Nannies sometimes dropped kids off at math tutoring and took off for a coffee next door.
I didn’t sign up to be a summer camp counselor like half my friends, just to avoid wrangling teeny kids. No younger siblings or cousins in the country meant I had no experience with little kids. Who knew that math tutoring would be full of them? More than half the kids who went to Ace Tutoring were elementary age or under. I felt bad for them—doomed to daily math torture for all of summer vacation. At least I got paid for it, and the kids were actually sweet. Turns out I’m not half bad at handling them.
My sister Vinnie and I are nothing alike, but we do have math in common. In high school she played every sport she could fit around her course load—field hockey, soccer, volleyball. I stuck to art, speech team, and drama club—painting sets, designing costumes, and putting makeup on Oompa-Loompas, Munchkins, and the lost boys from Peter Pan. But we’re both math whizzes. She always was, and I became one because Dad would have been crushed if I wasn’t, so I tried extra hard.
But I don’t have the same nerd gene they do, the kind that makes them drop everything to watch Nova specials on things like the Andromeda–Milky Way collision or the structure of DNA. I’d rather watch an art restoration video on YouTube or a K-drama instead.
Kylie slaved through her multiplication tables, to both our relief.
“Gimme five,” I said, and drew a smiley face on her work sheet. She slapped her dimpled hand into mine, ran over to the corkboard that said TODAY’S GOOD JOB!, and pinned her work sheet to it.
“Hi, Mini Kapoor,” said an apple-cheeked seven-year-old. Wide brown eyes gazed into mine, pools of unquestioning trust.
“Hi, Rahul Singh,” I said. Rahul, my favorite student, had no problem being interested in doing his math. His mom told me he had trouble relating to his teachers at school, due to his Asperger’s, but Rahul and I got along just fine—probably because math was his favorite subject. No surprise; Rahul breezed through his work sheet wicked fast and sat smiling at me as I marked it—he had gotten everything correct.
“Is this getting a little too easy, Rahul?” I asked.
“Yes.” He nodded solemnly. He tapped his digital wristwatch. “Only took three minutes and forty-two seconds for twenty-four problems.”
“That is fast!” I said. It was definitely time to move him up to something more challenging. I walked over to the huddle of moms and nannies in the waiting area and searched for Rahul’s mom. Some of the Indian moms were in the middle of an animated discussion about the merits of the latest Bollywood blockbuster, starring Koyal Khanna, the newest sensation to hit the silver screen.
“Have you seen Meri Bollywood Wedding? Where Koyal is a simple girl from Bhatinda who wants to have a real designer lehenga for her wedding and she runs away to Delhi to try and get one at a charity auction by the top designers. And she falls in love with this boy she meets there.…”
“Yes, and that Mallika Motwani lehenga she gets finally was drop-dead gorgeous. Better than the Sabyasachi, and that’s saying something! There’s even a cameo of the designer walking around looking bossy.”
“She didn’t look bossy, she looked busy and preoccupied. She’s a genius, that woman. All her clothes sold out, and they cost a fortune! I heard even Bollywood stars and celebrities have to beg to get one of her outfits.”
I scowled. Busy and preoccupied was Mallika Motwani’s natural state—I should know.
“Ahem!” I cleared my throat, not wanting to interrupt their conversation.
“Is everything okay?” Preet asked. Preet Singh was cheerful and outgoing, and completely devoted to her son.
“Oh, yes, super,” I said. “I was actually wondering if we could skip ahead, move him up a notch. Rahul is ready, I think. He can do this without even trying.”
“Oh!” She beamed. “Yes, if you think he’s ready, then I’ve no problem.” She had a pretty accent and an elegant head waggle to go with it.
“Yes, he’s ready,” I said. What a lovely hand-embroidered shirt she had on, I thought, and the woman beside her too. Gujarati mirror work, if I wasn’t mistaken. I hadn’t seen so many Indian outfits since my mother’s one-year memorial.
So many Indian outfits! I looked around the waiting room. If someone here didn’t know everything about Indian wedding vendors, I didn’t know who would. Was it worth asking them? Meanwhile, Rahul had grabbed his mom by the hand and was tugging her toward the door.
“Preet!” I said. “I have a question.…”
She looked at me inquiringly.
