Indie Girl (16 page)

“What is it, Mom?” I asked, absentmindedly stirring the ice in my lemonade with my finger.

“Your father, he is right,” she said quietly. “That Aaralyn, she doesn’t respect you enough. She doesn’t value you. Come, Indie, sit,” she said, leading me to the breakfast nook in the kitchen. I didn’t want to go with her, but knew I had to.

“Look, Mom, I was in the middle of watching something,” I said. I knew this conversation was going to be uncomfortable and I hated discomfort.

“Just give me a minute of your time, Indie,” she said, her voice quiet. “I don’t ask much of you. I just need you to listen to me now.”

I put my glass of lemonade down, letting the condensation that had formed outside drip onto the table. My mother handed me a coaster.

“That day, years ago, when you found that book on fashion in the library. Remember? Indie, I was so happy that day. Finally I thought you had come across something that really interested you. I have always been very proud of you for not abandoning it, for not letting it become just another whim and fancy. Other kids had their momentary indulgences: skateboards and magic tricks and pets that they once loved but soon got bored with. But you, Indie, you were never like that with your interest in fashion. You loved it then, and you love it still. And that tells me you will most likely always love it.”

As I sat here at this table, across from my mother, what gladdened my heart the most was that she had actually seen me all these years. Even when she was quiet and in the background of my young life, she was still a witness to it.

“But all this, now, with this lady, it hurts me so,” she said. “I know you enjoy being there, looking after her child. I know you feel you are fulfilling some destiny. Ordinarily, Indie, I would be behind you with that. I have always wanted you not just to excel, but to be happy. To thrive in life. But when I see someone not appreciating you the way you should be appreciated—Indie, that breaks my heart. You are my precious daughter, my firstborn. I want all of life’s good things to come to you. But at the very top of that list is the consideration of other people. I don’t care that Aaralyn is famous and wealthy and successful. I care only that she is a kind and decent human being. And no kind and decent human being would stand by and watch a sixteen-year-old girl’s dreams be crushed if they could do something about it.

“If I know one thing, Indie, it is this,” my mother continued. “Whatever it is you set your mind on, you will succeed at. You are a tremendous student, gifted in every way. We are proud to have a daughter like you. But my first instinct as your mother is to protect you. And until Aaralyn begins to respect your value to her, well, Indie, I don’t think I want you to work there anymore.”

·   ·   ·

I couldn’t forget my mother’s words even weeks after that night. June had just begun, and in ten days, school would be out and the magazine would notify whoever it was that had won the internship.

Instinctively, I knew it wasn’t me. I had barely been in touch with Aaralyn and even on those days I had gone over to babysit Kyle, the subject had never come up.

Getting it now would be a miracle.

But I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I was determined to enjoy the glorious weather and all it brought. I wanted to be a teenager again, spending time with Kim whenever she wasn’t with Brett. The school’s newspaper, which I had occasionally contributed to in the past, had asked me to help put together an end-of-year issue, with lots of fun projections about what students were going to do with their summer. There was drama club and choir practice. I was a busy, involved student.

Kim and I were sampling sliced apricots and gourmet olives at the Farmer’s Market in Calabasas one Saturday morning. I loved it here. Everyone was always so cheerful, so happy to be close to food. I couldn’t really afford to buy very much except a homemade quiche and maybe an apple. But on this one particular Saturday, Kim was telling me that Tyler and Brooke had finally become an item, that she had started taking his calls after that run-in at Cold Stone Creamery.

“But Tyler keeps telling Brett about how Brooke is so obsessed with that fashion magazine internship, you know, the one you were after,” said Kim, spearing a toothpick into a cube of cheese laid out on a sample platter. “It’s making Tyler crazy because it’s all Brooke talks about. Seems that Aaralyn is having a hard time with her kid,” Kim recounted, third-hand. “They even went to a child psychologist, who said Kyle needed more attention from his parents. So Aaralyn has to spend more time at home with her son on weekends. Maybe that’s why you haven’t heard from her.”

“Oh, and there’s something else,” Kim said. “An Italian publisher wants to buy
Celebrity Style.
”

I almost choked on the chocolate-covered strawberries we were now trying.

