The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  How could Taj explain? “I looked at a bunch, but I guess I just couldn’t decide.” Taj felt his mouth twitch, as if he had more to add but wasn’t sure he could trust the man. “Actually, I’m not sure I’m ready for college.”

  Baker set down the folder. “That surprises me. Are you sure?” He started to lean back but caught himself. “If you’re not ready for college, how about a trade school?”

  Taj shifted with him. “Like, to be a mechanic or something?”

  “Sure, if you like, or an electrician . . . you know, a trade.”

  Taj would get to the point. He didn’t have all afternoon. “What do I do, Mr. Baker, if I have absolutely no clue what I want to do with my life?”

  “You become a high school counselor.” The line was delivered too quickly, as if he’d used it before and had been waiting for a chance to throw it out there again.

  Taj didn’t smile, didn’t laugh.

  Baker shrugged. “Tough audience. Come on! It’s funny. Smirk or something.”

  “Sad if that’s the best you’ve got.”

  Baker pushed close to his desk. He blinked twice. “I’ll be serious, which I know will be incredibly tough on you. Taj, I envy the people who have direction in their life—I do. I wasn’t certain what I wanted to do after high school either, and it took me two master’s degrees and a doctorate before I figured it out.”

  “Do you find that a bit ironic, since you became a guidance counselor?”

  “Believe it or not, I enjoy my job. Trust me when I tell you there’s something out there for you. We just need to figure it out.”

  Taj could think of a million punchlines. What was the point? He spoke softly so Baker would have to strain to hear. “What do you do when you don’t fit in?”

  Baker’s eyes squeezed together. “Taj, you’re the student body president. You’re one of the most popular kids in school. You’re . . .”

  “I’m not talking about school,” Taj interrupted. “I’m talking about . . . life.”

  It was a big question with even bigger answers. For a moment he seemed to have the man stumped—but this time Baker leaned forward with intent, as if he’d been tapped on the shoulder by the idea fairy.

  “I have a thought,” he said, reaching for a stack of papers at the edge of his desk. “Ta-da! Here it is. There’s a study-abroad program that may be the ticket. They offer three different cities and work through local universities, so you get college credit. It will give you time to figure things out while still staying channeled toward a higher education. It’s also a cultural immersion program, meaning you’ll learn about the country’s customs and history. I can tell you that other students have really enjoyed it.”

  Taj wasn’t sure if the man was being serious now or just brushing him off. “Study abroad?” Every inch was skeptical.

  “You have a better idea?”

  Taj didn’t. “I doubt my parents will go for it.”

  “You won’t know until you ask.”

  “I don’t see them very often.”

  “Taj, your dad’s right down the hall—and that, for you, must be tiring.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Avoiding your dad when you’re both at the same school. Would you like me to talk with him—about the study-abroad thing?”

  There was no room for hesitation. “No! I’ll do it.”

  Baker backed off. “Cool. No problem.”

  “What cities?”

  “What?”

  “The study-abroad—what cities?”

  Baker checked the brochure. “Looks like Montreal, Mexico City, or London.”

  Taj’s next question would be easy. “Which city is the farthest from here?”

  “London, but that’s not how I suggest you . . .”

  “And they speak English there, right?”

  Serious time was over. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

  Mr. Baker checked his watch. “Go to swimming practice, Mr. Rowland—and don’t forget the brochure. On your way out, could you send in the next student?”

  “Hi! What’s up?” Lily asked, as she snuggled in next to Taj, who’d been waiting in the school’s bleachers overlooking the football field. Her perpetually happy tone bubbled like soda water.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Taj said. He’d tried to infuse at least a spark of enthusiasm into his greeting, but his words frowned.

  Lily stopped. Her eyes drooped as her arms folded over her stomach.

  “Thanks for meeting me?” she repeated. She stood, fell half a step back to get a better look. She was blonde but not stupid.

  No hello. No hug. No smile.

  “Are you . . . breaking up with me?” she asked, as her upper teeth began tugging at her lower lip.

  Taj twitched. He rubbed at his neck. It wasn’t emotion that betrayed him but the lack of it.

  “Look, Lily, it’s not you . . .”

  “Don’t you dare!” she interrupted, her tone jumping to her defense. “Don’t say another word.”

  He expected that, like the others, she’d storm off, cussing both his reputation and herself for not seeing it sooner. To his surprise, and perhaps hers, she sat back down beside him. Perhaps she was punishing him, making him stew in the sentiment.

  Seconds ticked.

  “Was I a trophy? A conquest?” she asked.

  “No, ’course not.”

  “No? Because it sure feels like you had something to prove.”

  The sound of passing cars mingled with Lily’s subdued sobs. Taj watched, waited.

  “I guess I was stupid for thinking I’d be different,” she finally said. “I thought we had something going that was . . . I don’t know . . . special. I’ve been so blind.”

  “I’m sorry,” he answered but in a tone that didn’t sound sorry at all.

