Lovetorn (15 page)

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Excited about tonight, that’s all.” Just my saying that seemed to reassure everyone.

We busied ourselves for the next few hours, unpacking bottles of water and cans of soda and setting out snacks, putting up a booth for will-call and another table with a small cash box on top for selling programs. As soon as we did as much as we could, Amina offered to drive me home so I could shower and change.

I put on a silk tunic and matching pants. It was pink with silver embroidery, and I paired it with silver slippers, dangling earrings, and a dab of lip gloss. I stepped back and stared at myself in the mirror, happy with how I looked. This was the first time I was going to be “going ethnic” at school, which was how Amina described it; she was going to wear a sari. She said it would be in keeping with the spirit of the event. But I didn’t need to be cajoled. I loved dressing like this on special occasions, and tonight was a special occasion. It was part of who I was, and I embraced the opportunity to step out in something that reflected my culture.

While I waited for Amina and her parents to pick me up, I packed up the boxes of Indian snacks that the owner of Delhi Delites had dropped off. Everything smelled and looked delicious, and I was sure they would be a welcome treat in addition to the potato chips, pretzels, cookies, and cupcakes we were selling.

“Papa, here are the tickets,” I said, handing over three. “Make sure you are there by six forty-five. We start at seven.”

“Why are there three?” he asked. “It’s just Sangita and me.”

I looked down, a little ashamed. His face softened.

“You are still thinking your mother might come,” he said. “I’m sorry,
beta.
This is all so hard on you. But she has not left the room since morning. I have told her a dozen times about today. But sometimes I don’t think she even hears me.”

I was fighting tears. I still prayed that my mother would suddenly snap out of it, that she would go back to being herself and would stay herself forever. Even if that was unrealistic, it was my biggest hope.

Amina honked outside.

“I’d better go,” I said to my father. He looked like he wanted to hug me, but didn’t. He had never been comfortable showing affection.

“Yes,
beta
, I’ll see you at the show.”

The school was still quiet when we arrived. Now that we were so close to the event, I was so nervous that my stomach actually ached. I couldn’t even imagine how Amina felt. All the way over here in the car she was quiet, pulling nervously on her bottom lip. Even though we had all contributed so much time and energy, Food4Life was still her baby. If tonight was a failure, I knew she’d blame herself. I felt a sudden burst of sympathy for her.

Once at the school, Amina disappeared, and I busied myself arranging the rest of the snacks I had brought and putting out a price list. I made sure there were enough paper napkins, straws, and paper cups, and extra supplies beneath the table. Patrick was going around double-checking that everything was in place, while Justine and Catherine, who had volunteered as ushers for the night, were in the restroom putting on identical red shirts and black pants and name badges. In the back of my mind, I kept hoping to see Toby, but I knew I wouldn’t; he and the rest of the orchestra would have gone straight to the stage via a back door. I had butterflies in my stomach just thinking of him.

The hall in front of the auditorium slowly started to fill. I noticed lots of familiar faces. Some of my teachers, the principal, Sasha and Magali with their parents, who were as good-looking as their daughters, were there. Charlie came in pushing a lady in a wheelchair. She was beautiful, with short, dark hair and pale skin. He came up to my table, where I was selling programs.

“Hey,” he said, handing over some money. “This is my mom.”

She reached up to hold my hand. It was an affectionate gesture. I never expected him to have a mother in a wheelchair. Seeing him now behind her, taking care of her, humanized him even more.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “Charlie’s told me so much about you, about how you helped him. I’m very grateful.” She smiled at me.

“It was my pleasure, ma’am,” I said.

“Call me, Dahlia, please,” she said. I nodded, although I knew I never would.

