Cameron turns to Jazz. “She hangs out here whenever she has a fight with her mom. Do you mind? I have to go check on her.”
We watch as Cameron walks over to her. I see how Vanessa wipes at tears and mucus as she sobs. Pathetic. Not a look to get a guy back. I can’t really hear what they say to each other.
Cameron shrugs his shoulders and takes out his wallet. He leaves a few bills on the table for Vanessa, then returns to us.
“Is she okay?” Jasmine asks.
“She’s kicked out of the house again. Her mother’s mad about her smoking suspension.”
“Oh gawd. Why doesn’t she sleep over at a friend’s?” I ask. “It’s cold out. She can’t stay at the mall forever.”
“Most of them are grounded, too. And I know my parents are fed up with her crashing in our basement.”
I stare after Vanessa. Her head is buried in her hands, and her hair sticks out like feathers. She’s lost her boyfriend, who was maybe her best friend, too. No place to stay in February. I shake my head.
“Let’s go get the card,” Jazz suggests. “I can’t sit here with her across from me, looking like that.”
“All right. Where to?” Cameron asks. He sounds as dragged down as I feel.
“Over there.” I point to a gift shop. We walk into it and start browsing. The clerk has to show us where the engagement cards are since there are only four to choose from: A cutesy red heart card that says, “U’ve got hitched”; another with a pair of gold bands that reads, “To the best couple ever”; and another with a big diamond on a girl’s hand: “You’ve found your Mr. Right.”
The final card, “You have found your soul mate,” I pick for myself.
“Oh man, they’re five bucks! I gave all my money to Van just now,” Cameron says. “Can I just sign yours, Jazz?”
“No, we can’t be linked!” Jazz says. “Pitch in with Max. Here, I’ll lend you ten.”
“That’s okay, I’ve got money,” Max says.
“I’ve still got some change,” Cameron says.
“Whatever. Make it an uneven amount, like eleven,” Jazz suggests. “The extra dollar is considered lucky.”
“Good, we can stop shopping,” Max says. “I’ll design a better card at home.”
As I reach in my backpack to pay for the one I chose, we hear a commotion from the food court. A voice is swearing. A raspy female voice.
In another minute, we see two security guards dragging Vanessa to the door. She isn’t putting up that much of a struggle—just cursing loudly.
Revenge doesn’t feel all that sweet; it feels uncomfortable, a heavy guilty lump. Will Van really have no place to go because we reported her smoking on school property? Max and I look at each other.
“She’ll go to the library next,” Cameron says. “Hang out there till Kierstead texts her back.”
“Kierstead?” I repeat.
“She didn’t get suspended. Apparently she never smoked. All the other girls vouched for her with Mrs. Norr.”
“I didn’t see her in French class, though,” I say.
“Well, maybe she skipped.”
“So she could smear squirrel guts on our lockers,” Max grumbles.
She’ll be the one to plan the ambush, then, I think. We should be safe till Monday, at least. Alone, Vanessa isn’t going to beat up anyone.
“How about that hot chocolate now?” Max suggests.
The mood is spoiled for me. Feeling sorry for my worst enemy—and yet scared of her, too—does that to me. Still, it’s too early to call my parents for a lift, and I don’t want to hit the cold again, either.
“Come on,” Max repeats, draping his arm around me. He has to reach up to get it over my shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Jazz smiles and shakes her head. Max seems so proud to go out with me, I have to get over myself.
We end up having a good time, too. Jazz does impersonations of her mother to prepare us. “They always give you their opinions straight out; you never have to ask,” she complains and then puts on an Indian accent and wags her finger. “Why is it that you are so short, Max? You need to put inserts in your shoes when you are going out with such a beanpole girl.”
I laugh.
“And what are you laughing at? Take some more paratha. Your boyfriend will need something to hold on to when he climbs up to kiss you.” She pats Cameron’s shoulder. “You seem like a very nice boy. You should find yourself some equally nice gora to fool around with, eh?”
Cameron smiles and shrugs. “You’re the only one for me.” He reaches over and stops her with a kiss.
