Read Online Karma for Beginners by Jessica Blank - Free Book Online Page A

to yes . Not yet.
    When she comes back empty-handed, that space seals right back up, like a Ziploc baggie. On the way to seva I tell myself: It hasn’t been that long. Maybe his record company hasn’t sent it to him yet. Maybe he’s on the road. I know how to say those things; it’s what I always do. It opens up the seal a tiny bit, just enough so that little bit of hope won’t suffocate.
    Devanand’s not at the shed, so I grab a trowel and some marigolds and head back to the lot, try to forget the letter and focus on my plan.
    The guy’s there again, beneath the bus. This time I go over and kick his boot. “Hey,” I say, ignoring the law of inertia. He pulls out from under, looks up at me, surprised. For a second I hang there, wondering what I’ve just done. But he’s out now, staring up at me, and an object in motion will remain in motion, and I have to say something . “What’re you doing?” I ask.
    â€œI was fixing the transmission on this bus, till someone came up and kicked me.”
    My throat goes down into my stomach and I blush. I did the total wrong thing. I pissed him off. Why did I do that? Crap. Should have just stayed still. I’m about to turn around and go back to my stupid marigolds when he grins.
    â€œHey, I’m just joking.”
    â€œOh.” Right. Of course. Joking.
    â€œI could use a break, actually. The air’s kinda thick down here.” He wipes his face with his arm to get the sweat off. A big black smudge smears his forehead. “What’re you doing back here anyway? They got you on garden duty?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.” I glance back at the flat of marigolds.
    â€œSeems funny they’d waste ’em back here, there’s nobody ever in this lot except me. But I suppose I should be flattered.” Flattered why? It’s hard to tell exactly what he means by things. At least he’s not using any weird words, though. So far.
    â€œI suppose.”
    He grins again. It’s like he thinks I’m funny. “So where’re you from?”
    . . . . .
    His name is Colin. We talk for almost a whole hour. He’s not an ashram person; he lives over by town. They bring him in to fix the shuttles. He’s good at fixing stuff. He’s twenty. He doesn’t come here every day; only when there’s something broken. He has green eyes.
    I’ve never had a crush before, not really. I mean, okay, Erik Estrada from ChiPs when I was eight. And Almanzo when he married Laura on Little House on the Prairie . But those don’t count. They’re not real people. The only real human person that’s any kind of crush equivalent was Randy Wishnick, and he doesn’t count either because it wasn’t my idea, plus also because of how it turned out. As far as I was concerned, Randy was just another nasty dirtball boy atVolney Rogers Junior High when I showed up there halfway through the seventh grade. I was used to those boys: they wore jean jackets and had the short-long haircut—short in the front and long in the back— and freckles, little beady eyes. They weren’t popular but they were never nerds either; they had their own kind of outcast power, and they were mean. Especially to new kids, and to quiet girls who read too many books.
    But Randy wasn’t mean to me. Instead he came over to my desk during fifth-period study hall and asked me, “Whatcha readin?” It was sort of embarrassing because it was Judy Blume, but at least it was Deenie and not some book about periods like Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret . I showed him the cover and he said, “Cool.” I could tell he’d never heard of it. After that he started trailing me through the hallway on the way to lunch. He’d strut around hyper in his Quiet Riot T-shirt, brag about shoplifting Nut Goodies from the Piggly Wiggly. I never really knew why he talked to me, except that he didn’t