Monsoon Summer (11 page)

NINETEEN

I toyed with my dinner, even though it was Danita's incredible potato, pea, and egg combo.

“Two of your bugs are dead, Eric,” Mom said.

“Jazz didn't feed them today,” Eric mumbled. I couldn't help noticing that he looked guilty and sad. Conversation was lagging around our table tonight.

“That's not your sister's job. If you're too busy to take care of those creatures, let them go.”

“I can't, Mom.” Eric had never let a bug go in his life.

Mom shook her head. “I shouldn't have let you start collecting them until you'd been here awhile. Then you could have figured out how to spend your time instead of doing the same old thing. You're so good with those kids, Eric. They think you're some kind of hero. They follow you everywhere.”

“They do, don't they?” Eric's face lit up for a moment before clouding over again. “Guess I'll have to bury those two guys. It's raining buckets outside, though. Will you help me, Jazz?”

His question sounded like an echo of something I'd heard before. “No!” I answered roughly, before I could stop myself.

Eric flinched as though I'd slapped him. I'd never spoken to him like that. My parents exchanged worried looks. “Anything wrong, Jazz?” Mom asked gently.

All the pressure of the day and the week and the whole summer exploded. Words came spewing out of my mouth: “Why did you
ever
give me a crazy name like Jasmine? Didn't you people
know
how I'd turn out?”

Mom looked bewildered. “What do you mean, darling? I think it fits perfectly. You've always been as sweet as a jasmine flower. Besides, when the nuns found me, somebody had strung jasmine around me, remember? That's why we named you what we did.”

“Well, you were
wrong
. I'm
nothing
like a flower. And I'm nothing like you! I wish I were! But no! Eric ends up being like you, and I had to turn out just like—” I stopped myself in the nick of time.

Nobody spoke, and my unfinished sentence dangled in the air. Dad was frowning at his plate, and I realized that I'd probably said too much. Now I'd hurt him, too. Great.
So
Cial Activist's Daughter Leaves Victims Strewn in Path of Destruction.

“May I be excused?” I asked wearily. The only thing I really wanted was to be alone so that I couldn't do any more damage.

“Of course, Jazz,” Mom answered. “But can we talk later?”

“There's nothing to talk about,” I said. My mother's gift of sympathy would just make me feel more inadequate. I didn't want her to help me; she was too good at it. Just before I left the room, I caught the hurt expression on her face. Okay. That's three for three. A perfect score.

I barely had enough energy to crawl into bed, but I wasn't crying. All the tears and anger and frustration had hardened into a cold steel ball, and the weight of it was almost more than I could carry.

I stayed in bed as long as I could the next morning, watching the rain out my bedroom window. I wanted to stay under the covers all day, but I was scheduled to call Steve at noon. The way this weekend was going so far, it wouldn't surprise me if Steve had gone to Miriam's party. Maybe the two of them had decided to elope.

When I finally emerged from my room, the apartment was empty. I found a plate of cold eggs with a note beside it.

Jazz, Thought you could Use the time to yourself. We love you, darling. They'd all signed their names, even Eric. He'd added a smiley face by his signature, which only made me feel worse.

I pushed away the rubbery eggs and held my head in my hands. How could I have been so mean to my brother? It wasn't his fault he'd inherited Mom's skill with people. Now, with Dad becoming a do-gooder, too, I looked even more like the mutant in the family. Just where had my genes come from, anyway? For a split second, I pictured a woman in a saree dumping a baby on the steps of Asha Bari.
No,
I thought, catching myself.
Don't go
there, Jazz
.

Instead, I focused on the conversation I was about to have with Steve. How could I avoid botching that, too? I plodded down the muddy hill, holding the huge umbrella so that it obscured my face and upper body. I kept my eyes on the ground, rehearsing casual questions delivered in just the right light tone. So how was the party, Steve? Did you
have a good time?
I had to keep him from hearing the note of despair in my voice.

The practicing didn't help. “Hi Steve did you go to Miriam's party,” I blurted out as soon as he answered the phone. I sounded like a prosecuting attorney.

He was quiet, taken aback. “Hello to you, too. And yes, I did go. It was tonight.”

“Oh. You're back, then.”

“Yeah, Jazz. I came back early to wait for your phone call, remember?”

“Oh. Did you have a good time?”
That was better.

“I guess. Some of the guys on the team showed up.”

I couldn't help myself—I had to know the worst. “Was there dancing?” How Close did you hold her?

“Lots. And tons of great food. Miriam's parents served those egg rolls that you love from the Yangtze River restaurant.”

“Did you dance?”

Now he sounded impatient. “What is this, an interrogation? Yes, I danced. We all did. You know I love to dance. Or maybe you don't. You've only danced with me once.”

I grimaced, remembering that junior high fiasco. “Well, here's a surprise for you,” I told him. “
I
went to a disco yesterday.”

“What! You did? Who with?”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“I'm just curious. Who'd you go with? Did you dance?”

