Free Blue Jasmine by Kashmira Sheth Page A

but Mela wanted pizza and cake, so that’s what we had.
    In early December we went on a class trip. On the way back when we stopped for a snack, Sam Bally said, “Hey, Seema, my mom packed an extra can of root beer. Do you want it?”
    â€œI don’t drink beer,” I said.
    â€œI don’t either. This is root beer.”
    â€œA beer is a beer. I don’t want it.”
    â€œOkay,” he said and popped open his can.
    â€œDanny, want some root beer? Seema here doesn’t want to drink it. She doesn’t drink any kind of beer,” Sam said.
    â€œWhy? Don’t you like root beer?” Danny asked, opening his can and taking a big gulp.
    â€œI’ve never had it.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    I didn’t know what to think! Sam and Danny were both chugging their root beer. Sam’s mom had packed it, so maybe it wasn’t beer .
    â€œTry a sip.” Danny said. “You’ll like it.”
    I took a sip and wished I hadn’t. The brown liquid had a medicinal taste and I was sure that it was something I shouldn’t have had.
    â€œI guess you didn’t like it. I shouldn’t have made you try it,” Danny said.
    All the way back in the bus my mind was filled with the taste of root beer and my heart was filled with fear of how I was going to tell Pappa and Mommy that I had tried something that I shouldn’t have.
    When we got back to school I told Ria and Jennifer what had happened. Ria began to laugh, Jennifer shot her a look, and suddenly Ria stopped.
    â€œIt’s all right, Seema. Root beer isn’t really beer,” Jennifer said.
    â€œIt isn’t? Then why don’t they call it a root drink?”
    â€œRoot drink? If they called it a root drink do you think anyone would drink it?” Ria asked.
    â€œI would rather drink something called a root drink then root beer,” I said.
    That evening when I told Mommy and Pappa what had happened, Mela was listening Quietly. At the end I said, “I don’t like root beer and I know none of you would either, so we never have to buy it.”
    Mela said, “I like root beer. It’s yummy.”
    â€œYou never had a root beer,” I said.
    â€œYes, three times,” she said raising three fingers.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œAt school. Once we had it with ice cream. A root-beer float.”
    I had no idea what a root-beer float was, but I didn’t say anything. The transition from India to America was so different for Mela and me. For her it was as smooth as slipping a pillowcase over a pillow, and for me it was as difficult as turning a cotton pillow into a goose-feather pillow.
    One day after school Ria and Jennifer came home with me. They gabbed about Christmas all the way. The last time Ihad gone to the mall I’d seen trees with pretty things hanging from them.
    â€œWe always get a pine tree for Christmas. It smells so good,” Ria said.
    â€œWe go to the tree lot and my dad cuts the one that has the best shape,” Jennifer said.
    â€œYou put a real tree in the house?” I asked.
    â€œYes. Didn’t you know that?” Ria asked.
    â€œI didn’t,” I said, stealing a look at Jennifer.
    â€œIt’s a little like your Diwali. Tell Ria about the leaves and flowers you hang at Diwali,” Jennifer said.
    â€œWhat’s Diwali?” Ria asked.
    â€œDiwali is our biggest holiday. During Diwali we take mango leaves and string them together with yellow marigolds and hang them in our doorways. I remember that special smell of mango leaves and marigold blossoms.”
    â€œMarigolds and mango—I can imagine them smelling good together. You can’t get mango leaves here, can you?” Ria asked.
    â€œI haven’t seen mango trees here,” I said. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen asopalav, neem , guava, or tamarind trees either.”
    â€œNext year on Diwali we can string yellow and red maple