by Varsha Bajaj
Finally, Mom gives in. She promises to figure out the cost and let her know. Whew!
* * *
At dinner, Dad tells Papa that maybe next time they should ask the neighbors before taking on any more fence-mending. Dad stares at his plate as he talks. I have never heard him mumble so much.
It must be hard to discipline your parent. I can’t imagine telling Dad what to do someday. I want to giggle so badly that I stuff my face instead and almost choke.
Papa looks at Dad as if he is speaking a foreign language. “Why? It needed fixing. I am doing everyone a favor.”
Dad looks over at Mom. She is no help. Her look says, Don’t look at me. He’s your dad.
After Mom and I clean up, I spread my homework out on the dinner table. Mom sits next to me to work on her stress-free coloring, and Papa is at the other end, drinking his tea. He looks hurt and is staring out through the trees.
I hand my mother a stack of school announcements. She scans them, and then she jumps to her feet and waves one of the papers in the air.
“Papa!” she says. “Look at this. Karina’s school needs volunteers to tutor math.”
Papa takes the flyer and reads it. “I will volunteer.”
“My thought exactly!” Mom declares.
“Wait a minute—what?” I say.
But, really, no one is listening to me. Why should they? It’s only my school.
“You are so good at math,” Mom says. “Jay said you helped him all the time growing up. Even with calculus.”
Papa is beaming. Mom looks like she’s tamed a lion.
“This is perfect,” says Mom. “You will help so many kids.”
Mom and Papa high-five each other. Mom immediately emails the contact on the flyer and says Papa will come on Tuesday.
It is decided, sealed.
“Isn’t this great?” Mom says. “You can go with Papa and do your homework while he tutors.”
I fake-smile, but I am worried. Papa with his lilting accent is unmistakably an immigrant from India, even though he has lived in this country for fifty-some years. My parents, on the other hand, were raised here. They speak like every other parent I know. They even say “y’all.”
I pray that none of the hyenas will be in Papa’s tutorials, because who knows what they might say.
I especially pray that Quinn is not in the tutorial session. I already know what he would say.
CHAPTER 6
CHRIS
MOM HAS SIGNED me up for math tutorials after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Dad and she both agree that I need to work harder before they decide to let me drop down. Then they tell me I can’t play basketball till I start doing better at math.
That’s how I know they mean business.
The rest of the team is rooting for me. When I tell Coach, someone says, “Why do you need algebra? You have the moves.”
If only my mom had heard that!
If Matt was home, I wouldn’t need tutorials, because he could teach me is what I’m thinking as I walk to the empty cafeteria after school on Tuesday.
I take a bite of my granola bar and shower myself with crumbs.
“Welcome to tutorials,” Mrs. Taylor says, her chipper voice greeting me like she’s welcoming me to a game or something.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
There are a handful of kids here already. I survey the room to decide where to sit when I spy a man cleaning his round glasses. He’s not wearing a red tunic shirt like the other day, but a regular button-down shirt. It’s Karina’s grandfather, and I wonder, What’s he doing here?
I don’t have to wonder for long, as I hear Mrs. Taylor approach. “Chris,” she says. “I have the perfect teacher for you.” Her hand on my back guides me to Karina’s grandfather. “Meet Mr. Chopra.”
Daniels, I tell myself, short of making a run for it, there is nothing you can do.
Really, what were the odds that he would be my math tutor? And the last thing I need is smarty-pants Karina knowing how much help I need with math.
“Chris!” says Mr. Chopra. “Are you the boy who lives next door? I would be happy to help.”
I mumble a thank-you, and that’s when I notice Karina doing her homework at one of the tables across from us, pretending like she doesn’t know her grandfather or me.
Great. Just great.
She smiles at me and shrugs.
“Sit! Sit, beta,” Mr. Chopra says.
I’m not sure what beta means, so I don’t sit.
Karina understands my confusion and explains that beta means “son” but that you can call a daughter “beta” too.
“I get it,” I say. “Like Coach sometimes calls us ‘son.’”
Mr. Chopra and I sit, and Karina goes back to her work.
“I was terrible at math when I was your age,” Mr. Chopra says. “My older brother taught me by stealing my sesame candy.”
Seeing my puzzled look, he says, “My brother would pile my candy between us. Each time I got an answer wrong, he would eat one. Some days, he ate it all. I learned fast—if only to save my candy.” He laughs.
I find myself telling him about my older brother, Matt. Then I tell him that I need to learn fast too, because unless I have at least a C, Mom and Dad won’t let me play basketball.
Mr. Chopra says, “We cannot have that. Basketball is important.”
“It is?” I say hesitantly.
“I love basketball,” he says. “I used to enjoy seeing the Lakers play when I lived in California.”
My eyes pop. “Sweet!”
He tells me that he saw Magic Johnson dunk from the nosebleed seats back in the day.
That’s when I find out that he knows about all the Lakers games and stats, and that we could talk ball all day. He says now that he has moved to Houston, he will have to root for the Rockets too.
He gets a gleam in his eyes. “That’s enough chitchat. We have to get you back on that team.”
