Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (12 page)

Jay slows down to point to the dome of the Haji Ali mosque in the ocean. “We’re almost there!” he shouts.

The motorbike purrs like a cat when we slow down and park. I get off on shaking knees and pull off my helmet with trembling hands. Shaan gets off Ravi’s bike, comes over to me, and whispers, “Abby, let’s keep this a secret. If my mom knew, she would kill Jay and me.” He grins. “But let’s take a picture to show our friends.”

Shaan and I exchange a pinky swear. “Our parents will never know,” I promise.

Ravi takes a picture of Jay, Shaan, and me with the bikes in the background. Priya and Zoey would never believe
this
story without evidence.

“I have seen this movie three times already,” Jay says as we cross the parking lot. “But for you guys, I’ll watch it again.” I can’t even answer because there is shirtless Dad
again.

Larger than life cutouts of Dad stand in front of the theater. Fans clamor to take pictures with the cutouts.

Jay leans in. “You guys want a picture?” “No!” Shaan and I say together.

I whisper to Shaan, “I’m going to paint a shirt on him.” He gives me a funny look. “Why? You against fab abs?”

Oops. Not sure how to respond to that without an explanation. I give a weak fake smile.

People stand in a line that crisscrosses the theater for tickets. Jay preordered the tickets and we buy something called masala popcorn and walk in. Shaan explains that the

popcorn is flavored with Indian spice mix. I pop one in my mouth and taste the newness. Hmm! Nice spicy smell.

The lights dim and ads came on. I have an aisle seat, and Shaan its next to me. Neither of us uses the armrest between us. I’m scared to invade his territory. Is he? We’re so close, one move, and I’d brush his arm.

The credits roll.
Starring Naveen Kumar
flashes across the screen and the audience claps enthusiastically. I can feel obvious excitement. I’ve never seen someone I know—let alone my dad—projected larger than life on a gigantic screen. Just the size makes him seem somehow unreal. Yes, I saw the billboards, but this is different. He’s moving, talking, dancing, and I can see every pore on his skin. Weirdville. He’s speaking in Hindi, which I don’t understand, but I can tell from his expressions and the reactions of the audience around me that he’s a good actor.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, Shaan relaxes, leans over, and claims the armrest. He leans toward me, his face close to mine. I almost jump and spill my popcorn. What is he doing?

“He’s coming on to her in this scene,” he whispers, his lips less than an inch from my ear.

Seriously? Why is he explaining this? It’s so obvious even without knowing what they’re saying that a newborn could figure that out.

But instead of saying anything like that, I whisper, “Do they get together?”

I shiver and feel goose bumps on the arm that leans against Shaan’s.

Shaan continues to translate and whisper into my ear while I blush in the dark.

He explains each nuance in the plot and I play along like I have no idea, even though Dad already told me the story. But Shaan doesn’t need to know that.

Shaan’s breath is warm against my ear, and he smells of pinewoods and breath mints. The warmth of his breath tickles my stomach. My skin burns where our jeans touch.

On the screen, Dad woos Rani. In the theater, my translator teaches me the language of flirting. At one point Dad looks straight into the camera and directly at me. I almost say, “Shaan, my dad’s watching!” But I catch myself.

Nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared me for the first song-and-dance sequence. It’s like the one we watched on International Day. Except it’s not. That was on a computer monitor and this is on a big screen. Every shake of Dad’s hip and every flicker of his eye are magnified. It’s an MTV video but bigger than all of us, and the rhythmic music wants to own our souls. The audience sings along, taps their feet, and roars their approval. Even Jay, who was asleep beside Shaan, wakes up.

I get into the spirit, clap, and hum along. Shaan’s eyes connect with mine in the dark. Embarrassed, I look away. Shaan gives a Coke burp. We giggle as if it’s the funniest thing ever.

The string quartet celebrates by joining in and playing the song from the movie.

Please don’t let the movie end ever
, I pray.

Chapter 1 5

The movie does end. Harsh lights replace the magical, whispering dark. Abruptly Shaan and I move apart. Shaan sticks his hands into his pockets and I tie my purse string into an unnecessary knot. Jay asks us all, “Who’s hungry for pizza?” We walked over to a pizza place across the street. I didn’t expect to see Pizza Hut or McDonalds or KFC in India, but here they are.

Jay orders chicken tikka pizzas and we settle into a booth and dig in. Yup, the pizza has chicken tikka as a topping instead of pepperoni. And it is yummy!

Shaan said, “Hey, Jay, doesn’t
mandir
mean temple in Hindi?”

“Yes, it does. I’d never thought about the theater being called Mandir Cinema.”

“Well, in that temple, Naveen Kumar is god!” Shaan declares with his mouth full.

“And Rani is the goddess, isn’t she?” Jay and his friend drool over Rani.

My thoughts drift away.

Before I went to middle school and decided I didn’t need a father, I often wished that my dad would come and whisk my mom and me away. Not on a horse or anything, but drive up in a car. I know it was a silly crazy
Parent Trap
notion. Happy neat endings only happen in Disney movies. I scold myself,
Grow up, Abby
.

But it was such a perfect daydream that I couldn’t help myself. Dad would come over and meet Mom, and they would fall for each other all over again. Maybe they would whisper in the dark like Shaan and I did at the movies. Mom isn’t dating anyone so that isn’t a problem. Why did Dad have to be dating this horrible, beautiful Rani creature? Bollywood’s Brangelina! Hrumph!

I bite into my yummalicious piece of pizza.

What would Dad think of today’s Mom? He told me he was impressed that she ran her own business.

Yesterday after Concert Time Dad became a bit mushy. “Your mom did an amazing job raising you on her own. I’ll always owe her.”

Grandma kissed me on my forehead, said something in

Hindi, and then went to bed.