  Lily fished a tissue from her purse and wiped at her running makeup. But then her head tipped. “You never cry?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In all the years we’ve known each other, even when we were just friends, I’ve never seen you cry. Even that time wrestling, when you dislocated your shoulder, in all that pain—there were no tears.”

  Taj shrugged. “I can’t help it. I just don’t cry.”

  Lily wiped at her nose. A patch of pity held her words together when they spilled out. “That must be very painful,” she said, slumping at the realization.

  Taj’s entire face wrinkled. “Painful? To not cry?”

  Lily shook her head. “No—painful keeping everything all bottled up. If you continue, one of these days you’ll burst.”

  It was nearly midnight when Taj pulled into Silver Shadows Apartments and locked up his motorcycle. The place was dark, dog-eared, and inexpensive, heaven for any student on a budget. His bike—more a scooter—was in worse shape, a dumpy old thing that barely ran, but it was all he could afford, and it served its purpose.

  After school, he’d driven straight to his first job, taking tickets at Movies 8, and from there to washing dishes at the Whistle Wok. Living on one’s own wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounded.

  The worst part was that he had to be back at school by 6:20 a.m. for an early student council meeting. It was no wonder his grades were slipping.

  The second-floor apartment was dark, which probably meant his roommates were not yet home. If he showered quick and got right to sleep, perhaps he wouldn’t wake up when they came in.

  When he climbed the stairs, he found Fred, his father, waiting.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Taj . . .”

  Fred pulled his head away from the door where he’d obviously dozed off. He stood, but it took a moment to collect his composure.

  “What do you need?” Taj continued, too tired to wait.

  “You qu
it wrestling?”

  “I didn’t have the time . . . I . . .” Wait. They’d had this discussion. “I stopped showing up weeks ago. I’m guessing you aren’t really here about that, are you?”

  Fred’s cheeks sagged in the weary light. “We—your mother and I—we’re hoping we can talk you into coming home. It’s been hard on your siblings . . . not having you there, having to explain why you left. Rux is acting up now. He thinks he’s also above the rules.”

  Taj rocked forward. “Hey, I understand rules. If you’d have listened, I was in charge of the dance. It was my job as student body president to stay late with everyone else and clean up. I told you that.”

  “You had a curfew.”

  “And I told you before I left that I’d be late.”

  It was worn and well-trodden ground. Taj checked his watch.

  “Look,” Fred continued, “I don’t want to argue. I came to apologize for our misunderstanding and to ask you to think about coming home.”

  Taj didn’t answer.

  Fred continued selling. “You could quit one of your jobs and even take the car on occasion and . . .” He paused, perhaps to get right to the main point. “Taj, we miss you.”

  “I spoke with Baker,” Taj said, carefully sidestepping.

  “Baker?”

  “The counselor at school. He said you two had talked.”

  Fred’s eyes lifted as he connected the dots. “Bill Baker. Sure, we chat on occasion.”

  “He suggested I might want to think about a study-abroad ­program—perhaps as a way to figure things out.”

  “Study abroad? Instead of the university?”

  “It is a university.” Taj added, “It’s just not here.”

  Fred’s head slanted sideways, as if dragged down by his frown. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  Taj would be blunt. “Yes, actually, I’d like to come home.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Fred replied.

  Taj had more to say. “I need to save a bunch of money.”

  “Why?”

  “Come fall, I’m going to London.”

  Chapter 22

  “Ladies and gentlemen. We are beginning our descent . . .”

  The flight should have been liberating—leaving the U.S. behind, venturing off to a new country on his own. Instead, Taj had fallen asleep over the ocean, and his reward was a stiff neck and a numb arm.

  He’d never flown on a jet, at least not that he could remember. For certain he didn’t swim over as a child from India, but he held no memory of the journey.

  “Sir, could you straighten your seatback?”

  Taj obliged and then unfolded his letter. The instructions were clear: wait at baggage claim for a man in a green suit. He would transport students to the University of London for living arrangements.

  Of the forty-eight students participating in the program, sixteen converged at the airport within an hour of Taj’s landing. They huddled like lambs around Mr. Huddersfield, a green-suited man who addressed them in a British accent that sounded more like Mr. Bean than Mr. Bond.

  Huddersfield herded the group onto a bus, fed them pastries and punch, then drove them an hour to the university in northwest London, where the students who had arrived earlier waited.

  It was late, and Taj was tired.

  “Thank you for your patience,” Huddersfield grunted as they assembled in the large classroom. “Come down when I read off your name. You’ve been assigned with another student to families that live close. Since you will be using public transportation to get to and from the university, we want you to travel in pairs. That way you can get lost together.”

  He waited, but no one laughed. Sleepy crowd.

  “All right then, let’s start with Jonathan Sansone.” A boy beside Taj stood. “You will be living with the Norwich family. Your traveling partner is Eric Fiala, who will be living with the Edwards family.” When the pair approached the front, Huddersfield turned back to the class. “Students, in most cases, a host family member is waiting outside and will accompany you back to your home. For the few who are not, Miss Howland has made arrangements for your travel.”