“My sister is getting married in two months,” I blurted out. “I have to help her organize everything, and my dad… he’s not much help. I don’t even know where to start. Do you know how to find a good wedding decorator, or DJ, or caterer?”
“Your mom is not taking care of it?” she asked.
Was there any way to avoid telling her? I wondered, dreading the usual awkwardness that followed when I mentioned what had happened to Mom. If it’d been anyone but Preet I’d have found a way to avoid answering directly.
“She…” I squared my shoulders. “She passed away. Years ago.”
Suddenly all the chatter around me hushed. Crap. What a dumb idea this was. Great way to identify myself as the clueless, motherless freak show. I wanted their help, not their pity.
The first one to speak was not one of the Indian moms but my boss, Sonal Saxena.
“Mini,” she said. “I’m so sorry. But don’t worry, ya? We’ll help you.”
The Indian moms unfroze into a chorus of me-toos. It was hard to make sense of all the chatter since everyone was talking at once, but apparently Preet’s cousin owned a restaurant and catered at very reasonable prices, Pinky’s sister had a bridal boutique in Cambridge, and the Srinivases’ niece got married last month and they knew all the best wedding vendors.
Wow, they were more useful than two days of Googling. I grabbed a handful of Ace Tutoring of Westbury business cards from Sonal’s desk and wrote my email address on each one. “Please email me any leads. Thank you!” I said, handing them out.
“So sorry, kutti,” a very pregnant lady said to me with a tight hand squeeze. I nodded and squeezed her hand back and gave her a card.
“I know a lighting guy, honey,” Kylie’s nanny piped up unexpectedly. I promptly gave her a card too.
Time to get back to work. When I left an hour later, no-nonsense Sonal Saxena gave me a hug. “I don’t want you to stress,” she said. “If you need time off work, just tell me. And if you’re not sure of anything, just ask. We’ll help you.” I walked out to my car. I’d look into their leads, of course. Their quick offers of help had nearly downed my automatic defenses. Nearly.
Yogi pounced on me when I got home—all licks and wagging tail. From the reception I got, you’d think he’d been locked up all day instead of having been walked once already and having had Dad for company as he was working from home.
“All right, all right,” I told the beast. “At least let me get changed.”
I got out of my responsible math tutor outfit—dark-wash jeans, dip-dyed T-shirt, teal Converse lace-ups—and changed into my new capris and crop top. Over it I threw on a ripped T-shirt made by my friend Shayla—she had dyed a regular cotton tee, shredded its sides into strips, and knotted them to fit me perfectly. If I had to walk the creature in a heat wave and get all sweaty, I planned to do it feeling comfortable and looking fine. Good thing my math tutoring and Etsy shop brought in enough cash to support my fashion habits. God knows Dad didn’t give me enough of an allowance to buy anything decent.
The capris were a weathered purple—Mom would have called it baighani—and the top was a soft vintage tea-washed pink—Shayla is a genius with color. Silk, cotton, chiffon—she can dye them all. We have a sweet deal that I alter anything she needs tailored—hem jeans, sew pockets in dresses, custom-fit T-shirts—and she dyes fabric for me. I slathered on the moisturizer, the sunscreen, and the bug spray and added a slick of lip gloss,
just in case.
The whimpering had turned into deafening barking. Yogi was clearly losing his mind.
“Let’s go, Yogi,” I said, and a blur of white fur streaked off for the garage.
A towel covered the back seat—my lame attempt at keeping the car fur-free. In spite of this, stray bits of white hair stuck to the mats on the floor. I’d have to vacuum them. Again. It wasn’t easy to love a living shedding machine.
I backed out carefully into the street and headed for the campus. When I got my license Dad and I negotiated the places where I could go dog-walking. Dad shook a bunch of news reports (about girls who tragically vanished in the woods while walking their dog) under my nose and threatened to impound the car if I didn’t comply. It wasn’t fair that he never put restrictions on Vinnie. To be fair, she has a black belt in Kempo, while I only made it to a junior yellow with a stripe.