Then Mr. Chopra decides to rake me over the coals. He wants to see how much I know and don’t know. “Chris, I like you, so I have to test you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“In math,” he says, “the concepts build on each other. If the foundation is weak, the building will collapse.” He says this in a tone that makes me wish I had listened to all my teachers from kindergarten on.
Mr. Chopra starts scribbling problems on a piece of paper.
I look around me. Mrs. Taylor guards the entrance. There is no escape.
I catch Karina’s eye. A sound escapes her lips, and I’ll be darned if it isn’t laughter.
I raise my eyebrows at her, and she mouths, Sorry. Can’t help it.
Karina Chopra, I want to say, I am not amused!
Mr. Chopra looks up at her. “Karina, go drink some water,” he says.
“I’m okay, Papa,” she answers, all innocent, and buries her head in her book.
I try to focus when Mr. Chopra hands me the sheet. Lots of the problems look like fast facts I memorized in elementary school. For real. This is so embarrassing. What if I get an easy one wrong?
Mr. Chopra says, “Are you ready, Chris?”
As ready as I’m ever going to be to face a firing squad where the bullets are math problems. I nod.
Two hundred million years later, Mrs. Taylor announces it is time to leave.
On the way out, Mr. Chopra asks, “When is your next quiz?”
“Thursday,” I tell him.
“What?” he says, and stops in his tracks. “Thursday? But you are not ready, and I cannot have a student of mine do poorly on a test.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be prepared for the one next week,” I say. “If I suddenly do too well, Mrs. Hubbard will think I’m cheating.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Chopra says, and brushes me off. “You will come
to my house after school tomorrow. We will work hard. You may not get an A, but you will not fail.”
I explain that to my puzzled parents when I tell them that I am going next door on Wednesday evening.
Matt thinks it’s great I am getting help. “Dang, Chris, you might become an engineer after all,” he says, and then he sounds like a witch as he laughs and laughs.
I hang up on him.
I had never gone to Karina’s house in all the years that she has lived here, and now I was going there twice in a little more than a week!
* * *
I end up with a C for “commendable” on my math quiz, rather than an F for “fried.” I also have a new friend in Mr. C.
He high-fives with so much energy at our next session that my hand tingles. “Chris,” he says, “now we move on to the solving of equations.”
Before he starts the session, he places a card holder between us. The card has FOCUS written on it, in bold red capital letters. Is Mr. C hypnotizing me?
“Miracles never cease,” Mom says when my next decent grade comes in. “You find a way to thank Mr. Chopra. You say ‘thank you,’ you hear?”
Even Dad is grateful. Now when he sees Mr. Chopra outside weeding or something, Dad slows down, waves, and says hello. It makes me happy to see him act friendly.
I start going to Karina’s house regularly, to ask Mr. C questions or hand him work to review, but she’s rarely around. Her grandfather says she’s out on a walk, or taking pictures, or at her friend’s place. He tells me that she wants her photographs to be selected by an art gallery, that she takes beautiful pictures that she posts on the internet. I start to follow her photo feed so I can see them.
I’m not scared before the next test. Mr. C shows me how to breathe deep so I don’t feel anxious. He texts and reminds me to eat breakfast the morning of the test. When I see the questions, some of them are familiar and I know I can handle them. I get a C+.
When I show Mr. C my grade, he yells, “You did it!”
He gives me a bag of Peanut M&M’s. He remembered that they’re my favorite. I rip open the bag and share them with him.
“We did it!” I say with my mouth full.
CHAPTER 7
KARINA
“OUCH! OUCH!” I say.
Ashley drops the brush in horror. “What? What?”
“That hurt,” I whine.
“I’m sorry,” Ashley says. “But it’s not easy, and you keep moving your head.”
Ashley is separating my tangled hair into sections so she can weave a French braid. I am reading the instructions aloud.
We take a break after Ashley ties three lopsided ponytails to save the painfully separated segments of my hair. One of the ponytails looks like a fountain on the top of my head. Now that is a nutty look. I stick my tongue out and take a selfie.
The bowl of Chex Mix has a few mouthfuls left. “Want them?” Ashley asks, pointing to my favorites.
That’s how good a friend she is. She knows I search out the breadsticks. Ashley likes the rye chips. We are perfect for each other.
“Hey, how’s the tutoring thing going?” Ashley asks. “I can’t believe your grandfather has to work with Chris Daniels!”
“Yes,” I tell her. “He’s over here all the time.”
Ashley shakes her head in disbelief. “Poor you. I hope he’s gotten nicer. I’m still mad about that horrible list back in sixth grade!”
Although Ashley hadn’t witnessed my humiliation that day, I ended up telling her every detail later, and she got properly ticked off at the hyenas.
Now I tell Ashley about how weird it is to see so much of Chris. “It’s like I can’t get away from him,” I say.
“Are you going to become friends or something?” Ashley’s eyes are as wide as quarters.
“Papa and Chris are friends,” I say. “We’re not—probably because when he comes over, I hide out in my room.”
