Free Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins

kissed the top of my head. “Mrs. Joshi said you can catch an auto-rickshaw home with a couple of girls who live in our neighborhood. Think you can handle that?”
    I nodded. “Hope it goes well, Dad,” I said.
    Mom pulled my fingernail out of my mouth and reached up to kiss my cheek. “You’ll be fine, honey,” she said, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself.
    I had an eerie feeling of déjà vu. Was this a repeat of my first day at kindergarten? But then Eric flashed me one of his sweetest smiles before disappearing into the auto-rickshaw, and I was on my own.

ELEVEN
    Mrs. Joshi’s niece, Rini, was short and round, with dimples that deepened when she smiled. She chattered away in an interesting Indianized slang as we made our way to class. Her idea of orientation was slightly different than her aunt’s. “You’ll have to meet Sonia Seth,” she whispered. “Her dad owns a chain of department stores and has gobs of money. Sonia’s absolutely wild, but great fun. And that’s Lila over there. Her dad’s the best heart surgeon in Pune. . . .” And so on.
    It was mindless babble, but at least I didn’t have to come up with any conversation in return. Outside the classroom, I hesitated, trying to steady my nerves.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Rini asked.
    â€œNothing. How many girls are in this class?”
    â€œOnly forty-five,” she said. “We’ve been dying to meet you ever since Sister Das made the announcement at Monday’s assembly. We want to find out
everything
about life in America.”
    â€œYou do?” I asked, hardly listening. “What period is this, by the way?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” she asked, looking puzzled. “Oh! We don’t change classes as you do. The teachers come to us. This is the class ten room. We stay in our assigned desks all day, except for tea breaks and tiffin.”
    â€œTiffin?”
    Rini giggled. “I mean lunch. I should know how to talk American; I’ve watched enough of your films, for goodness’ sake. Oops . . . I mean movies. Come on, let’s go in.”
    I followed her inside, keeping my eyes on her back. Her braids swayed in front of me like two pendulums. The teacher was wearing a carefully ironed and pleated blue and white saree, and she gave me a brief smile. “We are quite pleased to see you,” she said in a voice that was as starched as her saree. “Ladies, please rise. Let us welcome Miss Jasmine Gardner.”
    All forty-five girls stood at the same time and clasped their hands in front of them. It would have been fascinating to watch if they hadn’t all been staring at me. They looked like a synchronized-swimming team practicing a routine outside the pool. “You are welcome to our school, Jasmine,” they chanted.
    I mumbled something unintelligible in response. The teacher handed me a thick textbook. Clutching it like a life preserver in front of me, I made my way to an empty desk in the back of the room. The morning work began with algebra formulas we hadn’t covered yet in Berkeley, and I was forced to concentrate.
    As soon as the bell rang for tea break, Rini pounced on me. She dragged me over to her friends like a first grader with an extra-special show-and-tell item. Three girls checked me out from head to toe. All the girls in the class were dressed identically, but these three managed to add a certain flair. Maybe it was the way they wore their bangs, or that their skirts were at the school’s limit of shortness. Or the fact that perfume, which was not on the list of forbidden fashion items, wafted around them. I suspected that one of them was even wearing a touch of pale pink lipstick.
    â€œThis is Lila,” Rini said. “And this is Sonia.”
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œHi!”
    â€œHello.”
    Sonia was the one wearing the lipstick. She was taller than the other