Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins

about what she’d said. If Eric and I had no relatives and something happened to our parents, what would become of us? We might be separated, sent to different families as if we didn’t belong to each other. No, I realized. I’d take Care of Eric. Just like Danita
wants to take Care of her sisters
.
    â€œSister Das told us you were planning on getting married soon,” I said. “Will your new home be nearby so that you can visit your sisters?”
    Danita had been grinding spices into a yellow paste, and now she spooned them into another waiting pan. The oil smoked and sputtered as the spices cooked, and we both coughed.
    â€œAny man I agree to marry has to take my sisters into his home too,” she said, waving her hand in the air to clear the smoke. “Not many will, so the answer to your question is easy. I’m not getting married. Not until Ranee and Ria are grown up, anyway.”
    I was done mincing the garlic, and Danita added it to the lamb, along with some onions she’d chopped.
    â€œI thought you were trying to earn a dowry,” I said.
    â€œThat’s what everyone at Asha Bari thinks I’m doing. Except Auntie Das. She knows I have other plans.”
    What other plans could an orphan like Danita possibly have to take care of her two sisters? I was about to ask when Mom, Dad, and Eric burst into the kitchen, sniffing the air like they shared some kind of family allergy. Danita quickly began frying up the
poories
.
    â€œWhat’s that incredible smell?” Dad asked. “I could eat a horse.”
    â€œYou’ll have to settle for a sheep,” I told him. “It’s lamb vindaloo. And
poories
.”
    Eric grabbed a
poori
. “That’s enough, my boy,” Mom said, catching Eric’s wrist before he could grab another. “You’re muddy from head to toe. Hurry and take a bucket bath before dinner. I need to take one after you.”
    â€œYou forgot to feed your bugs again,” I told Eric. “We’re starting to bond, and I’m not sure I want to.”
    He groaned, his mouth full of
poori
. “Oh, no! Sorry, Jazz. I should have come home earlier, but we were having such a great game. It was our first one, you know. We lost, three to two, but the guys played great.”
    â€œDid you play in the rain?” I asked.
    â€œOf course,” he answered. “Rain makes it much more fun.”
    â€œRain makes good things better, I think,” Mom said. “But it also makes bad things worse. The whole neighborhood behind Asha Bari reeks. The city won’t collect garbage there because the people built their homes on public land they didn’t pay for. Let me tell you, wet garbage smells much worse than dry garbage. The ironic thing is, it’s the middle of the monsoon, and there’s not enough water out there. About twenty or thirty families have to share one toilet and a water tap, and nobody wants the responsibility of keeping them clean.”
    â€œNo wonder so many of them get sick,” said Dad, munching on a
poori
. “The nuns are trying to help them get more water, but they don’t have much clout with the city officials.”
    Mom led Eric to the door by his shirt collar. “Take a bath, young man. And go check on those bugs.” After he slinked away, grumbling, Mom turned to Danita. “Let me help you with dinner,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to make
poories
.”
    Danita smiled. “Most of the work is done already. Sit and rest, Auntie,” she told Mom. Indian kids usually called people in their parents’ generation Auntie and Uncle, even if they weren’t related.
    â€œI’m never going to learn to cook unless we get home earlier,” Mom said to me, obeying Danita with a sigh. “Your dad took forever to leave. Actually, I used the time well. I finished writing my supply list for the clinic. Sister Das insists that we