A sweet moment. He can’t help himself.
Neither can Max. He pretends to climb up on the seat so he can reach me to kiss. I laugh. The hot chocolate tastes good after that, and when I call Foods R Good on my cell, Dad picks up and says he and Mom are just leaving. With the van, they have room to drive all of us home.
RETAKE:
Saturday–The Engagement Party
Next day, I head over to Jasmine’s house with my card that now holds my last twenty-one dollars of allowance in it. After Monday, I probably won’t be needing any money, anyway. Jazz points me to the slotted box on the carved elephant table near the front, and I drop it in. Then she takes me into her room. On the bed lies a long, wide, turquoise scarf with delicate pink flowers along the edge. “That’s your sari. But this goes under first.” She hands me a plain white skirt. “And here’s a top.” Jazz flings a pink halter at me.
I put them both on.
“Great. Now let me help you with this.” She wraps the turquoise fabric around me. “Flowered border to the bottom. Tuck this into the slip.” I do as she asks, and she helps me adjust it so the fabric touches the ground. Then she brings it around and folds it into five pleats and I tuck those in. Around and over my shoulder.
“Wow.” I look at myself in the mirror. “But so much of my stomach shows. Is that all right?”
She puts on her accent again. “You are a pretty young girl. It is perfectly acceptable.” She wags her finger. She drops the accent. “Legs not so much.”
“Won’t it fall apart if we dance wildly?”
“No question of if. We will dance wildly. Here.” She hands me a safety pin. “Tack your shoulder down. Your sari will never come off.”
The doorbell rings then and Mrs. Aggarwal calls out, “Paige, your friends have arrived.”
Jazz rolls her eyes and sighs, “Here goes!”
We swish to the front door in time to see Max hand Mrs. Aggarwal a covered cake dish. “Dessert,” Max grins. “Profiteroles. My dad helped me make them.”
“You are worried that Indians do not know how to make dessert?”
“No, not at all!” Max’s eyes pop.
Mrs. Aggarwal winks. “Just kidding.” She lifts the lid. There sits a pyramid of puffs with white cream centers and chocolate sauce drooling over. “Ah, you made gulab jamun! Wonderful.”
“They’re profiteroles.”
She waves her hand. “Chinese gulab jamun. Will bring good luck.”
Jasmine winces. “They’re French, Mom, not Chinese. Pastry. Hard to make.”
“But he made them, not his mother.” Mrs. Aggarwal seems confused.
“My father works as a chef, and he helped,” Max explains.
“Ah.”
“We brought a card,” Cameron says shyly.
“Can I see first?” I ask.
“This is most rude, no?” Mrs. Aggarwal asks.
“But they designed it themselves, and they’re very proud,” I answer her, and she leans over my shoulder to look, too. I untuck the flap carefully and slide it out. On the outside, within a golden heart, an Indian guy in a white suit looks soulfully at a gorgeous girl in a red sari. On the inside it says, “For Beena and Gurindar. The most precious treasure in the world cannot be seen or touched, it must be felt within the heart.”
Mrs. Aggarwal claps her hands. “Oh, that is beautiful. Not very much money,” she says, noticin
g the eleven dollars enclosed, “but beautiful words. Put it in the box and go have something to eat.”
“I read it in a fortune cookie,” Max whispers to me as Cameron takes it back and slips it into the slot.
We head through the dining room and kitchen, sampling appetizers that make my breath feel like dragon’s fire. Pakoras, samosas and chaat papri, different aunts explain, all insisting I must eat more, I really am too skinny. Everything seems vaguely like a deep-fried dough pocket of spices and vegetables. Mostly spices.
Max and Cameron enjoy it all. We finally wind our way to the family room, where the ceremony is about to take place.
Beena and Gurindar sit together. Once everyone gathers around, Beena’s father leans over Gurindar and with his finger traces a circle on his forehead, a third eye chakra, Jazz explains. Then he hands him a coconut with a gold bracelet inside. Gurindar’s dad makes the same circle on Beena’s forehead. Then the fathers and mothers feed the couple little sweets. Finally, Gurindar slips a diamond ring on Beena’s finger.