“What did Grandma say?” I asked Dad. “She wants the evil eye to never fall on you.”

Dad and I continued to sit on the antique wood swing outside. Its broad wooden seat was polished smooth with use and the carved brass ropes on which it was suspended told stories.

“Hey, Abby, why the smile?” Jay asks, bringing me back to the present.

“Oh! I’m thinking of dessert,” I lie.

“Have you tried
kulfi
?” Shaan asks. “It’s an Indian ice cream.”

An hour and a pistachio
kulfi
later, Jay jumps to his feet. “Do you guys realize the time? I promised my girlfriend I would meet her at six! She hates it when I am late and I was late twice last week. Three strikes and I may be toast. So we better hurry back. Ravi, follow me.”

I think he just wanted an excuse to drive crazy. He jumps on the bike and I hurry after him. Here we go again! I clutch his shoulders and he guns the bike. It’s a busy intersection and hordes of pedestrians cross the street when the traffic light turns red. Even crazy Jay has to stop.

Jay swears at the traffic. “We’ll never make it at this rate. I’m going to take a shortcut,” he says and swerves off the road into a smaller back alley, and I feel like I’m stepping

through a portal into the belly of Mumbai. Shaan and Ravi follow. This lane is so different from the main road we’ve left. Nothing I’ve seen at home could have prepared me for how little some people have in this world. Shops in large raised corrugated tin boxes line one side of the road. On the other side stand makeshift structures built of tin, mud, and plywood. They are people’s homes. This is not the street where Naveen Kumar lives. I cling on for dear life, bug-eyed. Children with bare feet and bare torsos run around, chickens peck at garbage heaps, and a goat bleats. Naked yellow light bulbs light the street, and exposed electric lines hang overhead. It strikes me that my mom didn’t count on me seeing this India. It wasn’t featured in

any of the tourism brochures.

Shaan and Ravi catch up to us. Even Shaan has lost his grin. Then their bike lurches over a gigantic pothole and swerves to avoid colliding with Bessie the cow. Or maybe in India she’s called Latika.

My hand flies to my mouth to muffle a scream. The bike slams onto the road. Startled Bessie-Latika says, “Moooooooooo!”

The string quartet amazingly moos in harmony with Bessie-Latika.

Pedestrians scream.

The kids stop playing and gawk.

Even the chickens freeze for a second before they scurry away.

I hear Shaan’s uncensored version of oh Schmit! Jay slams on his brakes and turns around.

The other motorbike has spilled, and Shaan is sprawled on the street.

My heart pumps as fast as a Vivaldi concerto. A million thoughts compete in my mind. Is Shaan okay? Please, God, let him be okay. Almost instantaneously, as if they sprung out of the earth, hundreds of people gather, speaking in a foreign language, yelling.

Shaan leaps up, shaken but with only a skinned elbow.

In the dwindling light, the fallen bike, Shaan’s elbow, the throng of people, and the shadows paralyze me. My heart is beating so loudly that it seems to dwarf the rest of me. I’ve never felt more homesick or alone. I want my mom. I want to be home.

“You guys okay?” Jay asks Shaan and me. We nod.

“Let’s get out of here,” Shaan says, nervously scanning the growing crowd.

Ravi punches Jay on the arm. “You idiot! What’s wrong with you?”

“I thought we would get home faster if we avoided the main road,” he answers.

Jay says to Shaan and me, “Some of the people who work in our homes live in these neighborhoods.”

I think of Mina and Bina and wonder if they live in similar neighborhoods.

I can feel hundreds of huge eyes staring at us with unmasked curiosity. Among a sea of Indian people, my paler American skin stands out like a white shell on a brown sand beach.

Luckily, nobody is hurt, not even Bessie-Latika. The police arrive in a jeep. Jay apologizes and explains. Shaan and I stand and shiver. I try to hold back my tears. I can imagine myself in an Indian police station.

Luckily, no harm was done and the police ask Jay to leave. We hastily get back on our bikes and find our way back to the main road and to sanity.

Jay rides as sedately as possible the rest of the way home and I can’t have been more grateful. He apologizes a million times when we reach home.

Shaan apologizes too. “I usually like Jay’s crazy stuff, but today he scared me. I’m so sorry.”

I walked into the house, shaken, with my hair disheveled from the wind. Grandma Tara and Shiva look at me with puzzled expressions. “Did you leave the window open in the car?”

Oh! They’ll never know, will they?

“Yes, is it a mess?” I say, acting innocent.

“Abby!” Dad calls from his room. “Can you come upstairs?

I have news. I need to talk to you.”

“Give me a minute, okay? I want to wash up,” I yell back.

I race up to my room, close the door behind me, and stand against it, taking long breaths. I want to pick up the phone and spill the beans. Tell someone about the movie, Shaan, the shortcut, the fall, and crazy Jay. I can call Mom, but I can’t really tell her much besides the movie part. She’d have a complete meltdown. My stomach flips, thinking about my afternoon.

I call Priya. She’s been to Mumbai so she’ll get the picture. I need to unload or I’ll explode into bits like a melon crashing to the floor.

It’s six o’clock in India. It’s 6:30 a.m. in Houston. Time to wake up, Priya!

Groggily Priya gasps. “No! You’re making this up. OMG, Abby, glad you’re safe. You cannot tell your mom.”

“Abby!” I hear Dad yell.

“Uh-oh, Priya, I really need to go.”

“I can’t believe all this stuff is happening to you.” I can almost see Priya shaking her head.

“I know. I’ll tell you more later. Bye!” I get off the phone, rush to the bathroom, washed up, and pull a brush through

my hair. I have to look normal. Dad can’t know about the ride. He’d be livid.

Can a just-discovered dad ground you?

Chapter 16