“I went with some friends from school. And no, I didn't dance. Not this time. It was kind of hard to keep saying no, though,” I couldn't help adding.

“Oh, really,” he said, his voice even. “Somehow I can't imagine you at a disco.”

“Why not?” I could hear the cool edge in my own voice.

He was quiet. Then: “Oh, I don't know. It's just so . . . not you. You hate dark, noisy places and you can't handle crowd scenes. Besides, when's the last time you went to a party or a club without me twisting your arm?”

“I know I'm not a social butterfly like you, Steve, but—”

“
Social butterfly? What are you talking about? I
never
go dancing. Mostly because you never go. At least, you never wanted to with me.”

The conversation was headed downhill fast. I could feel the tears coming, and somehow I managed to keep them out of my voice. “Well, now that I'm gone, you can go to all the parties you want. People just invited me along because they wanted you, anyway. Now they can have you—without
me
tagging along like some kind of . . . bodyguard.”

The moment I finished talking, I wanted to reach into the receiver and grab the word back. But it was too late.

Steve's groan traveled halfway across the world to ring in my ear. “Would you stop saying such stupid things?” he yelled. “What in the world is going on with you, Jasmine Carol Gardner?”

If only you knew, I thought, blinking and swallowing desperately as the silence lengthened.

“Sorry, Jazz,” Steve said finally, and his voice was calmer. “I didn't mean to get so upset. It's just that I hate it when you put yourself down.”

“It's okay,” I mumbled.
No, it's not. Why Can't I be differ
ent? Why Can't I be the kind of girl you'd fall in love with?

“Something bigger's going on, Jazz. I wish you'd tell me what it is. Are we friends or what?”

If I didn't confess at least part of the truth, I might push him away forever. I cleared my throat and managed to steady my voice. “I guess I can't stand seeing so many needy people around me all the time.”

“Oh, is that it?” Steve asked, sounding relieved. “Well, that explains a lot. You're so generous and softhearted, Jazz. I figured living in a poor country would be hard on you.”

There it was again. Didn't
anybody
know the real me? First Mom with her myth about how jasmine flowers reflected my true nature, and now Steve calling me generous. It was time to set him straight.

“I am
not
generous!” I said. “Remember that girl from the orphanage? The one who's been working for us? Well, she asked for my help. And guess what? I said no. Now, how generous is that?”

“What kind of help does she need?” Steve asked.

“She needs to make money in a big way. I wish she'd ask Mom—I'm sure Mom could find a way to help her. I'd just end up doing more damage.” I paused, then said it anyway: “Just like I did with Mona.”

“That was a fluke, Jazz. I've told you a hundred times. Besides, your mom's a wonderful person, but she doesn't know anything about making money. You do. This girl probably just needs some encouragement, someone to talk to. Like we did, remember? You can do that.”

I was quiet. It was easy for him to say—his homeless people were doing just fine. Mine was in prison.

But he wasn't done yet. “Just try it, Jazz,” he said. “And tell me how it goes in your next letter. Knowing how you feel about crowds, I won't bother asking you for e-mail. Which reminds me—is something wrong with the Indian mail system? I haven't gotten one letter yet.”

I gulped. I was glad I'd recently mailed that first letter. “Letters take about a week or so to get there, Steve,” I said. “You should be getting it soon.”

After we said good-bye, I trudged up the hill, rehashing our conversation. It was no use talking things over with Steve or Mom—they were both extroverts who got involved with others as naturally as they breathed. I needed somebody else to dump on, somebody who knew what life was really like for Jasmine Carol Gardner.

TWENTY

Sitar music was playing in the apartment. To my surprise, Dad was home, sitting quietly on the couch as though he'd been waiting for me.

“Come and join me, daughter of mine,” he said, patting the space beside him.

I collapsed on the couch. The music played a sad, disappointed melody against the harmony of the rain. Mom always said that when Dad was with somebody he loved, he exuded “a safe, peaceful aura.” It was true. I leaned my head on his shoulder. Suddenly, before I could stop myself, the tight ball of tension and self-hatred I'd been carrying around since the night before loosened, and I started to cry.

“Want to talk?” Dad asked after a while, handing me a tissue.

I blew my nose. “Not really. It's just that I'm such a failure, Dad.”

“How so?”

I rested my head on his shoulder again. He had such a comfortable shoulder. Besides, being together like this felt like old times, when Dad would greet me after track practice or a long afternoon at the Biz. “I'm so stupid when it comes to dealing with people. I never know how to do or say the right thing.”

“Such as?”

“Such as helping people. I blew it so badly with Mona! You were right, Dad. Some of us
aren't
supposed to try solving other people's problems. I should have listened to you.”

Dad flinched, as if I'd just announced I had a terminal disease. He tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes. “I never should have said that, Jazz,” he said. “It was wrong.”

I pulled away. “No, Dad. It was right. You were right.”