Relatives begin congratulating them and handing them money.
“Isn’t he going to kiss her?” I whisper to Jazz.
“Are you kidding? That’s too much like sex for Indians.”
Not as romantic as I would like. Still, everyone seems so happy. I lean over to Jazz. “You don’t want this, too?”
Jazz shrugs her shoulders.
From the other corner of the family room, a sound system suddenly begins pumping out Indian music, and men and women jump up. Max and I stand and swirl to the music, too, hands raised high in the air.
Jazz yanks me away from him and gives me a warning glare. Now it looks as though Max and Cameron are dancing together. No one could guess Jazz and Cameron are a couple. Wilder and louder we whirl and swirl, till at one point someone steps on my sari and I can feel my dress dragging off me.
“Ahh!” I yelp and yank it out from under a man’s foot.
He bows his head in apology, and I quickly duck into the powder room. Jazz follows me. She laughs as she rewinds the turquoise fabric around me. “I’ve never heard of anyone’s sari coming off. You’re a first.” This time she pins the shoulder down.
Mrs. Aggarwal sees us come out. “Why don’t you wear a kimono? We are very multicultural here in Canada.”
“Mom! Paige is Chinese not Japanese.”
“You know what I mean. The satin dress, the clingy one that looks like a Nehru jacket.”
I chuckle. “A cheongsam. I don’t own one. I’m adopted.”
“Still. Your Canadian mother should buy you one.”
My Canadian mother, I chew my lip, already owns one herself. It’s only me who finds Chinese culture so appalling. “Are you really multicultural, Mrs. Aggarwal? Does anyone ever marry a gora?” I use Jazz’s word for a white person.
Beside me, Jazz’s eyes look like they will pop from her face.
“Oh, most certainly. My cousin Baljeet married a French Canadian girl. Big embarrassment to his family. She does make the best goat curry, though.”
“Good curry is important, right?” I smile. “No girls marrying non-Indian boys?”
Jazz kicks me.
“Not yet. You know it’s just easier when like marries like.”
“It might be easier,” I agree. “But how do you meet someone like yourself …” when you’re a Chinese orphan with Caucasian parents? Plus the Chinese rarely give up boys for adoption unless they’re mentally or physically challenged. The music starts up again, so she doesn’t hear the end of my question and we can’t finish the discussion. Okay, I can see it isn’t going to be easy for Jazz, but still she should see there is hope.
We dance again and, despite a night that continues wild and joyful, no other saris fall apart.
I want more of that joy. Monday can’t be the end of this for me. Does it have to be? Can I help Jazz and help myself stay alive, too?
Max and Cameron leave at midnight, but since I’m sleeping over, I get to stay till the very end and carry dishes of leftovers to the kitchen.
We help ourselves to some of Max’s delicious profiteroles as we put away the food.
“Really, they are very nice boys,” Mrs. Aggarwal tells us. “It is too bad they are gay.”
I sputter out cream puff.
“What?” Jazz asks.
“They made such nice poetry together, and they baked these lovely French gulab jamun. But didn’t you notice, they only danced with each other?”
Jazz and I snicker.
“I agree. They really are very nice boys,” Jazz says.
We don’t even try to change her mother’s mind. It may be to Jazz’s advantage, anyway.
RETAKE:
Sunday Afternoon
We wake up just before noon. I rub at my gritty eyes and listen to Jazz complain about her family, how prejudiced they are. “Francine goes out of her way to be more Indian than the rest of them, and still she’s an embarrassment.”
“But they’re so much fun. You’d never catch my mom or dad dancing like that.”
“Yeah. And Cameron’s gay ’cause he didn’t dance with a girl. If he’d danced with anyone but you, they would have had a cow.”
I chuckle. “You have family.” I pause. “I found out this week Kim was my sister.”
“What! Oh my gawd, Paige!”
“She never moved away, either. She died of an E. coli infection.”
“So you found some real biological family and lost it at the same time?”