When they left to go inside, I peered through the doors again and noticed two buses, the kind used by tour group companies, pulling up in front of the school. The doors opened, and out spilled large groups of people. These were probably the groups to whom all those extra tickets had gone. The first person off the first bus was a brown-haired man in a suit and tie smiling genially as he helped the others off, holding out his hand to the women trying to navigate their way down the steps in heels and skirts. Something about him reminded me of my dad: the ease with which he carried himself, his polite and gentlemanly manner. There was something else about him too that seemed familiar, something I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

A crackling voice through a loudspeaker announced that the performance would start in a few minutes and urged everyone to take their seats. In the crowd, I couldn’t find my family. I hurried to see if the girls needed help with any last-minute ushering. None of the group members had seats and had to stand in the aisles. As the lights started to dim, I looked into the auditorium. I was filled with pride at what I had helped organize, at the rows of smiling people clutching their programs. I saw Renuka and her parents with Mr. Jeremy. My eyes scanned the room for my father and Sangita. It was not like my father to be late.

Just then I caught sight of him rushing in, the edge of his jacket almost getting caught on the door handle, Sangita trailing behind him.

I gasped when I saw my mother with him, wearing the same pale yellow outfit she had on the last time I had seen her dressed up, on the night Mr. Jeremy had come over. She looked around nervously, holding my father’s arm with one hand, a handkerchief pressed into her other. Once settled in her seat, my mother gazed around the room and caught my eye. She smiled warmly and gave me a small wave. My heart soared, and a lump caught in my throat. I almost cried.

Amina appeared onstage holding a small stack of index cards. The bright overhead lights reflected off her glasses, causing her to shift her position in front of the microphone. She stared out at all those expectant faces looking back at her and turned a slight shade of white. She cleared her throat, quickly gathered herself, and consulted her cards.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “Thank you all so much for making it here tonight.”

She straightened her back, took a deep breath that could be heard through the microphone, and then, in a flash, lost her nervousness. Now speaking confidently, and in her very precise and impeccable way, Amina spent a few minutes talking about the outreach programs that Food4Life was contributing to in small ways.

“It truly is about so much more than food,” she said, her voice resonant in the silent auditorium. “It’s about empowering women so they can look after themselves and their families, giving them what they need not just to survive but to flourish.”

She thanked the members of the Valley Crest Youth Orchestra for donating their time and talent. And then she turned over her last index card.

“And I’d like to give a special shout-out to the rest of my group. None of this would have been possible without the dedication of Catherine Cho, Justine Piva, and Patrick Ford. And to Shalini Agarwal, I’d just like to add one thing.” She turned to look at me as I leaned against a wall. “You were the last to join but jumped right in. You understand the problems facing women in the developing world. And in you I’d like to think I’ve found a good friend, and a sister.”

I couldn’t stop the tears now. I felt so overwhelmed. First, seeing my mother out of the house and at a place that wasn’t the doctor’s office. And then being publicly acknowledged by a girl I admired. My parents looked over at me with pride, Sangita waving and bouncing up and down in her seat like the young girl she was. I found the tissue I always kept tucked beneath my watch strap, pulled it out, and blew my nose.

Amina continued.

“Now please, sit back and relax. You’re in for a real treat.”

Amina moved offstage as the red-velvet curtains behind her parted. The musicians were in their places, all dressed in black. My eyes skimmed around them till they found Toby and happily settled there. He was focused on the conductor and his baton.

There was a big group piece, rousing and jubilant, and a few solos. Then Toby stepped forward to play a duet with Dina, the pianist. It was Pergolesi’s Concerto in G Major. They played in perfect sync, a connection between them where they could hear each other’s music while playing along to their own.

I wanted to be that girl at the piano. Just for one night I wanted her skinny arms and nimble hands and intense gaze. I wanted to be that close to Toby, just the two of us united by a dark auditorium and the bright glare of a spotlight, enjoying the intimacy of a gorgeous musical duet.

At the end of the concert there was a standing ovation, an encore. The evening had been a startling success.

Later, I found my parents in the front hall. I felt relaxed and relieved, and my mother came up to me and hugged me.

“Very nice concert,” my mother said as if I had been up on that stage. “Very nice school.” It occurred to me then that, seven months into our being here, she had never seen my school from the inside.

“I’m so happy you came, Ma,” I replied.

