Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (4 page)

My hands shake as I get onto the school bus. I’m that big fat mistake they made and I have to be forgive them for being too young?

My discovery for the day: two-stepping with anger introduced me to my dark side. Who knew you could stumble into the shadows without being bitten by a vampire or doing drugs?

Maybe discovering my dark side will bring another layer to my violin playing like famous violinists with tragic lives.

Abby Spencer, violinist. Her dark side meets the bow and the strings vibrate to produce the next violin prodigy.

Priya and Zoey are already at the lockers getting stuff together when I get to school. “Hey,” I say as I jiggle my locker open.

Part of me wants to blurt out:
You guys, I know now that my father didn’t even reply to my mom when she told him she was pregnant. Ha! Funny, huh?

But I need more time to figure things out. Find answers to the questions they might ask if I start that conversation.

Questions.

I have questions I haven’t asked yet. Last night my brain floundered and struggled to keep afloat. Did my father fulfill his dream and become a newscaster? If he had stayed in America, would their romance have had an expiration date? If he had reacted differently, would she have changed her life plans? Is he married? Does he have other children?

Priya has her arms loaded with her algebra textbook, binder, and homework folder. “You look pale. Are you okay?”

My stomach rumbles. Loud. Oh great. I figured people with tortured souls didn’t need breakfast.

“I didn’t eat breakfast and obviously I need food,” I say, embarrassed.

Zoey fishes out a beaten, crumpled granola bar from the depths of her locker. “Want this?”

“Eeew.” Priya wrinkles her nose.

A prehistoric granola bar from the depths of a locker is my punishment for turning down a loving blueberry apology on a plate.

My stomach couldn’t rumble and attract attention in algebra. I shrug and take the bar. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.

“Anyway, Abby,” said Priya. “I have a big favor to ask. You know how there’s International Day tomorrow? Mom’s doing a booth on India and she wants me to dress in Indian clothes, but I really don’t want to.” Priya takes a deep breath, and her eyes beg.

“Why not?” I ask, puzzled.

“I don’t want to be gawked at.”

Priya does hate speaking in public. I guess this falls in the same category.

“Wait, are the clothes ugly?” interrupts Zoey.

“Nooo!” says Priya. “I wouldn’t make a great model. Abby would be so much better, right? Zoey, I’d ask you except you’re a foot taller, and none of my clothes would fit you. Abby, will you do it? Mom wanted me to ask you for days and I didn’t and she’s mad.”

“Do I have to twirl around?” I grin. “I’ll do it!”

Hey, I’m the perfect choice. I’m half-Indian after all, even if I look part Caucasian. A chance to try on my identity!

Priya sighs with relief. “Thanks, Abby. You’ll do a great job. You’re such a performer. I’m a behind-the-scenes person.” How ironic! I’d be wearing Indian clothes. I’m a performer.

Like my dad, the newscaster. Maybe I inherited more than his hair and lashes. Is my DNA calling?

Chapter 6

Mom sits on the living room floor (crisscross, applesauce) with a million pictures scattered around her and a couple of empty shoeboxes. She scans and searches her past. I always wondered why she didn’t have a picture of my father in a picture frame or at least in a keepsake box.

Now I understand. She must have been so hurt at his indifference. I would have been hopping mad. Typically, Mom is not the angry type. She thinks anger is a waste of energy.

“Hi, Abby! How was your day?” she asks. Mom tries hard to be normal-upbeat but I think I saw her try to wipe a tear away without me noticing.

The question hangs in the air.

“I should’ve had your dad’s picture more available, but I didn’t. It was too painful.”

Typical Mom. I would have probably ripped his pictures if I were in her shoes.

I grab a bag of Chex Mix and go to my room exhausted. She gave me one of my dad’s pictures a long time ago—a head shot, like a driver’s license picture but slightly bigger.

In an alternate reality, I might have grown up bilingual with two parents. Instead of coping with living without a father, I might have had to cope with living between two cultures. Pick your issue, Abby. I know my father like I’d know a missing tooth that my tongue wanted to feel. He’s a gap.

I must have nodded off after eating my snack because Mom yelling my name pierces through my sleep. “Abby, Abby! I found more of Kabir’s pictures.”

I rub my eyes, will them open, and stumble downstairs. She stands at the bottom of the stairs clutching a four-by-six piece of my identity.

I’m afraid to look. Gingerly, I take the pictures from her hand.

Okay, confession time.

Since I’d only seen that one stilted yearbook/driver’s license picture of my father, I’ve filled that vacuum by knowingly creating a picture in my mind. It is a cross between Grandpa, Priya’s dad, and the dad in the movie
Cheaper by the Dozen
.

I chose Grandpa, because—duh—he is the closest

thing to a father figure I’ve ever known. I chose Priya’s dad because he’s sweet and kind and the only Indian man I know well.
Cheaper by the Dozen
was my favorite movie when I was a kid. I watched it on every long car trip. Being an only child, I yearned for the chaos of a big family, and the dad in it is hilarious.

Some websites mash up two celebrities’ faces and the computer generates an absurd image of how their baby would look—like Miss Piggy and Justin Bieber.

I therefore imagined my own mash-up of my father. A man with Grandpa’s pudgy belly and love handles,
Cheaper by the Dozen
dad’s prominent Adam’s apple, Priya’s dad’s jet-black hair that’s so like mine. My imaginary father would also take vitamins like Mom and like to fix dripping faucets and clogged garbage disposals like Grandpa. He would like ’80s rock and be a math whiz like Priya’s dad and he would yelp a lot and be all gangly and double-jointed like the
Cheaper by the Dozen
dad.