Ashley laughs and starts braiding my hair again. “You don’t still think boys have cooties, do you?”
“No, I guess we have moved past the cootie stage,” I say. “And that stuff on the bus happened a while ago.”
“It did,” she says. “Starting middle school feels like ancient history.”
“We’ve grown, and I think he has too,” I say. “It’s good to give people second chances, right?”
“Sure, that makes sense,” says Ashley. “I gave Brussels sprouts a second chance, and now I love them.”
“So are you comparing Chris to a vegetable?” I say.
Ashley laughs and drops a section of hair. “No more talking about Chris Daniels,” she says, “or we’ll be braiding till tomorrow. Don’t turn, don’t move, and don’t talk. I need to focus.”
I obey. On the wall in front of me is the Valentine’s Day card that Ashley made for me in third grade.
Our teacher that year had given us blank pieces of construction paper and told us to create heart drawings for anyone we loved.
At the end of class, Ashley showed me her artwork. She had drawn a tree.
“Psst!” I whispered. “You were supposed to draw a heart.”
“I did,” she said. “Look closely.” And when I did, I noticed that each leaf on the tree was a perfect green heart.
“Oh, Ashley,” I said. “That is beautiful.”
“I made it for you,” she said.
We’ve been best friends ever since.
Now Ashley says, “I’m done. Your hair looks gorgeous.”
She holds a mirror behind me so I can look at the braid.
It is amazing—just like my friendship with Ashley. Our lives are braided together like strands of hair.
CHAPTER 8
CHRIS
MR. C IS a genius at teaching math. Somehow when he teaches me fractions, they all make sense. It helps that he uses food to get his points across. We pull apart orange sections, cut apples, and even make a pie. Fractions with Food—that should be a TV show.
Mr. C says lots of people are hands-on learners—that’s true for me. And all of a sudden, like magic, I understand how fractions and ratios and percentages relate.
“Chris,” Mr. C tells me, “we are making your foundation stronger.”
“Phew,” I say. “Because my building was sure gonna collapse!”
We are a good team, Mr. C and I. I like making him laugh, and he likes feeding my stomach and my brain.
* * *
We are taking a break, staring at a computer screen, when a voice behind us asks, “What’re you watching?”
I jump.
It’s Karina.
I’ve come over so many times when Karina’s never around that I’ve gotten to thinking about it as Mr. C’s house instead of hers.
“I found a video of the best Lakers players of all time,” I say. “You know how your grandpa loves the Lakers.”
She lifts her eyebrow. “You don’t say.”
Duh, I’m telling her stuff about her own grandfather. But Karina’s cool about it. She gets a bowl of Goldfish and then sits down to join us.
I never thought Karina Chopra would want to watch a basketball highlights reel, but what do I know?
Mr. C can’t stop smiling. He’s into it like it’s a live game at the Staples Center.
“Ew!” Karina says. “Those old uniform shorts were as short as Daisy Dukes.”
“They are short shorts for sure,” I say, and we all crack up—and we agree the longer shorts look way better.
Every few minutes, Mr. C pauses the video because he has a story to tell, sometimes about a foul ball, other times just about a delicious hot dog topped with melty cheese. And once about seeing Magic Johnson score a gazillion points in a game.
Mr. C gives me a high five when the video is done. “Chris, you picked a good one. Thank you!” He says it like I’d just
given him a present.
“Anytime,” I tell him.
I decide I’m going to find more old videos for him.
Before I go, Karina surprises me by asking for a favor. “Chris, I need help choosing a photo for the tween competition at the gallery,” she tells me. “I’ve shown them to a few people, but I could use another opinion.”
Karina wants my opinion? On her photographs? Has the Earth stopped spinning on its axis?
“Sure,” I stammer.
I help Mr. C clear the dining room table, and when Karina returns, she arranges the photos there.
“You can look now,” she says when they are all spread out. “The theme for the competition is ‘Home.’”
Karina has awesome pictures of all kinds of homes, big and small. I zero in on one of a turtle in its shell and another one of a really cool tree house.
Mr. C slowly picks up one after another and stares at each one.
“Wow!” I say. “These are great. You took them all with your cell phone?”
“Some,” she says. “But I have a Canon that my dad lets me borrow.”
“That’s my fave,” I say finally, pointing to one of the night sky. “If I stare at it, I feel like I’m being sucked into a galaxy far, far away. But it’s cool to be reminded it’s our home too, our galaxy.”
Mr. C lifts it up. “There is Venus shining bright. Karina—I like that. And I also like the turtle. I love how every detail of his shell is clear. Whatever you choose will be perfect. They are all good.”
“You’re saying that because you’re my grandfather,” she tells him.
“No. I say it because you are good,” he says. “One day your photographs will be in a gallery—and, Chris, one day you will get an A.”
I like that Mr. C is ambitious for us. It feels good to have him pulling for me and Karina—I just wish we were as confident.
“Papa,” Karina says, “you remember the cake Grandma used to bake with whipped cream and strawberries on top? When Chris gets an A, can we make that for him?”
