Monsoon Summer (15 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

The rains stopped abruptly during the third week of July, way before expected. The air grew more and more steamy. Heavy, still clouds darkened the sky, but they didn't release any water. Not even the lightest breeze stirred the leaves of the eucalyptus trees. In the apartment, we kept the fans whirling, though they didn't help much.

I sweated on the short walk down the hill to the orphanage. I didn't have my umbrella to hide behind, but the stares were easier to handle now that I realized they were appreciative. I'd started carrying a handful of loose change, like Mom did, just so I could give some away when a child or an older woman asked for money. My shriveled heart was expanding slowly, bit by bit, and I didn't want it to stop.

At Asha Bari, the first item on my agenda was a walk with little Maya. She still hadn't smiled or talked, but somehow I knew she looked forward to that hour as much as I did. Next, I rehearsed our Kathak presentation with the other girls. Sweating away, I concentrated furiously on the movements and emotions of our dance.

I'd asked Danita not to mention Kathak at home. Nobody in my family came near the conservatory in the mornings, so it was easy to keep my secret. I was embarrassed to admit that I was actually enjoying myself dancing.
When
Steve wanted me to learn to dance, I bet he never dreamed
of this,
I thought, watching my movements in the mirror become more graceful and wishing he could see them.

After Kathak, Danita and I took bucket baths in the girls' dormitory bathroom. I changed into the extra
salwar
kameez
I always brought along, and then we found a cool corner somewhere and made plans for the business. Danita listened to my ideas and tried to seem enthusiastic, but I could tell she still wasn't very hopeful. It all came down to the money she needed to start up. Without that, it was hard to make plans for the future.

One afternoon when Danita left Asha Bari to shop for our family's evening meal, I stayed on, frowning over that horrible page of figures. We'd managed to whittle ten percent or so off the costs, but the total still seemed enormous. Frustrated, I headed down to the clinic. This time of day, the clinic usually wasn't as busy as in the mornings and evenings.

Sure enough, the place was practically deserted. Only one frail, elderly woman was sitting at the table, and Mom was heaping rice and lentils on her plate. Judging by how thin the woman was, I figured she'd grab the food and gobble it down. But when Mom sat down beside her, the woman began to talk instead.

As I watched Mom listen carefully to the older woman, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Dad standing behind me.

“She's pretty special, isn't she, Jazz?” he asked in a low voice.

“Definitely,” I answered softly.

He pulled me away so that Mom wouldn't be distracted by our conversation. “I just sent your grandparents a long letter telling them how proud I am of my wife. And how proud they should be, too.”

I wondered how Grandpa and Grandma Gardner would feel when they read the letter.
Who Cares?
I thought.
It's
the truth. Dad had never stood up to them before when they'd criticized Mom.

“High time I said something to them, isn't it?” Dad asked, reading my expression perfectly.

I nodded. “I'm glad you did.”

We watched Mom put together a package of food and medicine for the woman to take with her. Dad and I were used to watching Mom in action, but something crucial had changed: we weren't spectators now. We were just taking a quick break from our own lives to admire her for a while.

I wrapped my arms around his waist.

“What's this about?” he asked. “Your mom's the one who deserves this hug. Not me.”

“No way,” I said. “This one's all yours, Dad.”

“Mine? For what?”

I squeezed him even tighter before letting go. “For being you.”

“Let's get out of here, Jazz,” Dad said. “Eric's team is about to start playing. He sent me down to get you.”

We slipped out so quietly, Mom didn't even notice we'd been there.

Danita still hadn't returned from shopping when I got home, so I decided to make another attempt at a letter to Steve. With half the summer behind me, my grand total of letters was stuck at two. No wonder he was so upset with me.

Dear Steve,

You're right. I should be writing you more, but I Can't. I keep starting but Can't seem to finish. That doesn't mean I don't think about you all the time, because I do. I miss you more every day we're
apart.

Sighing, I realized it was already too late for this letter. I indulged in a few more sentences about what I was really feeling, then stuffed it in the back of my drawer with the others I'd never send.

It was so hot. Why didn't it rain? I leaned out the window and heard a distant rumble of thunder, but the bougainvillea bush below stayed as still as stone. I collapsed on my bed under the fan, leafing idly through the magazines Steve had sent me. Suddenly, a headline leaped out at me: INTEREST-FREE LOANS ENERGIZE SMALL BUSINESSES. The article talked about how humanitarian organizations set up successful revolving loan funds for people who wanted to start businesses. A person or a community could borrow money and repay it to the fund without interest as their profits grew. Then somebody else could borrow from the same fund. I reread the article and lay back on the bed thoughtfully.

