Read Online Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mitali Perkins
Tags: Fiction
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pregnancies and decide to have their babies there, too, where it was clean and safe. She was going to visit them first, though, so theyâd know they could trust her.
I wasnât at all worried about Mom. Making people feel welcome was her specialty. Everybody she met in that community was sure to love her. They always did. No, it was my father who might not make it through the day. He looked as nervous and pinched in his shirt and tie as I felt in my uniform.
âIâm scared, too, Jazz,â heâd confessed to me the night before. The two of us had been playing cards, waiting for the uniform to arrive. âBut donât you think itâs time I stopped playing it safe?â
I couldnât believe it. Dad was breaking his own parentsâ code of survival just when Iâd realized it was the way to go.
âOh, and Jazz,â Dad had added. âWe both know one of your motherâs hopes for the summer is to find some information about her past, but please donât bring it up. I think she needs space to sort out her feelings on her own for a while.â
Dad didnât have to warn me. Momâs hunger to know more about her birth family was so intense I wondered how strangers didnât notice it. Bringing up the topic before she did would feel like stomping across a newly seeded lawn.
Outside the gates of the academy, Dad paid the auto-rickshaw drivers while Mom, Eric, and I scoped out the scene. Girls of every size and shape milled around a courtyard. They were wearing starched white shirts with stiff, pointed collars and knee-length navy skirts with carefully ironed pleats, just like I was. Unfortunately, the rest of my ensemble didnât quite fit the mold.
âI didnât realize this uniform included shoes,â Dad muttered as we headed through the gates.
I was wearing sandals that laced up around my argyle socks, comfortable and worn, bought at a discount from the shoe peddler on Telegraph Avenue. Everybody elseâs feet were encased in white knee socks and shiny black patent leather shoes.
âOr hair,â Mom added.
My shoulder-length hair hung loose around my face. The others wore their hair in long, tight braids tied with perky blue bows.
As we walked through the courtyard, silence spread through the crowd of girls like fog rolling into San Francisco Bay. Every eye was on us. We headed as fast as we could for the office.
Mrs. Joshi, the headmistress, greeted us warmly. She served tea and
samosas,
savory pastries made of vegetable curry wrapped in a crispy crust, and chatted about the orphanage. Apparently, Sister Das was a legend of sorts in Pune. Bubbling over with excitement, Mom told her about the clinic while Dad, Eric, and I chomped on samosas. Eric was enjoying them, I could tell, but for Dad and me, it was a case of comfort eating.
Finally, the headmistress turned to me. âIâm afraid you may find our rules difficult after the freedom young people enjoy in the West,â she said. âWe do not permit makeup or jewelry during school hours. From tomorrow, please wear white knee socks and black shoes, and braid your hair with four ribbons. I will loan you one ribbon for today. You will begin in class ten. I have asked my niece, Rini, to provide necessary orientation.â
The bell rang on cue, as if it knew she was done with us. Mom quickly tied my hair into a ponytail with the ribbon, and Mrs. Joshi gave me permission to walk my family to the gate.
âI will send my niece to escort you back to class,â she said.
At the gate, I said my good-byes. Dad had dark shadows under his eyes, and I fought off a desire to jump into an auto-rickshaw, march into the orphanage, and announce that he didnât know what he was doing. But would I be right? In spite of the worry in his face, his chin was set and his shoulders squared in a way that seemed familiar. It was the same body language I used just before hurling a shot put.
He
I wasnât at all worried about Mom. Making people feel welcome was her specialty. Everybody she met in that community was sure to love her. They always did. No, it was my father who might not make it through the day. He looked as nervous and pinched in his shirt and tie as I felt in my uniform.
âIâm scared, too, Jazz,â heâd confessed to me the night before. The two of us had been playing cards, waiting for the uniform to arrive. âBut donât you think itâs time I stopped playing it safe?â
I couldnât believe it. Dad was breaking his own parentsâ code of survival just when Iâd realized it was the way to go.
âOh, and Jazz,â Dad had added. âWe both know one of your motherâs hopes for the summer is to find some information about her past, but please donât bring it up. I think she needs space to sort out her feelings on her own for a while.â
Dad didnât have to warn me. Momâs hunger to know more about her birth family was so intense I wondered how strangers didnât notice it. Bringing up the topic before she did would feel like stomping across a newly seeded lawn.
Outside the gates of the academy, Dad paid the auto-rickshaw drivers while Mom, Eric, and I scoped out the scene. Girls of every size and shape milled around a courtyard. They were wearing starched white shirts with stiff, pointed collars and knee-length navy skirts with carefully ironed pleats, just like I was. Unfortunately, the rest of my ensemble didnât quite fit the mold.
âI didnât realize this uniform included shoes,â Dad muttered as we headed through the gates.
I was wearing sandals that laced up around my argyle socks, comfortable and worn, bought at a discount from the shoe peddler on Telegraph Avenue. Everybody elseâs feet were encased in white knee socks and shiny black patent leather shoes.
âOr hair,â Mom added.
My shoulder-length hair hung loose around my face. The others wore their hair in long, tight braids tied with perky blue bows.
As we walked through the courtyard, silence spread through the crowd of girls like fog rolling into San Francisco Bay. Every eye was on us. We headed as fast as we could for the office.
Mrs. Joshi, the headmistress, greeted us warmly. She served tea and
samosas,
savory pastries made of vegetable curry wrapped in a crispy crust, and chatted about the orphanage. Apparently, Sister Das was a legend of sorts in Pune. Bubbling over with excitement, Mom told her about the clinic while Dad, Eric, and I chomped on samosas. Eric was enjoying them, I could tell, but for Dad and me, it was a case of comfort eating.
Finally, the headmistress turned to me. âIâm afraid you may find our rules difficult after the freedom young people enjoy in the West,â she said. âWe do not permit makeup or jewelry during school hours. From tomorrow, please wear white knee socks and black shoes, and braid your hair with four ribbons. I will loan you one ribbon for today. You will begin in class ten. I have asked my niece, Rini, to provide necessary orientation.â
The bell rang on cue, as if it knew she was done with us. Mom quickly tied my hair into a ponytail with the ribbon, and Mrs. Joshi gave me permission to walk my family to the gate.
âI will send my niece to escort you back to class,â she said.
At the gate, I said my good-byes. Dad had dark shadows under his eyes, and I fought off a desire to jump into an auto-rickshaw, march into the orphanage, and announce that he didnât know what he was doing. But would I be right? In spite of the worry in his face, his chin was set and his shoulders squared in a way that seemed familiar. It was the same body language I used just before hurling a shot put.
He
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