your arm?”
“I know I’m not a social butterfly like you, Steve, but—”
“Social butterfly? What are you talking about? I never go dancing. Mostly because you never go. At least, you never wanted to with me.”
The conversation was headed downhill fast. I could feel the tears coming, and somehow I managed to keep them out of my voice. “Well, now that I’m gone, you can go to all the parties you want. People just invited me along because they wanted you, anyway. Now they can have you—without me tagging along like some kind of . . . bodyguard.”
The moment I finished talking, I wanted to reach into the receiver and grab the word back. But it was too late.
Steve’s groan traveled halfway across the world to ring in my ear. “Would you stop saying such stupid things?” he yelled. “What in the world is going on with you, Jasmine Carol Gardner?”
If only you knew, I thought, blinking and swallowing desperately as the silence lengthened.
“Sorry, Jazz,” Steve said finally, and his voice was calmer. “I didn’t mean to get so upset. It’s just that I hate it when you put yourself down.”
“It’s okay,” I mumbled. No, it’s not. Why Can’t I be different? Why Can’t I be the kind of girl you’d fall in love with?
“Something bigger’s going on, Jazz. I wish you’d tell me what it is. Are we friends or what?”
If I didn’t confess at least part of the truth, I might push him away forever. I cleared my throat and managed to steady my voice. “I guess I can’t stand seeing so many needy people around me all the time.”
“Oh, is that it?” Steve asked, sounding relieved. “Well, that explains a lot. You’re so generous and softhearted, Jazz. I figured living in a poor country would be hard on you.”
There it was again. Didn’t anybody know the real me? First Mom with her myth about how jasmine flowers reflected my true nature, and now Steve calling me generous. It was time to set him straight.
“I am not generous!” I said. “Remember that girl from the orphanage? The one who’s been working for us? Well, she asked for my help. And guess what? I said no. Now, how generous is that?”
“What kind of help does she need?” Steve asked.
“She needs to make money in a big way. I wish she’d ask Mom—I’m sure Mom could find a way to help her. I’d just end up doing more damage.” I paused, then said it anyway: “Just like I did with Mona.”
“That was a fluke, Jazz. I’ve told you a hundred times. Besides, your mom’s a wonderful person, but she doesn’t know anything about making money. You do. This girl probably just needs some encouragement, someone to talk to. Like we did, remember? You can do that.”
I was quiet. It was easy for him to say—his homeless people were doing just fine. Mine was in prison.
But he wasn’t done yet. “Just try it, Jazz,” he said. “And tell me how it goes in your next letter. Knowing how you feel about crowds, I won’t bother asking you for e-mail. Which reminds me—is something wrong with the Indian mail system? I haven’t gotten one letter yet.”
I gulped. I was glad I’d recently mailed that first letter. “Letters take about a week or so to get there, Steve,” I said. “You should be getting it soon.”
After we said good-bye, I trudged up the hill, rehashing our conversation. It was no use talking things over with Steve or Mom—they were both extroverts who got involved with others as naturally as they breathed. I needed somebody else to dump on, somebody who knew what life was really like for Jasmine Carol Gardner.
TWENTY
Sitar music was playing in the apartment. To my surprise, Dad was home, sitting quietly on the couch as though he’d been waiting for me.
“Come and join me, daughter of mine,” he said, patting the space beside him.
I collapsed on the couch. The music played a sad, disappointed melody against the harmony of the rain. Mom always said that when Dad was with somebody he loved, he exuded “a safe, peaceful aura.” It was true. I leaned my head on his shoulder. Suddenly, before I could stop myself, the tight ball of tension and self-hatred I’d been carrying around since the night before loosened, and I started to cry.
“Want to talk?” Dad asked after a while, handing me a tissue.
I blew my nose. “Not really. It’s just that I’m such a failure, Dad.”
“How so?”
I rested my head on his shoulder again. He had such a comfortable shoulder. Besides, being together like this felt like old times, when Dad would greet me after track practice or a long afternoon at the Biz. “I’m so stupid when it comes to dealing with people. I never know how to do or say the right thing.”
“Such as?”
“Such as helping people. I blew it so badly with Mona! You were right, Dad. Some of us aren’t supposed to try solving other people’s problems. I should have listened to you.”
Dad flinched, as if I’d just announced I had a terminal disease. He tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes. “I never should have said that, Jazz,” he said. “It was wrong.”
I pulled away. “No, Dad. It was right. You were right.”
Dad shook his head vehemently. “I wish I’d never said it. I made you feel like you and I are second-rate citizens.” He let go of me, got up, and began pacing. “But we’re not, Jazz. Not at all. I used to think the only role I had to play in helping people was setting your mother free to do her thing. But now it’s different. Oh, I could never do what she’ll be doing down at the clinic. I’d never survive.”