Now as I stare at the real picture in my hand, the reality of my father challenges me. I have to replace the imaginary father I’ve lived with for all these years with the real thing. I wish there is a
Find and Replace All
command for real life like on my computer.

The images of the real man smiling at me knock me on my butt.

Even though this picture is old and he has weird hair and a mustache. My. Father. Is. A. Hottie. LOL. Ugh! Ugh!

He’s my dad. He’s not supposed to be hot.

He wears jeans and a scruffy T-shirt. His eyes say
I’m good looking and I know it
. I can tell he’s about as tall as Grandpa—maybe five feet, ten inches, or so, his hair is thick and wavy. He has bony wrists, a square jaw, and my twinkle in his eye. With bare feet and jeans rolled up, he holds what looks like a miniscule minnow on a fishing rod. He goofs around, pretending he’s caught the hugest whale ever.

Mom stands behind me and for a moment, I forget to be angry and lean back into her. Even though I don’t trust boys and have never had a boyfriend, in my gut I understand why she might have fallen for him.

“Ew, what’s with the mustache?” I say. Like it matters. “Kabir said all the guys in India grew mustaches.” Mom

humors me.

In the second photo, my mom and dad gaze into each other’s eyes pathetically. Mom’s hair is much longer and more layered than now. She’s skinny like me and drooly.

Now that the box is opened, I wanted to dig into its depths. I want to make up for the years when I didn’t know my dad. I want to replace the fictional father in my head

with reality. Even if he doesn’t care about me and, therefore, I shouldn’t care about him.

Mom and I wordlessly go through the stack of pictures from her college days. There are a few more with my dad in them. There are pictures of them at college events, graduation, with a group of friends, and one of my dad at the Houston Intercontinental Airport.

“I took that when I drove him to the airport that last time fourteen years ago. I didn’t know I was pregnant yet,” she whispers.

I don’t have a smart comeback. The drums are not beating. The dance with anger is over for this moment. “Can I have these?” I ask.

She nods. “Abby, I should’ve shown you all the pictures, but the memories were so painful. The Kabir I fell in love with was so kind and considerate. Not at all like the person I tried to contact when I realized I was pregnant. I couldn’t imagine him ignoring my calls and letters. But he did and…” “Mom, let’s talk more later, okay?” I hurry to my room and spend the next hour staring at each picture as if I want to memorize them, brand them onto my brain. A part of me is disgusted with him. Still he’s my father and I want to

know him.

Later that evening, we walk over to my grandparents’ for dinner. They know that Mom and I talked about my father.

The silent, meaningful looks exchanged between them and Mom tell me the story.

The story I want to hear is what do they think of it? How did they feel when my father didn’t respond to Mom’s calls and letters? Were they upset?

But I don’t go there. We eat dinner like awkward strangers. Everyone is extra polite to each other. I can imagine them all deciding, “Let’s not bring it up till after dinner.”

I pick at my salad and play with my spaghetti. After mutilating the noodles, I excuse myself, saying I have a lot of homework.

“Abby, we thought we would all sit down and talk,” Mom says.

Now
they want to talk. Well, I don’t. “Not tonight. I have homework.”

On my walk home, I imagine them all agreeing that I need time. I make a beeline for the computer and google Kabir Kapur. I googled him once a few years ago. A couple images came up that didn’t match the picture I had and I heard Mom enter the room so I slammed the computer shut and gave up. I didn’t want to upset Mom. And he didn’t ever visit or try to contact me, so why should I try to find him? Now I’m ready.

Two Kabir Kapurs pop up. One is a bald doctor who lives in Seattle. Another sells furniture in Dubai.

Dead end.

I try a new search.

I type
Kabir Kapur TV anchor India
and hit Enter.

Zero, zilch, nada. Poor Dad. I guess he didn’t achieve his dream of becoming a news anchor. Serves him right for leaving Mom and me.

I stare at the monitor vacantly. Then my eyes register an entry for Wikipedia at the bottom of the page.

The first line reads
Kabir Kapur is the birth name for Naveen Kumar, a Bollywood film star
.

What’s Bollywood? It rhymes with Hollywood. Don’t Priya’s parents watch Bollywood movies?

For kicks or because of some urge I can’t explain or my sixth sense, I google Naveen Kumar—6,992,831 hits.

As Grandpa would say, holy guacamole! Or oh Schmit!

Bollywood actor! Bollywood star! Bollywood box-office sensation! Bollywood heartthrob!

My heart starts to skip beats. I click to enlarge an image of Naveen Kumar.

OMG.

It. Is. My. Father.

He looks older and glossier than in the picture Mom showed me. But it’s him. Unmistakably him. Laughing at me from the screen. His eyes crinkle like in the picture with Mom.

And why isn’t he wearing a shirt in some of these pictures? Bollywood sex symbol? I thrust my chair away from the desk. This is so wrong and so unfair. The string quartet has put down their instruments and they are staring too.

The mouse clatters to the floor. I step away from the computer as if it’s about to explode and I need to evacuate.

I call Mom at my grandparents’ house. “Mom, you and Grandma and Grandpa have to come here
now
!”

As I wait for them, I look at the images again. I can’t stop. Does Mom know this? Or was she too hurt to google his name? Or is this the “more” that she mentioned?

Chapter 7

Mom, Grandma, Grandpa, and I huddle around the computer in our little study. Our eyes wide, we stare at the ultimate fan site for Naveen Kumar. It’s as if we’ve been told the world is no longer round.