I focus on chewing and wait for Sam to say something. Just being in Sam’s room makes me feel better, though. Everything is a different color. The bunk beds are blue. Her rug is pink. The walls are green. Her dresser is yellow, all painted by Sam and Sadie. It’s like living inside a rainbow.
“I can’t wait for summer,” she says.
I nod and chew.
“It better stop raining or we won’t be able to camp.”
More nodding and chewing on my part.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “You haven’t said much.”
Once I meet her eyes I think I’m going to cry. Then I swallow a raisin the wrong way. While I cough, she smacks me on the back.
“Sonia, what’s going on?” she asks after I finally stop coughing.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” I say, my voice scratchy. “It’s not good.”
“Did someone die?” she asks.
“What? No. It’s just—it’s just that my parents said I can’t go to Community next year.” Then I exhale as if I’ve been holding my breath for a long time.
“What? Why?” she says, her mouth full of bread.
“My dad got fired from his job.”
“Really?” Sam says.
“So anyway, I don’t think we can afford Community anymore. But don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”
“Like what?” Sam asks, and chews fast now, swallowing hard. “Because you have to. We can’t go to different schools. We just can’t.”
“I know. I just haven’t thought of anything yet.”
“We could buy a bunch of lottery tickets,” Sam says.
“Are you serious?”
“Sort of. I have thirty bucks saved up. What do you have?”
“No.” I shake my head and wipe some butter off my mouth. “I can’t let you do that. We’re just going to waste our money.”
“I got it! Duh,” she says as she stands up, breadcrumbs dropping to the ground. She points to the ceiling. “Apply for financial aid!”
I’m not even sure what financial aid is, exactly. I open my mouth, but before I say anything Sam goes on.
“That’s what we do, although we may not have to anymore, now that my mom makes jewelry for Angelina Jolie.”
“She does?”
“Well, Angelina bought a necklace that my mom made in some store.”
“Wow,” I say, wondering which necklace it was.
“But if you don’t have enough money, you just fill out some forms and then the government gives you the amount you need.”
“That’s it?” I say.
“That’s it,” Sam says, and then she bites her lip. “At least, I think that’s it.” She plops herself down and takes another bite. We both chew in silence for a few seconds.
“But what if that doesn’t work?” I ask.
Sam is quiet for a moment. Then she speaks. “It has to work. My cousin had a best friend and …” She trails off.
“What? Tell me.”
“Well, her friend moved to the next town and switched schools,” she says, sitting back down. She looks at me hard. “And now they’re not friends anymore.”
My chest feels tight. “That wouldn’t happen to us,” I say quickly.
“I guess not.” She picks up the stuffed pink bunny she’s had since she was a baby and throws it across the room. It lands in a pile of dirty clothes by her closet.
“It’s not my fault, Sam,” I say.
“I know,” she says, twisting one of her red curls over and over into a knot.
We try to have fun after, but now Sam’s the one who acts quiet and weird. She doesn’t look me in the eye. Sadie makes turkey burgers out on the grill and afterward we have s’mores, but Sam suddenly doesn’t feel like camping out, even though it stops raining. So we watch E.T. for the millionth time and go to sleep after barely talking. We don’t even use the spy pen-flashlights.
Mom picks me up late the next morning, the sun already blazing down like it’s the middle of July. I hug both Sadie and Sam extra hard, but Sam’s arms don’t hold me as tight as mine hold her.
“Jeez, Sonia, we’ll see you again,” Sadie says after my bear hug.
“Did you have fun?” Mom asks after we drive quietly for a few minutes.
I nod, looking out the window.
“You seem down.”
“Did you know that Sam gets financial aid to go to Community?”
“A lot of people do,” Mom says in a low, calm voice.
“So why can’t we?”
Mom drives slowly. I can see her turning my words over in her head. “Sam said you just fill out some forms and the government gives you money.”
Mom laughs. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
We turn into our driveway and come to a stop in front of the garage. For some reason Mom never parks in the garage and Dad always does.
“You really love it there, huh?” she says, taking the keys out of the ignition and turning toward me.
“It’s more than just school to me. I can’t leave it. What about the sixth-grade play?” I tell her. “I’ve been waiting forever to be in that play.” The play is one of the biggest things that happens at Community because the sixth graders write it and perform it themselves.
“Let me talk to Dad,” Mom says. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
A ripple of happiness shoots through my body. Mom is good at convincing Dad to do things. She was the one who convinced him to take us to India last year. You’d think it would have been the other way around, but for some reason Dad didn’t want to go. He said the trip would be too hard on us, that Natasha and I were too young. But Mom said it was important to visit while we were still kids so that India would feel like a part of us as we grew up. She pointed out that my Indian cousins had been going every year since they were babies, and that we had already taken a big trip to Israel and that worked out fine. When he gave in and we were finally in India, he seemed to forget that it had been her idea. He kept saying things like, “Look around, kids. This is a part of who you are.” So if Mom thought I needed to stay at Community, she would make it happen.
chapter four
It’s our last week at school. Sam suddenly acts like she’s best friends with Siri. I didn’t even think she liked Siri. I don’t say anything about my talk with Mom. Partly because I want to wait and surprise Sam and partly because I don’t want to tell her anything good if she’s going to be like this.