When Danita got home, she made tea for both of us. As usual, I steered the conversation to cooking, her sisters, or life in America—anything to get her mind off the money she needed. I even told her about Miriam Cassidy. It helped to blow off steam, and I could tell Danita was interested.

She raised her eyebrows when I described what Miriam looked like. “This girl has liked him for a while, right?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Did he spend time with her before this summer?”

“No. But that was because I was always around.”

“Did you keep him from seeing her?”

“No, but . . .”

“You've got this all wrong, Jazz Didi. Obviously he prefers spending time with you. Not this Miriam girl.”

“Are you crazy? Nobody would pick me over Miriam. Wait right here,” I said, and dashed to my room. Steve's most recent letter had been his shortest, scribbled on the back of a Berkeley Memories postcard. I grabbed it from under my pillow and took it back with me to the kitchen.

“Listen to this,” I said. “And tell me if he's not about to drop me once and for all.”

Dear Jazz,

TWO MEASLY LETTERS! They smelled good,
but one of them sounded like you were writing to some pen pal you've never even met. You've become so secretive lately, even before you left for India. Acting really strange, in fact. Like you're hiding something. It's more than just seeing poor people
over there, I know it. What's going on? Maybe I'll
have to do something drastic to find out. What's it going to take to make you tell me the truth?
Steve

Danita shook her head after I was done reading. “He wants to know how you really feel, Jazz. I think he's waiting for you to tell him.”

“If only I could believe that!” I said, sighing. Steve's letter had been tormenting me ever since I'd received it. He knew me too well; he'd guessed that I'd been hiding something from him for months now. I should have known I couldn't keep my feelings a secret for long. What drastic thing was he planning, anyway?

“Maybe he loves you as much as you love him, Jazz. You just can't see it because you don't believe it can be true. Maybe you're like one of those old oxen pulling a cart along the road, refusing to change directions no matter how hard the driver whips you.”

“Thank you very much. What a flattering description! I do feel like a big ox most of the time.”

Danita groaned and went back to chopping fruit.

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry I said that,” I told her. “But if only you could see the kind of girls Americans think are beautiful, Danita. They're so skinny and frail-looking.”

“You mean they look like me?” Danita asked, grinning. She held up one thin wrist and jangled her bracelets.

“They do, actually. You'd be treated like a queen in Berkeley.”

Danita snorted. “I'd hate being a queen,” she said. “I like cooking too much. Toss these pieces of mango in that bowl, will you?”

The bowl of cut, ripe fruit already glowed with bright colors, and the mango added a touch of gold. “I've never seen a salad that's a work of art. Danita, you're amazing. Everything you make is beautiful.”

“Fly me to America when the time comes, and I'll cook your wedding feast.”

I grinned. It was always easier to fight my despair over Steve when I was with Danita, just as it had been with Sonia, Lila, and Rini. Suddenly I missed hearing their voices, especially when they declared how beautiful I was in three-part harmony.

Danita was as deluded as they were when it came to Steve's feelings. Dating wasn't part of her world, so she shifted easily into talking about marriage. My marriage, of course. Not hers. We'd stayed clear of that subject ever since she'd agreed to ask Ganesh to wait. But my marriage was fair game, and I liked it when she teased me about it. After a conversation with Danita, I could spend hours dreaming of a tropical island honeymoon—with Steve snoozing in a hammock beside me, of course.

TWENTY-EIGHT

As the last week of July sped by, the entire Gardner family was busier than we'd ever been. Mom's clinic was a success, and she was almost always there. Word about the free meals had spread, and a couple of healthy babies had already been delivered there. Dad was spending long hours fine-tuning the orphanage's computer system and teaching the nuns. Danita and I were making plans for her business, and my brother was immersed in soccer strategies and training sessions.

One day I caught Eric mourning over another dead spider he'd forgotten to feed.
Let them go!
I felt like shouting, but I didn't. I helped him bury it instead, standing with him next to the bougainvillea bush. I knew how hard it was to change your identity. Eric Gardner, bug collector. Jazz Gardner, Steve's bodyguard. It wasn't easy to see yourself differently, no matter how much admiration you got from tiny soccer players or from strangers.

It still didn't rain, and people were beginning to worry. So many dry days in a row were unusual in a monsoon season, and they feared the harvest would suffer. I decided that waiting and hoping for rain was much worse than the rain itself. If I hadn't worked out a daily schedule at the orphanage, I'd definitely have gone bonkers.

