Monsoon Summer Read online

  “Your mother’s here,” she purred, perching on the edge of the table right in front of Steve. Her skirt rose dangerously high on her thigh as she crossed one leg over the other. I felt like I’d been dragged onstage as an extra. The low, seductive voice continued: “She’s with Mr. Delancey in the teachers’ lounge.”

  Even though she only had eyes for Steve, I knew she was talking to me. Mr. Delancey was the social studies teacher, and Mom met with him every now and then. Fresh-men could earn extra credit in his class by volunteering at Mom’s refugee center. Last year Steve had set up a sports camp for the Cambodian kids. I’d managed to get an A in the class without the extra credit.

  “I knew she was coming,” I told Miriam.

  I didn’t mind when Mom came on campus to meet with teachers, but I dreaded when the principal invited her to speak at assemblies. I was sure everyone left the auditorium wondering how someone as wonderful as Sarah Gardner could be related to somebody like me. Mom mesmerized the crowd with stories about kids our age—kids who’d been in trouble with drugs, on the streets, or who were just poor and desperate. With a little help, each of them had found a better life.

  “You can motivate anybody to get involved,” Helen always told Mom proudly.

  “Except people in my own family,” Mom used to add with a sigh, giving me one of her exasperated looks. Until the Mona episode, that is, after which she’d given up on me completely.

  “You’re driving to Palm Springs this afternoon, aren’t you?” Steve asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  Miriam didn’t give me a chance to answer. “I absolutely adore Palm Springs!” she said. “Are you doing any spa treatments? I personally go for a full-body massage.”

  She leaned back on her hand, displaying her full body to its best advantage. Steve was shoveling in his salad like he didn’t notice, but I wanted to throw myself between them. She already thought of me as his bodyguard anyway. Stay away from him! I could shout. Take Cover, Steve!

  “Your mother’s quite the local hero, isn’t she?” Miriam continued, still watching Steve’s every move. “Too bad she didn’t warn you about that homeless lady. I felt terrible about what happened. I’ve been meaning to tell you both that.”

  “Thanks, Miriam,” Steve answered, looking at her for the first time. “Jazz’s idea was a good one, actually. We hired four other homeless people to staff the booth during lunch, and we’ve doubled our profits.”

  “Really? That’s so wonderful, Steve.”

  “Yeah. We’re giving them even more work this summer, what with Jazz leaving and all.”

  Miriam’s eyebrows arched in delight. “Leaving? Where are you going, Jazz?”

  “To India,” I muttered. As if you didn’t know.

  “That’s wonderful,” Miriam said sweetly. “So good to explore your roots, isn’t it? Well, Steve, you’ll need some company at the booth while Jazz is gone, won’t you?”

  The girl was practically meowing now, sliding closer to Steve than I’d been since the second grade. I lifted my fork high and speared a cherry tomato.

  “Aaaaahhhhh!”

  Miriam’s shriek echoed through the cafeteria. All other noise stopped. It sounded and looked as if Miriam had been shot, so I understood the shocked silence. Tomato seeds and juice were sprayed over the front of her shirt. I had no idea there was so much stuff inside one measly little cherry tomato.

  “Sorry,” I said, jumping up and offering her a handful of napkins.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mom hesitating at the cafeteria door. In her jeans and sweatshirt, with her hair in a ponytail, she looked like one of the students. She was scanning the room, looking for me. Every other eye in the place was riveted on our table, but it was hard for Mom to see over the rubberneckers standing in front of her.

  Steve stood up and waved. “Over here, Sarah!” he called.

  Finally getting that our school wasn’t about to make news headlines, the other kids went back to their own conversations. Mom stopped to greet a few of them as she made her way over. Miriam, in the meantime, kept dabbing at her chest with the napkins I’d given her. Unfortunately, she showed no signs of leaving.

  “Hi, darling,” Mom said, standing on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek. “We have to leave early to beat the traffic, so I signed you out.”

  She patted Steve’s shoulder affectionately and tucked his tag in at the back of his T-shirt—something I’d been longing to do all day. Then she turned to Miriam. “I’m Mrs. Gardner,” she said, smiling her usual sweet smile. “And you’re Miriam Cassidy. I saw you in Kiss Me, Kate last year. You were terrific.”