On Friday we have what Community calls the Summer Ceremonies. We all dress up and each class does a short performance—usually a skit or a song with a summer theme. My class recites poems we wrote. When we finish, we hand out the different-colored roses we’ve been holding to all the teachers and staff. After the performances, we have a huge potluck picnic. Everyone brings the most incredible food: sesame noodles, California rolls, quesadillas, fried chicken, Greek salad, samosas (from us), veggie wraps, mini quiches, huge piles of brownies and cookies, and a cooler of ice pops in every flavor imaginable. I try to have fun. I try really hard, but everything I do feels like I’m watching myself in a dream.
The next morning, Saturday, Mom and Dad knock on my door and wake me up. The full sunlight streams through my window. It must be late. Mom sits on the edge of my bed. Dad stands, with his hands on his hips.
“You awake?” Mom says.
I nod. Dad sighs and looks at Mom.
“What?” I say.
“It’s about school,” Dad says.
I sit up. “Did you get financial aid?”
“I’m sorry, Sonia.” Dad pauses to clear his throat. “But Community isn’t going to work out next year.” He starts to pace across my rug.
“What happened?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“We wouldn’t qualify for enough financial aid,” Mom says. “And we don’t want to take out loans.”
“Why not?” I say, my voice high and whiny.
“We know this is hard for you. But give Maplewood Middle School
a chance.”
“You still haven’t told me why you won’t take out loans.” I cross my arms.
Dad crosses his arms back at me and his face changes from soft to hard.
“This isn’t for you to decide, Sonia. Certain things are your decisions, and certain things are ours. This is what’s best for everyone.”
I keep my arms crossed and my face in a pout. Mom puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it away.
“This could be good, you know. Change teaches you things,” Mom says.
“The only thing this teaches me is that money makes everything better. Dad lost his job and I lost Community and probably my best friend in the whole world!”
“Sonia,” Mom says, and looks at Dad.
Dad glares at me in a way I’ve never been glared at before. It’s like he’s not himself anymore. “Apparently, I’ve taught you nothing!” he yells. “You’re just another American spoiled brat!”
Mom and I both jump. He turns and slams his hand on the side of my bookcase, which is a little wobbly. A few books thud to the floor as he stomps off. My heart is thump, thump, thumping.
Mom’s always the one getting angry—because Natasha and I didn’t clean our rooms or because someone left the milk out. But it’s not scary angry—mean angry. Dad hardly ever loses his temper, except for now.
“Your father’s upset,” Mom says.
“I can see that,” I say. My face melts and the tears roll, soaking Mom’s sweater as she holds me on my bed. Neither of us says anything. We just hug. Then after a minute she wipes my tears with the back of her hand.
“You were a bit hard on him,” she says.
I hang my head. If only I’d kept my mouth shut. I nod and start crying again.
“But he was much harder on you. He’s going through a difficult time. He didn’t mean it. Let’s go to the pond today, okay?” she says, stroking my hair. “We’ll give Dad some space. And I promise you, Sam’s not going anywhere. She adores you.”
I just keep quiet.
I manage to avoid Dad all day. He makes it pretty easy since he spends most of it shut in his office. Mom takes us to the pond in the next town. It’s like a pool, except with no chlorine, which Mom hates the smell of, and it’s a lot more muddy. I don’t mind. I like the pond because it has a sandy beach and it reminds me of the ocean. There’s nothing I love more than the ocean. We go to the same place on Cape Cod every August with Sam’s family. The inn’s right on the beach. Ben brings his guitar and we bake clams outside. Last summer on a rainy day, Sam and I sat in our pajamas on the porch of the inn and counted waves all morning. We counted 672 waves before we stopped. I wish I could be back there right now.
Even though it’s only June, it’s already hot and sticky. The pond water is still cold, though, and Natasha and I only manage to wade in up to our knees. We eat the almond butter–marmalade sandwiches Mom brought. Then we come home, watch TV, and eat a quick dinner, and afterward Mom disappears to do her own work, which she’s been doing more and more often. My bedtime comes and goes but nobody notices. Natasha and I hang out in the den, watching more TV than we normally do. It’s strangely quiet, almost as if our parents have forgotten about us. I tell Natasha she should get ready for bed. She frowns at me, but goes off to her room. I pad down the stairs. I pass Dad’s study, but it’s dark. I come to my parents’ bedroom; the door is open a crack. There’s a bit of light coming from Mom’s office, which is actually the dressing area between their bedroom and bathroom.
I catch Mom’s voice. I hear the words “totally unacceptable behavior.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of the kids,” Dad says.
“Then don’t act like it,” Mom says. “You should have seen Sonia’s face after you stormed off. Next time you behave that way in front of them I swear I’ll …” Then she stops.
I stand against the wall right outside the door. Dad coughs. Mom sniffs. I wonder if she’s crying.
“You swear what?” Dad says.