Every so often, I shut myself in Sister Das's office and dialed the Moraleses' number. Not that access to the orphanage phone was making much difference. Steve was hardly ever home, and I always hung up when I heard the answering machine. The only time I was sure to catch him was during our regular phone calls.

On this Saturday at noon, just before I was scheduled to call Steve, I sat in Sister Das's chair chewing over Danita's dilemma. To distract myself, I looked around the tiny cubicle. Sister Das kept a framed photo of the Beatles on her desk, even though they
had
“polluted Indian melodies with Western lyrics.” I picked up the photo to take a closer look at the four famous faces. That's when I discovered the small, engraved plaque nailed to her desk.

When you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what the right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

As I read the words on the plaque, I remembered how Sister Das had been fingering something while we'd talked about Danita. And I suddenly thought of the money in my bank account. It was a little more than the amount Danita needed to start her business.

No way,
I thought, firmly putting the photo back on top of the plaque.
I earned all that money myself! It took al
most a whole year to save it. What about the long hours Steve and I put in, slaving away, worrying over the business, brainstorming, scrambling to get our finances in or
der?
Besides, Danita would never accept the money. She'd probably insist on sharing it with every kid at Asha Bari. And in a way, she'd be right. Why should she be entitled to extra money when the others didn't have any at all?

I picked the photo up, uncovering the quote again. A revolving loan fund wouldn't be a handout. I could even make the initial gift anonymously. Once Danita paid it back, other Asha Bari kids could use it to start their own businesses.

The only problem was that to set something like that up, I'd still have to deplete my precious savings account. And I couldn't do that. At least, I didn't think I could.

The Beatles took their place on the desk and the plaque disappeared once and for all. It felt as if I'd discovered something private, anyway.

It was noon. Time to call Steve.

“Hi, Steve,” I said when he answered the phone. “It's me.”

“Me who?” he asked.

“Jazz,” I answered. “Jazz Gardner.” Things were even worse than I thought. He was getting phone calls from so many girls he couldn't keep us all straight.

“I know,” he said. “I was trying to make a point. Another week without a letter. I have absolutely no idea what's going on, Jasmine Carol Gardner.”

If only you knew how often I've written, I thought, picturing the stack of letters in my drawer. I chewed my fingernail and decided to risk a little bit of truth. “Listen, Steve. I got your letter about how frustrated you are about my never writing. I'm sorry. I really am. But I just can't seem to write a good letter. You should see how many I've started and never sent. And I've tried to phone you about five times this week, but you're never home.”

I waited for his answer, nibbling at my cuticle.

“I'm glad you said something,” he said finally. “Quit biting your nails.”

I stifled a sigh of relief. His voice sounded normal again, without that edge of hurt in it. “How'd you know? You're psychic with this fingernail thing.”

“I know you, Jazz Gardner. And don't worry about writing a good letter. Just send anything you write. Don't censor yourself. Please.”

I swallowed. He was uncanny. How did he know I was banning my own letters like some kind of antipassion zealot? “I'll try, Steve.”

“That's all I ask. How's it going at the orphanage? Any progress with that business?”

“In theory, I guess. But actually? We're a lot of talk and no action.”

Steve knew about the proposal from Ganesh. “Maybe marrying this guy would be good for her,” he said now. “Not everybody's destined to run a business, you know.”

“Maybe. But she should at least have a chance to try. She's only fifteen, Steve. The stuff she makes is fabulous; I'm not just saying that. And she's smart—you should see how she broke down the start-up costs all by herself. She's a natural.”

“Like you,” he said. “Well, if I can do anything to help, let me know. Don't get too busy to write, though, Jazz. Remember—I want to know the truth about what's going on with you. Okay?”

“I'll try, I promise,” I said, picturing the growing pile of unfinished letters stashed in my drawer. “How's the Biz doing, by the way?”

He told me about the two senior citizens supervising the booth. “It's a good thing we hired them,” he said. “Coach is training us hard for the Alameda County summer meet. Remember last year? Second in shot put for you, and a third in high jump for me.”

How could I forget? We'd celebrated with vanilla milk shakes at Fenton's. For a second, I remembered the cool feel of the metal shot in my hand and the exhilarating rush of throwing it as far as I could. I thought of standing by the high jump pit, willing Steve mentally to clear the bar. But that was last summer. Now I was halfway around the world, and this summer's track meet would go on without me.

Will Miriam be there?
I wondered. I was sure she wouldn't give up on Steve after just one feeble try. He hadn't mentioned her since the party, and I certainly didn't want to sound like a detective again. But I couldn't help myself. “Sounds like you're too busy for any fun,” I said, trying to get some information without grilling him again.

