Free Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins Page B

about Hollywood,” I said, remembering the dozens of Mumbai-made Hindi movies Helen and Frank had dragged me to see. And even though my grandparents only understood about ten words of Hindi, they constantly played Indian pop songs on an ancient tape recorder.
    â€œSpoken like a true Indian,” Sonia said, smiling. “But I simply can’t imagine life without a small screen at home!”
    â€œI’m too busy to watch anything anyway,” I said.
    â€œBusy with what?” Sonia asked.
    I didn’t answer. I couldn’t see myself explaining about running a business, staying in shape for track, and keeping my grade point average up—not to mention visiting Helen and Frank, keeping an eye on Eric, and of course, hanging out with Steve.
    Sonia studied my expression. “Aha!” she said, nodding wisely. “Busy with a boyfriend, I’ll wager. Lucky thing. American girls don’t have a thousand relatives breathing down their necks, warning them to avoid men at all costs.” Her voice changed, taking on a matronly Indian accent. She wagged her head. “If you even so much as touch a boy before you are married, Sonia, you will most certainly acquire a very, very vile disease.”
    The girls giggled, and even I had to smile.
    â€œBring us a picture of this boyfriend tomorrow,” Sonia ordered as the bell rang.
    â€œHe’s not my boyfriend.”
    â€œA likely story,” countered Sonia. “A secret romance, no doubt. Like Romeo and Juliet.”
    For the first time in our conversation, I found myself wanting her to keep talking. Even though she was obviously living in a Bollywood fantasy world, I was beginning to like what I saw there.

TWELVE
    The two girls I rode home with Chattered nonstop,
shouting over the auto-rickshaw’s roaring engine and the unending blare of horns. I kept my eyes on the back of the driver’s head, fighting the urge to put my fingers in my ears. When I finally entered the cool, quiet apartment, I almost collapsed with relief. Slipping into a pair of shorts and one of Steve’s old T-shirts that he’d passed on to me, I decided to get my boring weight-training session out of the way.
    As I lifted and counted reps, I fought the temptation to run down the hill to the phone. A good discussion with Steve was my usual way of unwinding in the afternoons. No crowds. Just the two of us, working the booth, chatting, taking a coffee break every so often. But I’d just spoken to him three days ago. It was too expensive to call so soon. And I couldn’t let him know that I was missing him a hundred times more than he was missing me.
    As for sending e-mails, Dad and Eric had found a cyber café, but it had been packed with hordes of young people. “You’d hate it in there, Jazz,” Dad told me. “Everybody stared, and I almost suffocated trying to check my e-mail.” He made it sound as if I should avoid it for my own good, like an allergic person staying inside during pollen season. I didn’t mind taking his advice; I couldn’t even finish one satisfactory handwritten letter. Composing regular e-mails seemed like a monumental task.
    So after my workout, I slogged through a pile of homework assignments. When those were done, I realized I had absolutely nothing to do. And my stomach was growling. That was it—I was hungry! I hadn’t eaten much all day. I headed for the kitchen to forage for a snack, singing a tune from one of my favorite movies, The Sound of Music, to cheer myself up.
    â€œThese are a few of my favorite things,” I sang loudly and off key, thinking I was alone. “When the dog bites—”
    I stopped abruptly. I wasn’t alone after all. A strange girl was rummaging through our cabinets. This must be
the helper from the orphanage,
I realized, remembering that Mom had said she was going to start working today.
    The girl’s faded sky blue
salwar kameez
was