Free Lovetorn by Kavita Daswani Page B

nightgown, a Kleenex folded in one hand.
    “I’m going out, Ma,” I said. I wanted her to share my enthusiasm, to be happy for me, to tell me to have a good time. Instead, she looked right through me, nodded, and went back to looking at the scenery outside the window.
    My father dropped me off at a mall halfway between our house and Renuka’s. She was standing next to a fountain inside, a small, sparkly handbag slung over her shoulder. Even though she looked trendy, I wasn’t intimidated by it. And unlike the other girls in my school, she didn’t look me up and down when I walked in.
    “Sorry I’m late,” I said.
    “No problem. I got here early. I always worry about not being able to find a parking spot.”
    “You drove?” I asked, shocked. She and I were the same age, and I couldn’t imagine myself behind the wheel of a car. In India, the family shared a number of cars and drivers. None of the women of the house had ever had to transport themselves anywhere.
    “Yup,” she said proudly. “Got my learner’s permit the day I turned fifteen and a half. My mom was in the car with me. That’s by law.” She rolled her eyes. “She had to do some errands around here anyway. But I’m getting hooked on the feeling of being able to get myself anywhere.”
    “Of course,” I said, feeling even more like a child.
    We went to the food court and had a chocolate milk shake and split a veggie burger and fries.
    “It’s so cool you could come out today,” she said. “I liked talking to you yesterday.”
    “Me too,” I said. “It was the longest conversation I’ve had with another girl since I got here. Except my sister, I mean.”
    “I hate that you’re, like, not having a good time,” she said. “You shouldn’t be hanging out by yourself. There’s so much for you to get involved in.”
    “I know,” I said, thinking of the endless activities that happened at school: sports, music, the school paper, drama club, debate team. I hadn’t been a part of any of it. My lack of interest aside, it was impossible. Schoolwork and looking after the house in the face of my mother’s condition was more than enough to consume my time; I didn’t need to add an extracurricular activity to the mix.
    “I don’t have time for anything new right now,” I said. I wanted to tell Renuka about my mother, but she was still a new friend. I wasn’t sure how much my father would want me to say.
    “See, Shalini, this is what I mean,” she said, a look of disappointment crossing her face. “Nothing happens on its own, especially in high school.”
    I sucked on my straw. The fact was, I didn’t even know how to make friends. In Bangalore I was surrounded by kids my own age. There was always someone around to talk to, to play with, to hang out with. I’d never had to actually go out and befriend someone. I didn’t even know where to start.
    “The people at school don’t seem very accepting of me,” I said. “I look as if I don’t belong. Back home, nobody ever teased me.”
    Now Renuka let out a tiny grunt of frustration.
    “This is America!” she said, waving one hand in the air. “It’s all about diversity! The only thing that’s stopping you from having a great social life is you. You just need to get out of your own way. Look at your sister. She has the right attitude. She jumped in. You have to do the same.”
    Tables around us were filled with chattering families. I couldn’t hear myself think. I hated that Renuka was right. I hated that my baby sister had instinctively known what to do but I hadn’t had a clue. And I hated that perhaps a part of me had wanted it like this, so that maybe I could wrap myself in my loneliness like an old and comfortable blanket. Perhaps the only way I was different from my mother was that she was more honest about her depression. I was simply the way I had always been in every aspect of my life: passive and unadventurous.
    I looked up at Renuka and nodded weakly. Her face