Lovetorn by Kavita Daswani Page A

care.”
    “Look. If you want to pass the course, you have to care a little.” My voice sounded impatient to my own ears. “You know, I have lots of other things I should be doing instead of being here. So if you really don’t want to learn, tell me now so I won’t waste my time.” I was scarcely breathing. I couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth.
    Charlie sat up straight and uncrossed his arms, like a child who had just been chastised at the dining table for playing with his food.
    “Okay,” he said.
    “Good,” I replied, pulling his books toward me. “Now, let’s start at the beginning,”
    We went over the basics of perimeters and volumes. He had a decent grasp of some of the simpler concepts but had lost his way after that. By the end of the hour he seemed a little more confident, and I was a little more relaxed. Afterward, we stood at the top of the steps to the library. He looked a little off-balance, his backpack weighing him down on one side.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    “You are welcome,” I replied.
    “See ya,” he muttered, walking down the steps to a waiting car.
    At home later, I emailed Vikram and told him about my new “student.” Then I went upstairs to see Sangita. She was sitting on her bed doing homework, chewing on the back of a pencil. Her fingernails were painted bright blue. A Justin Bieber song was playing on the radio, and her right foot was tapping lightly to the music. There was so much about her I didn’t recognize anymore.
    “Hi, didi ,” she said when I walked in. “How did it go? With that rude boy?”
    Her eyes opened wide when I told her how I had almost lost my temper with him, and she put her hands over her mouth.
    “Good for you, di ,” she said. “Good that he saw he couldn’t push you around anymore!” We both giggled. Then her face became more serious.
    “Are you enjoying it here more now?” she asked. She cocked her head to one side, the way she often did when she asked a question.
    “I suppose I am. Except for Ma. I’m still worried about her.”
    Sangita turned on her back. Her breathing became heavier. She had tears in her eyes.
    “What? What is it?” I rushed to her side and put my arm around her skinny shoulders.
    “I hate her,” my sister said quietly.
    “Who?”
    “Ma. I hate her. I hate that she’s in her stupid room all day. She doesn’t care about us.” She was sobbing now as I held her. I hadn’t even considered how hard our mother’s behavior had been on Sangita. She was still young and didn’t understand the way my father and I were trying to.
    “I’m sorry, didi ,” she said now, lifting her head and looking at me.
    “It’s okay. I know how you feel,” I said. At that moment, I started to wonder what it would take to get my mother to be herself again. If we were sick, would she care for us? When our birthdays rolled around, would she bake us a cake, say a special morning prayer, smile proudly at how we had grown, kiss us on the foreheads like she had done every birthday for all our lives? What if she had retreated so far into a place that nothing—not even her love for us—could bring her back?

Chapter Fifteen
    IN HOMEROOM, Mr. White started talking about a school-wide project that got my interest, the first time that had happened. Sangita had discovered swimming as a big love. I had yet to find mine. But when Mr. White started speaking now, I really listened. It might have been because he used the word India up front.
    “The idea is to help women in developing countries: India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Mexico,” he said, scanning a flyer in his hand. “A new group called Food4Life, started by another eleventh grader to help underprivileged women start businesses, grow their own food, sustain their own lives.” He turned the flyer around as if looking for any more pertinent information.
    “Seems to be a worthwhile cause. If any of you has the time, jump in. You can sign up here,” he said, indicating a