The town we live in is Westbury, not to be confused with Weston, or Sudbury, or any other of the extremely expensive towns in MetroWest Boston. No, Westbury is a middle-class enclave, best known for having the biggest and most upmarket mall in the Northeast, where the residents of the surrounding affluent towns can shop without fighting traffic gridlock in their own streets. Point being, except for the town woods there aren’t many options for walking Yogi off-leash in Westbury.
But one of the spots Yogi and I loved was Lake Waban in our neighboring town of Fellsway. Half of it lay on the campus of Fellsway College. Given that the Fellsway student body is 99 percent female, though it’s not called a women’s college anymore, Dad felt better about my safety there than in the town woods.
Unleashed, Yogi took off up the track, fur bristling with happiness. I followed at a slower run, knowing he’d come back to me if I called.
Yogi and a brown-and-brindle Catahoula hog dog circled each other nose to tail as its owner and I exchanged a quick “is he friendly?” check. It was sweltering hot. I peeled off my top layer and stripped down to my crop top. I’d waited till five to take the dog out and it was still too hot. If I didn’t love the blasted mutt, you couldn’t have paid me to go out. Yogi leapt up a steep incline like a mountain goat, struck a gallant dog pose at the crest of the hill, and grinned down at me, radiating happiness. I grinned back and charged up the hill after him. Anything for Yogi.
When Mom and I picked Yogi out, he was a gangly puppy, all legs and floppy ears and whipping white tail. She knew by then that she didn’t have much time, but when they leveled with her about her prognosis she went straight to the animal shelter. Did she know that with her gone, Vinnie in college, and Dad’s long hours, I would need someone waiting for me at home? That I’d need something upbeat to talk about when everyone acted awkward around me? Other people with her condition would have gone all hyperclean and germophobic, but Mom got a not-yet-housebroken puppy instead.
Dad and Vinnie took Mom to the hospital for her surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, physical therapy. Mom and I took Yogi to Zen Dogs for obedience training. The nurses taught Vinnie to give Mom shots of painkillers, and how to operate the oxygen machine. Mom and I taught Yogi to fetch, sit, and stay. Okay, he never really got stay, but we tried. They brought the hospital bed into Mom’s bedroom. Mom had the dog crate brought into my bedroom. Every morning when Yogi was let out of his crate he ran to Mom’s room, jumped on her hospital bed, and spent an hour curled tight next to her. Until I called him to go for his morning walk. Then, one day when I called him, he didn’t come. I walked into Mom’s room in my pj’s and found him curled up by her, not moving an inch. Just curled tight with his nose in his tail looking at me with sad, sad eyes. Mom’s hand lay on his back, cold and still, her gold bangle gleaming against his snow-white coat.
I threw myself onto both of them and screamed. I could hear footsteps in the hallway as Dad, Vinnie, and the hospice nurse ran to us. Yogi stayed still. He didn’t flinch or bark. If I’m brave enough to think back that far, I can still feel his warm tongue licking my face.
Now, I blinked away tears behind my sunglasses. Why did that memory surface just now? What was even the point of going there? Yogi was seven years old. We had all moved on.
A black dog bounded out of the undergrowth with a menacing growl. There was no owner in sight. Not again! If you think poodles are little lapdogs, you’ve never seen a poodle in a bad mood. We had run into this particular critter before. Who hurt her, I don’t know, but for some reason she had it out for Yogi.
“Yogi, come.” I didn’t like the poodle’s body language one bit. Yogi turned to me with cautious sideways steps, his eyes never leaving the dog.
He was nearly up to me when the poodle launched herself on him with a savage snarl. Yogi dived behind me. “Hey, hey,” I said, keeping my voice gruff and my stance wide. “Cut that out!”
The poodle’s white teeth snapped less than an inch from my ankle.
This was so not going to end well!
“Shadow!”
Finally! It was the owner.
“Get over here,” she said to the dog. “She’s not like that usually,” she said to me.
Sure, lady. That was another animal who had attacked us the last time we’d met. And the time before that. Shadow retreated. “Come on, Yogi,” I said as calmly as I could. “Let’s go.”
The magic words unfroze Yogi from cowering behind me, and we took off up the dirt path. The poodle and her person headed in the opposite direction.
I pulled out my cell phone with shaking hands.
“Hello.”
“Shayla,” I said, relieved to have someone to unburden myself on. “A dog just jumped Yogi.”