  Miriam’s frown faded and she stopped rubbing her chest. “Thanks,” she answered.

  “Maybe next fall we can talk you into staging a one-woman show at the refugee center,” Mom said. “Kids there would love to watch you perform.”

  “I’d like that,” Miriam answered, a pleased smile spreading across her perfect features. “Give me a call, Mrs. Gardner.” I noticed that she’d dropped the phony accent. She actually sounded like a normal teenager for once.

  I took Mom’s arm. “See you tomorrow,” I told Steve. “I can’t work since I’ll be packing and doing last-minute errands, but don’t close the booth too early; it’s grad weekend at Cal, remember?”

  “I won’t,” Steve said. “Hope you guys survive the visit.”

  FOUR

  We were driving all the way to Palm Springs to drop Eric’s bug collection at Grandma and Grandpa Gardner’s for the summer. We weren’t going to spend the night; we hardly ever did, so we had to endure the long drive there and back every time we visited. Dad had rented a van for the trip.

  I still didn’t know how my brother had managed to convince our grandparents to take care of his bugs. Only Eric could have pulled that off. He was such an easygoing little guy, it was tough for anybody to say no to him.

  He was sitting in the back, taking his bugs out one by one, humming songs to them, telling them the current top ten fourth-grade jokes in a quiet voice. He kept only the rarest of specimens and brooded over them like a mother hen. Any time one died, he and I planned the funeral together. I was sure Grandpa and Grandma had agreed to take in the bugs so they could see us and have one more chance to talk us out of the trip. My father’s parents had been doing their best to change our minds ever since the orphanage had invited Mom to come.

  I sat squashed between my other set of grandparents, who’d decided to come along at the last minute. Eric and I called them by their first names, Helen and Frank, because nothing else seemed to fit. Tall, wide, and regal, they both wore African-print cotton caftans. Helen had added an Indian scarf around her head, Navajo earrings, and huaraches. Frank’s accessories for today included a fedora and a silver link bracelet from Morocco—both gifts from international students they’d hosted in their cozy apartment. They were the most global pair of blond, blue-eyed Nordic Americans I’d ever seen, and I thought they looked outstanding.

  “Your mother might need our support,” Helen was whispering to me. “I wish we could have taken Eric’s bugs, but we’ll be gone as well.”

  “Hope your grandparents don’t mind that we came along,” Frank muttered on the other side of me. “They aren’t too thrilled about this trip to India, are they?”

  I shook my head. That was certainly an understatement.

  “Don’t know what they’re worried about,” Helen said. “India’s the most magnificent place I’ve ever seen. Of course, I may be romanticizing it because it was where we found Sarah, but the monsoon rains worked some kind of magic on me.”

  Frank reached over my lap to squeeze Helen’s hand. “Quite a romantic place, wasn’t it, sweetie?” he asked. Obviously he was remembering some monsoon magic himself.

  After adopting my then-four-year-old mother all those years ago, Helen and Frank never managed to save enough money for another overseas adventure. They built houses every summer down in Mexico, hosted international students for lavish meals,
and gave everything away to charity except a bit of retirement money. That’s how Mom had picked up the giving habit. Dad’s job was maintaining a complicated computer network at the university. He earned a decent salary but only kept enough to pay the bills and tuck away a little for the future. Then he gave the rest to Mom to fund her “giving opportunities,” as she liked to call them. That’s why we’d never owned a car or a house—my parents couldn’t afford a down payment, and they refused to borrow money from Grandma and Grandpa Gardner.

  Helen and Frank didn’t have anything to offer except a lot of affection. Eric and I hung out in their tiny apartment as much as we did at home. After Mona disappeared, I’d spent a lot of time there, eating whole-wheat carob chip cookies and basking in the comfortable silence. Mom and Dad hadn’t been much help, although they had both tried to comfort me in their own way.