“I am, usually,” he said. He hesitated, then continued. “Miriam invited me to a musical in the city. We're going. Tonight, actually.”

Someone was clutching my heart, squeezing it, getting ready to toss it far away. “What are you going to see?” I asked, amazed that my voice could sound so casual when I could hardly breathe.

“Phantom of the Opera,”
he said. “I hope I don't fall asleep. I'm so exhausted.”

A small part of my numbed brain was screaming instructions: Say something, you idiot! She'll be all over him!
Tell him not to go!
“Have a great time,” I said instead, managing to keep my voice steady. “Be sure and save lots of energy for the meet.”

I was amazed by my own dramatic skills. Look out, Miriam, I thought grimly. If you take Steve, I might just try out for next year's play and steal the lead right from Under your nose.

After I hung up, I headed straight upstairs for the girls' dormitory. It was Danita's day off. She was sitting on the bed reading aloud, her sisters nestled close beside her.

She shut the book when she saw my face. “Jazz! How was your phone call?”

“Terrible. He's going out on a date with her, Danita. Tonight.”

“What's a date?” asked Ria.

“Some kind of fruit, I think,” whispered Ranee. “Shhh. I want to listen.”

Danita and I exchanged glances. “Girls,” she said. “It's almost time for lunch. Why don't you go downstairs and wash up?”

“I already did, Didi,” Ria said, holding up her hands to show us how clean they were.

“I didn't hear the lunch bell ring,” Ranee added.

“Sister Agnes might need help. Go down now, girls. Jazz Didi and I are coming soon.”

Her sisters left reluctantly, and Danita turned to me. “What is a date, anyway, Jazz?”

I tried not to goggle at her ignorance the way Sonia, Lila, and Rini had at mine. “You know, when a boy and a girl go somewhere together.”

“Alone? Just the two of them?”

“Yes. Alone. Just the two of them.” What would Steve wear? That thick, cream-colored sweater with jeans? Or would he wear something nicer, like his dressy slacks and blue button-down shirt? Miriam would probably wear some clingy, short dress. She'd drive her sleek white sports car, since Steve didn't turn sixteen until the fall. Would they park at the curb to say good-bye when she dropped him off? Would she lean over and—

Danita looked amazed. “
Alone?
An unmarried boy and an unmarried girl? I can't believe a good boy like Steve would do something like this.”

“Steve and I go out alone together all the time, Danita.”

“Yes, but it's not the same. You two are friends. Not to mention business partners. This date sounds like much, much more. Tell me exactly what he said on the phone.”

I tried to repeat our conversation word for word. Danita listened intently. “Aha!” she said, when I'd finished. “Remember what he wrote in his letter?
This
must be the drastic step he's taking to force you to confess your true feelings.”

“No, Danita. He's fallen in love with Miriam. I knew this was going to happen.”

“Not yet, Jazz. But tell him the truth before he does. It sounds like you have nothing to lose, and perhaps everything to gain.”

The lunch bell rang. Danita patted my hand and headed downstairs to make the tea. She always did that all-important job for the orphanage.

I trudged up the hill to our apartment. Maybe Danita was right. It did sound like I had nothing left to lose—Steve would probably be Miriam's boyfriend by the time I got back. Here I'd been keeping my true feelings a secret because I was so afraid of losing him. Now it seemed as if our friendship was ending anyway.

I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. Was I going to let Miriam write the last chapter?
No! I
was going to finish it—not her. A decade of the sweetest friendship in the whole world deserved to end with a bang instead of a fizzle.

Taking out my last sheet of scented stationery, I made myself write a letter that was full of nothing but the truth.

Dear Steve,

I don't have much Compared to Miriam. She's beautiful, talented, and popular, and half the guys in school would love to go out with her. But I wish you Could see that a friend who loves you, who stands by you no matter what, has more to offer. I wish you Could see me, even though I'm so far away, missing you, loving you. You wanted real letters. Well, here they are, all the way back to our
first week in India. When we talk on the phone
after you get these, I'll be scared, so be ready to tell
me that we'll always be friends at least.
Love, Jasmine

I found a manila envelope in Dad's desk, carefully tucked the pile of notes inside, addressed the whole thing to Steve, and sealed it before I could change my mind. It was too late that day to mail them, and the next day was Sunday, when there was no mail service. But on Monday, before my usual morning routine at Asha Bari, I would march down to the post office and mail the whole thing off.

Nobody but me puts an end to our friendship, I thought.
Nobody
.

Unless it was Steve himself.