Dad shook his head vehemently. “I wish I'd never said it. I made you feel like you and I are second-rate citizens.” He let go of me, got up, and began pacing. “But we're not, Jazz. Not at all. I used to think the only role I had to play in helping people was setting your mother free to do her thing. But now it's different. Oh, I could never do what she'll be doing down at the clinic. I'd never survive.”

I nodded. “Neither would I. We're just not designed for stuff like that, Dad.”

He shook his head, frustrated that I wasn't following. “When Sister Das asked for help with the computers, she was asking me to try something that was designed for
me
. Not for your mother.” He sat down beside me again and took my hand. “Sister Das and I spent all day yesterday organizing the orphanage's accounts on the computer, and I felt alive in a new way. Not just watching Mom from the sidelines and cheering her on, but making a difference myself. And you know what, Jazz? It's fun.”

“But Dad,” I argued, “it's not like you've been sitting around doing nothing all these years. You take care of our whole family.
And
you give away almost all the money you earn.”

Dad nodded. “You're right. I've always known that giving is much better for the heart than hoarding. We'll keep giving, don't worry. But hiding makes the heart shrink, too, and I've been guilty of that my whole life. I was hoping that coming here would give me a chance to break some bad habits. Ones that I learned as a kid, unfortunately.”

I thought back to when we'd said good-bye to Grandpa and Grandma Gardner. Was that what Dad had been trying to tell them about this trip to India? That he no longer wanted to play it safe?

“Since we came here, I'm not hiding anymore,” Dad said. “I may not impact lives on the scale that your mom will, but I'm doing
something
that makes a difference. Something tailor-made for me.”

He'd forgotten I was there, even though his hand was still stroking mine. But it didn't matter. A vision of an old beggar woman standing in the rain flashed before my eyes.

Dad was right.

My heart
was
shrinking.

I'd let what happened to Mona send me into hiding, and my heart was getting smaller by the minute. The only way out was to take a risk, just like Dad had. As I listened to the sitar music, I knew exactly what risk I was being asked to take. I could hear the invitation in my mind, spoken in a soft, lilting voice that matched the melody of the music: It's your opinion I need. Will you Come?

Dad blinked. “Sorry, Jazz. I forgot we were talking about you, not me. I know you're still hurting about Mona. I made things harder for you by giving you bad advice. I wish I could take it back somehow. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course, Dad.”

I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, already figuring out how I'd apologize to Eric and Mom when they got home. Dad and I sat in silence, lost in our own thoughts, letting the music fill the room as twilight fell, just as we used to in Berkeley after an especially draining day.

During Monday morning tea break, Sonia and her gang coiled around me in their usual tight circle.

“You were a hit on Friday, Jazz. I hope you join us again.”

“Why in the world did you leave so early?”

“
All
the boys asked about you. You made such a splash.”

I looked at the cup of tea in my hand with distaste. School tea tasted foul after Danita's glorious brew. “Thanks for inviting me. I'm sorry I wasn't much fun. Guess discos just aren't . . . my cup of tea,” I said.

“Why not?” asked Rini.

“Dancing is easy,” said Lila.

“I'd be happy to teach you, Jazz.” Sonia smiled. “Come home with us tomorrow afternoon and we'll get started.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I have other plans.”

“Like what?” Sonia asked.

“I'm meeting somebody,” I said.

“Oh, really?”

“What's his name?”

“Come on, tell us everything.”

“
Her
name's Danita,” I said.

“There's no Danita at our school.”

“Danita who?”

“Does she have a brother? A handsome one?”

“She doesn't go here,” I said. They were waiting expectantly, so I continued. “She lives at Asha Bari.”

“An orphan?” Rini asked. “How do you know her?”

“She works for us. And no, she doesn't have a brother. She has two younger sisters.”

Sonia shook her head. “She's your servant? Oh, no. You're in trouble now, Jazz. Let me guess. She's asked you for help in some way, right?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“I knew it,” Sonia said. “Watch out. She'll keep asking. They're all like that.”

I could feel myself getting irritated. Why should Sonia assume that she knew more about Danita than I did? “Danita's not a beggar, Sonia.”

Even as I said it, I knew I was right. Danita's goal was to stand on her own two feet, with her beloved sisters beside her. All she needed was a little encouragement. I could certainly offer her that.

Sonia shook her head. “Mark my words, Jazz. Once you get personally involved, people like that start taking advantage of you. That's why they elected my father to be chairman of Asha Bari's board—he knows that the best way to help poor people is through a good charity.”

“My mother's been personally involved for years, and nobody's taken advantage of her. Even if one or two people do, she still thinks it's worth it.” I hesitated, then continued. Steve was right. I had to put the Mona fiasco behind me once and for all. “And so do I. I'm sorry I can't come tomorrow. Or join you again on Friday.”

“All right, Jazz.” Sonia sighed. “But the boys will be asking about you. They went absolutely wild over you.”

Thankfully, the bell rang. How could I explain that I didn't want a bunch of strange guys going “absolutely wild” over me? All I wanted was one guy to go a little wild— one guy who wasn't a stranger at all.