Mom sniffles more. Now she’s definitely crying.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I wish I were perfect, but you know I’m far from that.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Mom says in a low, dry voice.
Then I hear the floorboards creaking and run out of the hallway before anyone finds me there listening. I fly upstairs and dive into bed and start reading the paper. Mom always saves me the travel section of the New York Times. I love imagining myself in all those strange, beautiful places. I cut out the articles from the places I plan to go to someday—Africa, Alaska, Italy, Greece. I want to go back to India. I like the way there are flowers everywhere: climbing walls, bunched in hotels, floating in fountains. I like the way everyone sits on the floor at parties, and how all the women drape themselves in beautiful silk saris and gold jewelry just to go to the market. I like the warm smell of spices and fruit everywhere. I like that when I look around I see so many people who look like Dad, even like me.
I hear Dad’s heavy steps coming up the stairs. I read the title of the article “The Magic of Madrid” over and over.
“Hi,” he says, poking his head into my open door.
“Hi,” I say back and keep staring at the paper.
“It’s hard for me, sometimes,” he says.
I nod.
“I grew up with very little. You have so much. Mom and I have wanted you and Natasha to have lots of opportunities, and we’ve worked hard to give them to you. But I also wish I could give you …” He stops and rubs his forehead. “I hoped I had given you some perspective. I would have been so lucky to go to a school like Maplewood, let alone Community. In my school we sat on the floor, held slates on our laps, and tried not to get bitten by scorpions.”
I keep staring at the paper. Dad watches me, then puts a hand on my back. I squirm a little and he takes it away.
“Sonia, say something,” he says gently.
“Do you ever want to go back?”
“Go back where?”
“To India.”
“No,” he says, all serious and low, looking straight at me. “We’re better off here. Trust me.”
“Dad, is it okay if I miss Community?” My voice breaks a little bit. I don’t want to cry. “I’ve gone there for so long. All my friends are there.”
“Of course it is, but how do I get you to understand how lucky you are?”
“I understand,” I say.
His face relaxes. “Okay,” he says, standing up. “Good night, then.” He kisses me on the forehead and leaves.
None of this would have happened if I hadn’t gotten all whiny about Community, or let Mom see how upset I was when Dad got mad at me. Before, in their room, they sounded like they hated each other, like they wanted to spit their words at the other person. If only I could have just acted normal about the whole thing.
I sit cross-legged on my bed and look around my room. I look at the big, heavy furniture, the soft rug, my blue and green tie-dyed comforter and matching pillows, my closet full of clothes and toys, my bookshelf full of books. I think of my dad in India sleeping on a mat on a roof covered with mosquito nets. I think of him sweating in his dusty schoolroom with his little chalkboard. I think of him stealing a mango for fun. Here I am, the luckiest girl in the world, but all I can think of is what I don’t have.
chapter five
“Sonia, up, up,” Dad says, waking me on the first day of school, my new school. He’s been home all summer while Mom’s been teaching a lot more classes. At first I thought he’d be moping about his job, but it’s been exactly the opposite. Some days we just want to lie around and watch TV, but Dad won’t let us. He also does most of the cooking now—whipping up things like hot pepper omelets and strawberry waffles. He grills a lot too, turkey dogs and burgers. Or he makes a curry or naan pizza. I never knew this, but Dad’s a much better cook than Mom. And there’s not a block of tofu in sight.
Mom and Dad seem comforta
ble with each other now, not like they were when Dad first lost his job. I keep spying on them just to make sure. So far I haven’t heard any more arguments. Once in a while Dad will be quiet at dinner or get really annoyed with something small, like the way the kitchen faucet always drips no matter how many times he fixes it, or the neighbors’ barking dog. He’ll start stomping around, muttering things under his breath, swearing and speaking in Sindhi. But Mom just asks him in a way that’s not really a question if he wants some time to himself. He usually marches off to his study. When we see him again he doesn’t seem upset anymore.
I wonder what he does in his study that makes him feel better. Maybe he just imagines himself in magical, exciting places like I do. Maybe he thinks of India, not the hard and miserable part, but the running around with his brother, hands sticky from stolen mangos.
Along with making lots of food, he’s been taking me and Natasha to the big park for hikes or swims at the pond. Then we go play tennis at the town courts if it isn’t raining. We’ve been to the make-your-own-pottery store three times and gone to four puppet shows, seven sing-alongs, and ten storytimes. The storytimes are too young for me, but Dad seems to like them so much I don’t want to disappoint him. We’ve also been helping him with projects around the house: We all painted the laundry room. We cleaned out the garage. We planted new hydrangeas in the garden. We even started building a tree house.
I’ve never seen him like this, always coming up with a new activity, always in motion, always here with us. Anytime I want to relax, I go to my room because I know that if he sees me, he’ll rope me into another project. When he asks, there’s something in his eyes now that makes me afraid to say no.
I’ve been hanging out with Sam nearly every weekend too, mostly at her house. She wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t be back at Community, but after we hadn’t talked for a week, she called one morning at seven o’clock. I was still asleep. Dad came in with the cordless.
The Whole Story of Half a Girl Page 2