I nodded. “Neither would I. We’re just not designed for stuff like that, Dad.”
He shook his head, frustrated that I wasn’t following. “When Sister Das asked for help with the computers, she was asking me to try something that was designed for me. Not for your mother.” He sat down beside
me again and took my hand. “Sister Das and I spent all day yesterday organizing the orphanage’s accounts on the computer, and I felt alive in a new way. Not just watching Mom from the sidelines and cheering her on, but making a difference myself. And you know what, Jazz? It’s fun.”
“But Dad,” I argued, “it’s not like you’ve been sitting around doing nothing all these years. You take care of our whole family. And you give away almost all the money you earn.”
Dad nodded. “You’re right. I’ve always known that giving is much better for the heart than hoarding. We’ll keep giving, don’t worry. But hiding makes the heart shrink, too, and I’ve been guilty of that my whole life. I was hoping that coming here would give me a chance to break some bad habits. Ones that I learned as a kid, unfortunately.”
I thought back to when we’d said good-bye to Grandpa and Grandma Gardner. Was that what Dad had been trying to tell them about this trip to India? That he no longer wanted to play it safe?
“Since we came here, I’m not hiding anymore,” Dad said. “I may not impact lives on the scale that your mom will, but I’m doing something that makes a difference. Something tailor-made for me.”
He’d forgotten I was there, even though his hand was still stroking mine. But it didn’t matter. A vision of an old beggar woman standing in the rain flashed before my eyes.
Dad was right.
My heart was shrinking.
I’d let what happened to Mona send me into hiding, and my heart was getting smaller by the minute. The only way out was to take a risk, just like Dad had. As I listened to the sitar music, I knew exactly what risk I was being asked to take. I could hear the invitation in my mind, spoken in a soft, lilting voice that matched the melody of the music: It’s your opinion I need. Will you Come?
Dad blinked. “Sorry, Jazz. I forgot we were talking about you, not me. I know you’re still hurting about Mona. I made things harder for you by giving you bad advice. I wish I could take it back somehow. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course, Dad.”
I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, already figuring out how I’d apologize to Eric and Mom when they got home. Dad and I sat in silence, lost in our own thoughts, letting the music fill the room as twilight fell, just as we used to in Berkeley after an especially draining day.
During Monday morning tea break, Sonia and her gang coiled around me in their usual tight circle.
“You were a hit on Friday, Jazz. I hope you join us again.”
“Why in the world did you leave so early?”
“All the boys asked about you. You made such a splash.”
I looked at the cup of tea in my hand with distaste. School tea tasted foul after Danita’s glorious brew. “Thanks for inviting me. I’m sorry I wasn’t much fun. Guess discos just aren’t . . . my cup of tea,” I said.
“Why not?” asked Rini.
“Dancing is easy,” said Lila.
“I’d be happy to teach you, Jazz.” Sonia smiled. “Come home with us tomorrow afternoon and we’ll get started.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I have other plans.”
“Like what?” Sonia asked.
“I’m meeting somebody,” I said.
“Oh, really?”
“What’s his name?”
“Come on, tell us everything.”
“Her name’s Danita,” I said.
“There’s no Danita at our school.”
“Danita who?”
“Does she have a brother? A handsome one?”
“She doesn’t go here,” I said. They were waiting expectantly, so I continued. “She lives at Asha Bari.”
“An orphan?” Rini asked. “How do you know her?”
“She works for us. And no, she doesn’t have a brother. She has two younger sisters.”
Sonia shook her head. “She’s your servant? Oh, no. You’re in trouble now, Jazz. Let me guess. She’s asked you for help in some way, right?”
I nodded reluctantly.
“I knew it,” Sonia said. “Watch out. She’ll keep asking. They’re all like that.”
I could feel myself getting irritated. Why should Sonia assume that she knew more about Danita than I did? “Danita’s not a beggar, Sonia.”
Even as I said it, I knew I was right. Danita’s goal was to stand on her own two feet, with her beloved sisters beside her. All she needed was a little encouragement. I could certainly offer her that.
Sonia shook her head. “Mark my words, Jazz. Once you get personally involved, people like that start taking advantage of you. That’s why they elected my father to be chairman of Asha Bari’s board—he knows that the best way to help poor people is through a good charity.”
“My mother’s been personally involved for years, and nobody’s taken advantage of her. Even if one or two people do, she still thinks it’s worth it.” I hesitated, then continued. Steve was right. I had to put the Mona fiasco behind me once and for all. “And so do I. I’m sorry I can’t come tomorrow. Or join you again on Friday.”