  Dad had worried about my getting involved with Mona from the start. “Too risky,” he’d said when I’d announced my plan. “Some of us aren’t supposed to get personally involved with other people’s problems,” he’d added after Mona left, ignoring Mom’s pained look. “You’re the practical type, Jazz. Like me.”

  “Practical types can get involved, too,” Mom said. “And don’t worry about Mona. She’ll find her way back onto the right track.”

  I wasn’t worrying about Mona at all, but Mom didn’t understand that.

  I was mad.

  I was mad at Mona but even madder at myself. Dad was right. How could I have been so stupid? As the van sped down I-5 toward Palm Springs, I went over what had happened, like a little kid picking at a scab.

  What had made things even worse was the publicity. A nosy reporter from a local magazine had heard about the whole fiasco. He’d written up a feature article—PROMINENT SOCIAL ACTIVIST’S DAUGHTER LEARNS HARD LESSONS ABOUT CHARITY FROM CON ARTIST. He’d used a horrible junior high yearbook photo that made me look like a convict. Once the article came out, a local news channel ran the story, interviewing other vendors on Telegraph Avenue and filming Steve and me working from a distance. That was when everybody at Berkeley High, including Miriam Cassidy, had found out about my pathetic attempt to do a good deed.

  My family was furious at the reporter and the news station. Eric had threatened to release his prized tarantula in their offices. But it was Steve who’d ranted and raved the most. “Mona cheated lots of older, more experienced business owners before us,” he said. “But of course that reporter didn’t research that, did he? You had the right idea with Mona, Jazz, just the wrong person. We’ll show that guy!”

  He’d taken over employee recruitment for the Biz and hired other homeless people, who were doing just fine. The silver lining was that our business took off because of the publicity. I let Steve handle the staff and hordes of sympathetic customers and stuck to the accounting and marketing. Dad was right—some of us were better off taking a backseat when it came to helping people. Just in case another crazy impulse ever came over me, I saved the article. It was the perfect reminder to abstain from good deeds.

  The van finally pulled into the gated entry, and Helen and Frank woke with a start. I was glad they’d slept most of the trip—they had an uncanny sense for when I was brooding over Mona.

  Dad punched in the code Grandpa Gardner had given him over the phone. The code changed every week, keeping residents busy trying to figure out how to get in and out of their own neighborhood. At my grandparents’ yellow stucco house, which looked exactly like the others, we climbed out of the van, exchanged glances, and took a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. Visits to Grandma and Grandpa Gardner were always strained, and this one promised to be unusually tough.

  I could tell immediately that Grandma and Grandpa were not excited to see Helen and Frank. Grandma’s face pinched like she was sniffing sour milk, and their cranky poodle began yapping and nipping at our heels. Grandpa pulled himself together first and reached over to shake Frank’s hand. “Glad you’re here, Norquist,” he lied. “You can help talk these people out of this crazy India idea.”

  Grandma gathered Eric close as she ushered us inside. “Taking my precious grandchildren to that unsafe country. Think of those diseases in that orphanage, Sarah! How can you take a risk like that?”

  Mom didn’t answer right away. “We’ll be together,” she said finally. “That’s the important thing.”

  Dad reached over and took Mom’s hand, and Grandma frowned. Their family code was Play it Safe, and they took it seriously. Sixteen years ago, much to their dismay, Dad had managed to break it when he eloped with Mom.

  Eric slithered out of Grandma’s grasp and began to unpack his bugs in a corner of the den. He’d written out detailed instructions for the care and feeding of each one. He should translate those instructions into Spanish, I thought as I watched Grandma’s nose wrinkle in distaste. The maid’s job description is about to Change; Grandma might even have to give her a raise.

  Helen plopped down on the floor to help Eric. “India’s a beautiful country,” she said casually. “And the orphanage is clean and well maintained. Those nuns are the most loving people I’ve ever met.”

  “A few of them are still there,” Mom said, looking a bit more cheerful. “I can’t wait to see them—they did so much for me.”

  Grandma shook her head doubtfully. “I hope you aren’t going to try and find your birth family, Sarah. I saw a piece on television the other day about another Oriental girl who did that, and the whole clan ended up taking advantage of her. They’ll probably be delighted that you’re an American.”