I nod. “It gets worse. We were identical twins. Our parents must have separated us and dumped us at different lampposts.”
“And here I am complaining about my parents. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. But you can see why I don’t want to get into my Chinese heritage.”
“What about Kim’s parents? I mean, the adoptive ones. Have you ever visited them? Imagine, they could actually see what their daughter might have grown up to be.”
“I never thought of them.” I feel my face get warm. What did Kim say about me when I last saw her? It’s always about you. When Dad tensed up over organ transplants, Mom told me to think about someone else’s feelings for a change. The shell I hid behind gave me distance, but it also cut me off. “Seeing me could go two ways, too, you know,” I continue. “I mean, wouldn’t it hurt too much?”
“Well, you could call first.”
“True.” But I only have half of today and Monday left in my life. I have to make a quick decision. “Jazz, can you let me browse your computer for her telephone number?”
“Wow, the engagement party really had an effect on you.”
“Maybe,” I answer.
She takes me to the kitchen, where the family computer sits in an alcove. Finding the phone number is easy. There are three Ellises in the database but only one on Longsmoor Drive. But should I really call them? If I can’t change destiny, they will meet me today and tomorrow hear about my accident. Another loss for them. During this last week, when I finally stepped out from my shell, incredible things happened. Now when I try to understand how others might feel, it becomes too hard.
I borrow the Aggarwal phone. Step one, I have to at least try to reconnect.
The phone rings once before Kim’s mom picks up.
“Hello?”
In the one word, a flood of memories returns. She used to make crafts with Kim and me, shopped for candy to decorate a huge birthday cookie. She French-braided our hair and stuck in white baby’s breath.
“Hello?” she repeats. “Who is this?”
“Aunt Bev? It’s me.”
“Paige.” She answers in a sigh. Not with sadness but with warmth. I can hear a smile in her voice, and suddenly all I want to do is to see her and hug her and live my whole childhood through again.
“Can I come to see you?”
“Of course. Anytime.”
“Today? Right now?”
“That would be wonderful.”
I ask her about bus directions since
their house is at the other end of the city for me. She tells me she would pick me up except that Uncle Jack is at the hardware store with their only car. When I get off the phone, Mrs. Aggarwal offers to drive me.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
Jazz jumps in the back of the large black truck her family drives, just to keep me company.
Tiny Mrs. Aggarwal peers through the steering wheel as she maneuvers through the slow streets of Burlington to the southeast end.
At the small ranch house that I once knew so well, she lets me off.
“Want me to come, too?” Jazz asks.
“Thanks, but no. I’ll be fine.” I climb out of the truck and wave to Jazz and her mom.
Before I can knock on the door, it opens, and Kim’s mom spreads her arms wide to me. “It’s so good to see you.”
I fall into them. Aunt Bev is a short round woman with light brown hair, blue eyes and freckles. Strands of silver glint from her hair now, less gray than Mom’s, though. Wrinkles fan out from her eyes and the corners of her mouth, but she feels like bed cushions when I hug her back. I can smell vanilla and chocolate warm in the air as I step into the house.
“As soon as I got off the phone, I started baking cookies.” With her arm on my shoulder, she leads me through the living room, where I can see pictures of me and Kim everywhere. So different from my house, where they are all locked away. The kitchen looks different: no rooster wallpaper; the cabinets are painted a butterscotch color. Before, I’m sure they’d been white. “Do you want milk or tea with your cookies?” she asks me as I sit down on the stool at the counter.
“Tea, please.” Now I remember a tiny pink and white set of cups and saucers and little teapot that sang as Kim poured. What was that tune? Her dad used to sing along in a funny papa bear kind of voice.
Aunt Bev plugs in the kettle, then bends over to pull the cookie sheet from the oven. All this I missed. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.
“How is your mother?” she asks as she places a plate of cookies in front of me. “Careful, they’re still hot.”
I lift one up anyway, and it breaks in my hands. “Mmm. She only makes carob.” I bite into the melting buttery sweetness. “Mostly she brings home organic.”
Best Friends Through Eternity Page 11