“No way!” Shayla said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“What kind of dog?” Shayla asked.
“A poodle,” I said, only to hear laughing at the other end. “It’s not funny, Shayla!”
Meanwhile Yogi decided to run through the trees and assume the I’m-about-to-take-a-dump position on a manicured lawn with a series of signs nailed to the tree above it.
KEEP OFF THE GRASS
DOGS MUST BE LEASHED
NO TRESPASSING
I was so rattled I forgot that we had entered the on-leash section of the trail.
“Wait, Yogi! Yogi, STOP!” I yelled.
“What’s up?” Shayla said. “Is the poodle back?”
“Call you back,” I said, and herded Yogi off the grass. The lawn was unsullied by Yogi doo-doo. Whew.
“Go. Potty. In. The. Woods,” I explained carefully. I think I may have made helpful hand gestures to help him understand.
“Good advice.” There was a laugh hidden in that deep voice, even though it was trying to be deadpan.
“Thank you.” I nodded civilly at the runner who tossed that at me as he jogged past.
But when he vanished into the leafy distance I freaked and screamed silently at fate.
Really, Universe, really?
Did that guy have to pass me at that exact moment?
This was even worse than our first meeting—and that is saying something!
I’d first seen mystery guy three weeks ago. I had taken Yogi out early that day, around 7:30 AM—it was that freakishly hot week in June when the temperature was into the eighties by nine. So there we were, having a nice cool early-morning run along the lake, with the sun just coming up, when what should we see but a cat—an enormous gray Maine Coon—just sitting in our path like it owned the place.
Now, Yogi is a sweet, friendly dog—he even gets along with cats if they’re introduced to each other indoors—but he is, after all, a dog. And when a dog sees an unknown cat, he is morally obligated to chase it.
Next thing I knew, Yogi had bolted after the cat. The cat had morphed into a yowling, bushy-tailed puffball that sounded like it was being skinned alive. I chased Yogi, who chased the cat, and suddenly there was this great big hulking guy looming over us all. And then the cat jumped into his arms and magically calmed down.
I had grabbed Yogi’s collar a
nd was fumbling around trying to untangle his leash, so I didn’t at first get a good look at him. Then I straightened up, fully apologetic about my dog’s antics, and realized that the guy was wearing Burberry plaid pajamas and a Dr. Who T-shirt, and that he was barefoot, sleepy, slightly stubbly, and—even with a bad case of bedhead—utterly gorgeous. Also, he looked completely baffled.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Is the kitty okay?”
The cat had attached itself firmly to his shoulder and was lashing its tail.
“He’s in one piece, I guess,” he said—and what was that accent—British?
The cat let out a bloodcurdling yowl that was straight out of a horror movie, and Yogi’s hackles shot up from neck to tail. He tugged the leash so hard I slid to the ground and landed in a shallow puddle, splattering mud all over myself.
“Whoa! You all right?” the guy asked, keeping a firm grip on the cat.
“Yes,” I said, getting to my feet red-faced and wiping a muddy hand on my shorts. There was definitely dirt on my face as well. “I’m fine.”
“Nothing bruised or broken?”
“Nope!” I was too winded to say anything else, and it wasn’t smart to stick around anyway. “Come on, Yogi!” I dragged Yogi away from the scene of the crime, jogging off with as much dignity as I could muster around the bend in the trail.
So there you have it—our first meeting—wherein my generally sweet-as-petha dog chased down his poor defenseless pedigreed cat, forcing him to come to its defense barefoot, in his designer pajamas, and me to trespass on private property to leash my dog before landing butt-first in a mud puddle and beating a hasty and disheveled retreat.
Not exactly a proper introduction, huh?
After that I saw him 3.5 times (the .5 was a day when I saw him but he didn’t see me), and each time we simply nodded and smiled as we ran past in opposite directions. And now this. Not much of an improvement, frankly.
“It’s all your fault, Yogi,” I said. “Again!” And it was. But Yogi pricked his ears and cocked his head so trustingly that I couldn’t stay mad. Time to call it a day—it had been a long one. I trekked back to the parking lot, feeling hot and sticky and cranky, and reached for my car keys.
Sister of the Bollywood Bride Page 2