“Brooke was going on about what would happen if the magazine was sold. It’ll make Aaralyn a lot of money,
and
she’ll get to stay on as editor.”

Two days later, as I was scrolling through Monster.com to see if there were any summer opportunities for fashion-obsessed sixteen-year-olds (there weren’t), my mother knocked on the door and told me Aaralyn Taylor was on the phone. She had a stoic, almost stern look on her face.

“Are you sure you want to talk to her?” my mother asked as I started making my way down the stairs. “Remember, you are not the puppet she wants you to be.”

“Mom, chill. It’s probably nothing,” I said, my heart beating fast. Maybe Aaralyn had finally come to her senses and wanted to thank me properly for the Trixie Van Alden exclusive. Maybe Juno had weighed in on how downright rude she had been and that she owed me more than my babysitting money. I was curious to find out, but held out no expectations.

“Hello?” I said into the receiver.

“Indie, hello.” Aaralyn sounded very businesslike. “How are you?”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she asked me another question.

“Do you have a passport?”

After Paris, Milan was the second place in the world I had always wanted to visit.

I couldn’t believe that Aaralyn Taylor had invited me to accompany her. Her weekday nanny couldn’t travel and Juno had a conference to attend in Oregon. So Aaralyn had to take Kyle along to some very important meetings and needed someone to come along and watch him while she conducted her business.

“It’ll be the week that school is out,” she said. “That way, you won’t miss anything. It’ll just be a few days. I’m happy to ask your parents for permission. It would be harder for them to say no to me than to you.”

I had told Aaralyn that I’d call her back after I had
spoken to my parents. I already knew what they were going to say and could understand why. But realistically, how could I possibly say no? Granted, I had almost written Aaralyn Taylor off, figuring I would probably never hear from her again after she had taken what she needed from me.

But I didn’t see this as having anything to do with Aaralyn Taylor. This was about seeing Milan. It was about an opportunity that I would probably never have again.

My parents, not surprisingly, didn’t quite share my enthusiasm.

“Milan? You mean in Italy? In Europe?” my father asked, flabbergasted that I could even consider it. “Alone?”

“Dad, I’m not alone. I’m with Aaralyn. She knows the city inside out.” I said, starting to feel desperate. I was still a minor. They could still say no.

“We know nothing of this woman,” my father said, my mother standing resolutely by his side. “I’m presuming she will be leaving you alone in the hotel with that child of hers as she goes off and does her business. I’m not comfortable with that at all. Anything could happen to you. You are still our responsibility, Indie.” His eyes were stern and resolute. Mine, however, were starting to fill with tears. Seeing that, his voice softened.

“I suppose, if you really wish to go, Mummy can
accompany you as a chaperone,” he said. “I have miles. I can get her a ticket. She can share your hotel room. Of course, we’ll have to get her a visa. Those Indian passports, you need a visa to go to the toilet.”

“
Dad!
I’m supposed to be going to babysit a kid and now you want mom to babysit me? That’s
beyond
embarrassing!”

“Indie, I don’t see another way. I have been very accepting of your choices up until now, but I don’t know these people. And from what I have seen so far, I am not very impressed with them. You know, most Indian parents would never allow such a thing. Mohit keeps his girls under lock and key. I am trying to be modern. But I am still an Indian father after all. In Calcutta, a girl your age wouldn’t be able to go to the next town by herself, much less another continent.”

“Dad, I’m not in Calcutta,” I said, tears now streaming down my cheeks. I was shaking. I was genuinely scared that my father would put his foot down and stamp out my dream to go to Italy. I wanted to yell and scream and run upstairs and lock the door. But I knew that if I behaved like that, I definitely would not be allowed to go. So I took a deep breath, lowered my voice, and wiped away my tears.

“Please, Dad,” I begged. “You don’t know how important this is to me. Look,” I said, my mind now racing ahead, desperation overcoming me. “If you allow me to go, when I get back, I’ll go to India with Uncle
Mohit’s daughters. I promise. And I’ll stop with all this fashion thing. Things will really change around here. I’ll be the kind of daughter you wanted.” I had started sobbing again.