Behind her, I saw Toby emerging from the auditorium holding his case. He was searching for someone. He smiled in another direction and walked up to the man whom I had seen earlier helping people off that private bus. It must be Toby’s dad. They had the same wavy hair, the same cheerful demeanor. They embraced and started to head out of the building.

I don’t know what I was thinking, or if I was thinking anything at all. I told my parents I’d be right back and then sprinted over to the exit. I stood there and pretended I was waiting for someone. Toby would
have
to pass me to leave here. He would have to speak to me.

Toby and his father approached, and Toby slowed down when he saw me.

“Hey,” Toby said. “Good night.”

“Oh, yes, good night,” I replied, stepping aside. “Bye.”

“No, I mean it
was
a good night,” he clarified. “Wasn’t it?”

“Oh, of course it was,” I said, feeling stupid now. “You played very well.”

“This is my dad,” he said, motioning to his father. They had virtually the same face. “Dad, this is one of the organizers. Shalini.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” his father said, extending a hand. “You kids put on quite a show tonight. Congratulations.”

“I like your outfit,” Toby said.

“It’s Indian,” I replied. It seemed that everything I was saying was either stupid or self-evident.

“I’m heading off with some of my friends to check out a new band,” he said. “The lead has kind of a Ziggy Marley vibe. You’d think that after playing in a concert the last thing I’d want to do is hear more music. But nooooooo.”

Was he going to ask me to join them? Please, please, ask me, I thought. I would never be able to go, but I just wanted to be asked.

“I better get going,” he said. “The guys are waiting for me outside.”

I moved away, feeling suddenly squat and uninteresting.

“See ya around,” he said, leaving with his father.

Chapter Twenty

BY THE TIME WE GOT HOME,
I was exhausted. I changed, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and came downstairs. I passed my mother on the steps; she was headed up, holding a cup of hot tea, telling me how tired she was. I wanted to sit and talk to her on the couch downstairs, the way we had done in our first few days here, before the depression set in. But I didn’t want to push it. She’d had enough excitement for one night.

I sat down to write a long email to Vikram, telling him how successful the night had been, how people had loved the concert, and how much money we had made. I filled my letter with an abundance of details—what I wore, what filling was in the
samosas
we sold—and as I wrote, I wondered if I was doing that because I felt guilty that the only person I was really thinking about was Toby.

Just as I was signing off, Amina called. She sounded tired too, but happy.

“It was Toby’s dad who bought those remaining tickets,” she said. “He brought over a bunch of people who work for him.”

“Yes, I figured it was something like that,” I said.

“He does a lot for charity,” she continued. “Made a big chunk of money in medical equipment. They’re pretty wealthy.”

“Oh,” I said. That fact didn’t impress me.

“Does he have a girlfriend?” I blurted out.

Amina giggled.

“I’ve never seen him with any one girl,” she said. “But he’s really popular with everyone. You know, he’s smart, funny, athletic, plays the flute like a friggin’ genius. And he’s hot. Why?” she said.

“Oh, nothing. Just curious.”

“Are you into him?” she asked. “Oh my God, you
are
into him!” she exclaimed as if she had just stumbled across a great, secret treasure.

“Don’t be silly Amina,” I said, a little embarrassed. I told her I wanted to go to bed. I knew she was teasing me. But I also knew she had every right to. Toby was cute, kind, rich, popular. And I was, in comparison, a nobody. A nobody with a fiancé.

I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. Sangita was fast asleep, and the rest of the house was quiet. I stared out the window and into the room of a house across the street, where a large-screen TV played a late-night movie in a darkened room, its images flickering against white walls. I got out of bed again, paced around the room, found a book, and got back in. I flicked through the pages but couldn’t bring myself to focus on anything.

This whole thing was making me sick.

I hated what I was feeling for Toby and what as a consequence I was
not
feeling for Vikram. I hated that when I was in that auditorium. I really wanted to be with Toby, a boy I could never have, while the boy I should want was thousands of miles away, missing me, waiting for me to return.