  Grandpa nodded. “Guarantees them a source of income. Visas, too. You’ll have to make it clear that you’re not rich.”

  Nobody said anything, but I could tell Dad was squeezing Mom’s hand tightly. She pulled it away and wiggled her fingers to get the circulation going before he grabbed it again. Speak Up, Dad, I telegraphed mentally. But he didn’t.

  “Mom’s parents are Helen and Frank,” I blurted out. “She’s not going back to India to find her birth family.” I looked at Mom, but she didn’t meet my eyes.

  “We tried to find out as much as we could about Sarah’s birth family when we adopted her,” Helen added. “We owe them the biggest debt of all.”

  Mom pulled her hand out of Dad’s grip and sat on the floor. She leaned her head on Helen’s broad shoulder, and her mother’s strong arm went around her. Family Sticks Together, no matter what. That was our family code, inherited from Mom’s parents even though we weren’t genetically related to them. We protected each other like a tribe of warriors. The code was the real reason we were heading off to India without complaining—we all knew how much this trip meant to Mom.

  Frank plopped himself down on Mom’s other side, squashing her in a safe Frank-and-Helen sandwich. “Unfortunately, the nuns didn’t have much information then, and I doubt they’ll have more now,” he said, patting Mom’s hand.

  Grandma Gardner sniffed. “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about, I suppose.”

  Grandpa Gardner turned to Dad. “Are you sure it’s okay to leave your job, Pete? For a whole summer?”

  Dad frowned. “They’ve promised to hold my position. Besides, I think it’s time I . . . I mean, it might be easier over there to—”

  Grandma Gardner interrupted him. “Eric, as soon as you’re done unloading those pests, I’ll serve dinner. My goodness, there’s a lot of them,” she said, looking around. “Good thing I made lasagna for ten. You never know when extra guests will show up, do you?”

  What had Dad been trying to say? It was too late now; he’d already escaped outside, muttering something about checking the oil and the water.

  As Grandma got dinner on the table and the rest of the grown-ups chatted about less explosive issues, I kept Eric company. He was arranging rows of jars on a low shelf Grandma had cleared for him.

  “They’ll be okay, won’t they, Jazz?” he asked wistfully.

  I wondered for a moment if he was talking about the bugs. �
��I hope so,” I answered, but I had my doubts.

  FIVE

  Two days later, Helen and Frank accompanied Us to the airport. The crowd in the terminal spoke a hundred different languages. Relatives waved tearful, last-minute good-byes. Executive types rushed to catch planes, clutching shiny, expensive overnight bags.

  Our luggage was not as impressive. Two battered suitcases, four faded backpacks, and an old trunk of Helen and Frank’s, decorated with ancient, peeling stickers. The trunk was jammed with the weights and fitness manuals Coach had given me. He’d made me promise to work out every day.

  My backpack felt strangely light without my laptop. Frank had talked Dad and me into leaving our computers behind. “You don’t want to waste a whole summer in India sitting in front of a computer screen,” he’d said, nodding significantly in Mom’s direction. She was pretending not to listen, but we could sense her intently willing us to take her father’s advice.

  Sighing, Dad agreed. Remembering the family code, so did I.

  Helen had given me some stationery as a going-away present, and I’d tucked it into my backpack along with the article about Mona. It would be good to read the article as a reminder not to take chances, especially in a country full of needy people.

  While the rest of the family waited in line to check in, I bought a postcard at a convenience shop. I sat on the trunk and chewed the end of my pen.

  When Steve had come to say good-bye the night before, I’d been desperate for a sign of extra tenderness. Something, anything, to remember over the long, empty weeks without him. I’d prepared myself to memorize his words, his gestures, the look in his eyes.

  But of course there’d been nothing. He’d given me a brief one-armed hug, as if I’d just won a shot put event. “Take care, Jazz,” he said, not even looking into my eyes. “I’ll be in touch.” He said something appropriate to my parents, punched Eric lightly on the shoulder, and left. That was it. Steve Morales’s life would obviously go on without a hitch. He didn’t even turn for one last look before the elevator doors closed behind him.