My father stood up, came to me, and put his arm around me.

“You’re a good girl, Indie,” he said softly. “I just wish you were a little more
serious,
that’s all.” He paused. Then he said, “Get this Aaralyn woman on the phone.”

The last day of school before summer was usually the best day of the year. Better than my birthday. Better than Christmas. The whole week leading up to it was a write-off, although the teachers pretended it wasn’t. But the halls were abuzz with excitement. Nobody paid attention to what was going on in class. All sorts of things were let slide. There was no homework. The last day of the semester before summer break was filled with promise—of memorable and fun times ahead. Everyone talked excitedly about their plans and smiled through even the dreariest lessons. Everyone was more casual than usual; flip-flops, faded T-shirts, clam-diggers. Everyone was happy. The stress of the prom—which I hadn’t gone to because nobody had asked me—and putting out the yearbook was over. Spring was in the air and everyone smiled.

I smiled more, because in a week I was going to Italy.

When my father had gotten on the phone with Aaralyn that day, I had snuck upstairs and picked up the extension. I’m certain they both knew I was listening in, but neither one of them seemed to mind.

“I can completely understand your concerns,” she had said to him. “As a parent, I’m certain I would have the same reservations. But I can assure you that I will look after her as if she were my own. She’s a wonderful companion for Kyle. I cannot tell you how much I would appreciate your permission.”

“Okay,” my father said, a tone of reluctance still in his voice. “My Indie speaks very highly of you and your family. So I am entrusting her safety and well-being to you.”

I was jubilant. I had never been so ecstatic. Milan with Aaralyn Taylor—it was like my prayers had been answered.

On the last day of school, I could think of nothing else. Whenever a friend or teacher asked me what my plans were, I couldn’t conceal my excitement, blurting out that I was being taken to Italy as a babysitter. Mr. Baker and Ms. Jennings, who had planned the career day when I had first met Aaralyn Taylor, were especially impressed, particularly after I told them how I had come to be Kyle’s babysitter to begin with. Even Mr. Fogerty, who had always rolled my eyes at my apparently frivolous ways, now looked at me with a new admiration.

“Well, that was very enterprising of you,” Ms. Jennings said, when I recounted how I had literally run
after Aaralyn’s departing car. “I wouldn’t have thought you had that in you.”

All day, I felt like I was walking on a marshmallow cloud. I felt invincible and confident and a little bit like a grown-up.

But then, along came Brooke.

Since our last exchange some weeks ago when she had mocked the fact that I was babysitting her cousin, she had virtually ignored me. It was like she had gone from not even noticing me to looking down on me.

But a few hours before the end of school, while I was retrieving something from my locker, Brooke came up behind me and tugged the strap on my shoulder bag.

“Hey, suck-up face,” she said. I turned around. She had a sneer on her face, a cold anger in her eyes.

“What did you call me?” I said, frowning. I might have been occasionally shy, but I was not a doormat.

“Suck-up face,” she said, her words ugly compared to the prettiness of her face. “You have a problem with that?”

“I think
you’re
the one with the problem,” I said.

She stared at me through glassy blue eyes. “I’m going to see to it that you don’t get to go to Italy,” she hissed. I was completely taken aback. I hadn’t thought that she would even care. Brooke Carlyle was one of those girls who traveled frequently, whose parents took her to the British Virgin Islands in summer and Aspen for Christmas. She spent long weekends at spa resorts with
her mother, who I had learned was Aaralyn’s older sister. If Brooke ever wanted to go to Italy, all she would have had to have done was mention it to her venture capitalist father, and a ticket would have been waiting on her dresser by the end of the day.

“What’s the problem?” I asked. “Your aunt asked me to help her out. It has nothing to do with you.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” she said. “My aunt totally wants me to go. She even called me before she called you. But by the time I got back to her, you had already thrown yourself at her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, growing irritated. “It doesn’t matter who she called first. What matters is what she’s decided—and she wants to take me. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a class to get to,” I said, slamming my locker door shut and squeezing past her.