  Taj listened, waited, and watched. Names were read. Numbers dwindled. With half a dozen students still seated, Huddersfield glanced directly at Taj.

  “Taj Rowland.”

  He waited for Taj to stand. “You will be living with the Tamboli family. Your traveling partner is . . . Kelly Cooper, who will be with the Harrisons.”

  Besides Taj, there was one boy left in the room. He stayed seated. Instead, a slender girl with dark, shoulder length hair stood in the back. She spoke to Taj as she walked past.

  “I’m Kelly,” she said. “Don’t look so surprised.” She then let out a laugh that seemed too big for her petite and yet perfectly proportioned body, as if to say, I’m not laughing with you, I’m laughing at you.

  Huddersfield spoke to Kelly first. “The Harrisons live near Upton Park. They are a very nice older couple with deep English roots. They host every year, and you’ll find them quite delightful.”

  Taj’s turn.

  “Mr. Rowland. We noticed your picture when selecting host families and thought you’d enjoy the Tambolis. This is their first time hosting, but they come highly recommended, and I’m sure you will find them most accommodating.”

  Taj swallowed. “You noticed my picture?”

  Huddersfield glanced across the room at Miss Howland, as if the selection was her idea. His words stumbled. “I just meant that they’re . . . you know, uh . . . they’re Indian. Like you.”

  “I’m American,” Taj blurted, his words bellowing their protest.

  “Well, yes, I know,” Huddersfield replied, swirling his hand toward Taj, hoping to highlight the obvious. “But you are of Indian descent, correct?”

  “I guess,” Taj replied. How could he explain it to the man? Taj had never met another Indian, let alone lived with an entire family of them. “Do they speak English?” he asked, as his fingers drummed against the desk. “Because I don’t speak Indian.”

  Kelly leaned in before Huddersfield could answer. “It’s Hindi.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Indian isn’t a language. They likely speak Hindi.”

  His eyes lifted. If the girl’s intent was to make a bad impression on her first day in England, she was doing a jolly good job.

  Huddersfield’s chin bobbed in agreement. “Yes, Mr. Rowland. They speak English.” He rustled his papers. “We thought you’d be excited.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s fine.”

  Huddersfield was already pointing with his misshapen finger toward their luggage stacked against the far wall. “If it doesn’t work out,” he added, “let me know, and we will make a change. Their son is waiting in the foyer.”

  Taj pushed through the door first. Kelly was right behind. A thirty-something Indian man began to wave at them as if they were standing on floats in a parade.

  When Taj glanced back at Kelly, she winked. “Let’s go, Captain America,” she said. “I think that’s our ride waiting.”

  Taj longed for silence. Even from the back seat, the radio clamored, street horns bounced against the window, pointless conversation seemed to incessantly drip.

  Pranay Tamboli was talking too fast to notice. It didn’t help that Kelly was nodding, prodding, inviting their driver to clarify every mundane answer to every unnecessary question in excruciating detail.

  During the drive to Upton Park, the neighborhood where the family lived, Kelly and Taj learned that Pranay was the third oldest child; that his parents, Hari and Rachna Tamboli, had immigrated from New Delhi in 1953; that his father, who had been working in a British hospital in India, was recruited to London by the National Health Service to train as a doctor.

  Why stop there?

  His parents
had had an arranged marriage; he loved watching rugby, specifically the Saracens; and now that his parents were retired and getting older, his young family had moved in with them to help.

  When Kelly asked Pranay if he had a favorite British band, Taj shifted his attention outside.

  London. Proper, prim, and picturesque. The streets teemed with activity—buses, cars, people—all scurrying about as if everyone were late for tea and biscuits with the queen. It matched the photos Fred had marked for Taj in a story featured in National Geographic.

  Pranay turned off Green Street to avoid traffic.

  Even the neighborhoods were quaint. Long lines of connecting homes, block after block of them, like rows of colonial soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder at attention. If one fell, the man on either side could stumble.

  Most of the homes were two stories high and almost as wide, each one distinguished from its neighbors by changing styles of brick or wrought-iron fences enclosing front courtyards. Nearly all featured a bay window that stretched to the upper level, most outlined with slender colonial pillars.

  Brick chimneys protruded from every connected home at evenly spaced intervals, generally pushing through the roof above common walls that separated dwellings beneath. While the façades were often painted in different colors—generally a shade of white—if a man had too much to drink at the local pub and wandered into his neighborhood in a drunken stupor, he’d be hard pressed to remember which door he called home.

  “We’re getting closer,” Pranay said.

  But the closer they got, the more the scenery changed. Not the buildings themselves, but the people. If one were comparing the surroundings to Fred’s National Geographic pictures, they might have questioned if they were even on the same continent.

  As they neared Uptown, nearly everyone around them—strolling the sidewalks, driving past in stubby little cars, hurrying into the shops that lined the brick paths—was Indian.

  When Kelly inquired, Pranay proudly explained that the borough was home to one of the world’s largest communities of Indians living outside of mother India.