“All right, Jazz.” Sonia sighed. “But the boys will be asking about you. They went absolutely wild over you.”
Thankfully, the bell rang. How could I explain that I didn’t want a bunch of strange guys going “absolutely wild” over me? All I wanted was one guy to go a little wild— one guy who wasn’t a stranger at all.
TWENTY-ONE
I rummaged through the drawer Until I found the magazine article about Mona. A junior high yearbook photo of myself gazed up at me. And I’d actually thought I was big then! But my physical appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Even though I’d grown a lot on the outside, I’d been shrinking on the inside.
Slowly and deliberately, I tore that horrible article in half. And then, enjoying what I was doing, I ripped it in half again. I kept tearing until the paper was in shreds. Then I crumpled them in my fist, tossed them into the trash, and marched into the kitchen.
Danita was standing at the stove, stirring what looked like a large pot of soup.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, Danita.” It was the first time I’d spoken to her in a week.
“Hello, Jazz Didi.”
“What are you making?”
“Lentils.”
“Oh. Can I help?”
“No, thank you. I’m almost finished, and the rice is already done.”
Come on, Jazz! “Uhhh . . . Danita?”
“Yes?”
“Remember how you wanted to show me something at the orphanage?”
Danita stopped stirring and turned to face me. “Yes?”
“Well, I’d like to see it. Can I visit tomorrow after school?”
Danita was studying my expression. “Are you sure you want to, Jazz Didi? You seemed so hesitant when I asked you last time. I’ve been wondering if maybe I offended you in some way? If I did, I’m sorry.”
“No! You didn’t offend me. Not at all!”
“They why have you been avoiding me, Jazz Didi? Surely I must have done something wrong. I don’t know much about American customs, but I’d like to learn.”
“No, Danita. You didn’t do anything. It’s me—I’m the one who freaked out. It’s just that I’m scared to visit the orphanage.”
Danita looked even more bewildered than ever. “Asha Bari? Why?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I answered, looking away.
Danita was quiet. “You’ll see for yourself what a wonderful place it is,” she said finally. “I’m glad you’re coming, and so excited to hear your opinion about what I want to show you. I’ll ask your parents if I can take the day off tomorrow. There should be plenty of leftovers from this dinner, anyway.”
The lentil soup suddenly rose high in the pot, bubbling furiously. Danita turned the flame down. I lunged for the spoon and stuck it in, stirring like a maniac. Miraculously the bubbles subsided to a low gurgle. It was easier to talk when my hands were busy and we weren’t standing face to face, so I kept stirring. “I can’t promise my advic
e will help,” I said to the soup. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“I only want you to tell me the truth. That’s what friends do, don’t they?”
I nodded. She was right.
“Sit down and drink your tea,” Danita said. “I want you to tell me more about that business of yours.”
Once she started me talking, it was hard to stop. I described how Steve had trained the homeless people he’d hired, how patient he was with them, and how they trusted him completely. As I talked on, it dawned on me that Danita was trying hard not to smile.
“What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”
“You think quite highly of this boy, don’t you, Jazz Didi?”
“Well, yes. He is my best friend, you know.”
“And in your country, a girl can marry her best friend. Can she not?”
My cheeks felt hot. “I suppose so. But Steve and I would never get married.”
“Why not? Your parents wouldn’t object, would they?”
“Oh, no. They love Steve. It’s just that . . .”
“Just what? He sounds like the perfect boy for you.”
“Oh, he is perfect. Absolutely. It’s just that he could never like me in that way. Romantically, I mean.”
“Why not?”
I hesitated for a second, then decided to give Danita the same test I’d given Sonia, Lila, and Rini. Would Danita tell me the truth—that someone like Steve Morales was way out of my league?
“I’ll be right back,” I told her. I dashed into my room and brought back Steve’s photo.
Danita wiped her hands and took it, studying it carefully. “He looks very kind, Jazz Didi,” she said.
“He is. But can’t you see the problem, Danita? Steve is so handsome. And intelligent. And kind.”
“So what?”
“So a girl has to match a boy she marries, doesn’t she?”
Danita handed the photo back. “Not always. And why aren’t the two of you a match, anyway? You are kind and intelligent also. Not to mention beautiful.”
There it was again. That description of me as beautiful. First Rini, then Sonia, and now Danita. I’d written off Sonia and Rini’s words as part of their infatuation with all things American. But Danita certainly wasn’t swayed by the “glamour” of America. Asha Bari kids were sheltered from that stuff; they had no access to American television, movies, or music.
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