Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins Page A

open next week, so I suppose I’ll have to stop my visits. I had tea this morning with two girls who seemed like sisters. It turned out they were wives of the same husband.”
    â€œWhat!”
Dad and I exclaimed together.
    Mom reached over to take Dad’s hand. “Hindu and Christian men can only have one wife at a time. Muslim men, on the other hand, can have up to six. They’re subject to their own Islamic law when it comes to families.” She smiled at Dad. “Don’t get any ideas about converting to Islam, darling. I don’t think I could share you with another woman. Even when you drive me crazy like you did today. What kept you so long?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Sarah. Sister Catherine wanted to know how computers actually save things in their memory. We had a fascinating discussion about how computer terminology has a lot in common with religious language. You know— words like ‘saving,’ ‘justifying,’ ‘converting.’ Even words like ‘sleeping’ and ‘shutting down’ have their theological dimensions.”
    Mom was gazing at Dad with that new, starry-eyed look. I gawked at him, too, but not for the same reason. Had he really spent the entire afternoon having a theological discussion with a nun? Not that my father had anything against nuns; it’s just that he usually avoided talking much with people outside the family. He was a great conversationalist at home; with strangers, he was a man of few words. Or at least, he used to be.
    Dad smiled at Danita, ignoring the stares of the women in his family. “Could you make me another cup of your nectar-like tea, Danita?” he asked. “I’m starting to get addicted to that stuff, and nobody makes it like you do.”
    Hearing him speak to Danita so warmly, as if she was part of the family, made me feel nervous, as if the ground beneath my feet was beginning to tip. If Dad left my introverted corner, our whole family would be out of balance.
    â€œHow long till dinner?” I asked.
    â€œAbout half an hour,” Danita answered. “I want to let the lamb simmer while I run down the hill. It looks like we used the last lemon yesterday.”
    â€œI’ll go,” said Mom immediately. “Want to come, Jazz?” She actually liked going grocery shopping and always asked me to join her when she went to the market.
    â€œUh, no thanks,” I answered. “I’ve still got a lot of homework.” Mom didn’t have to know I’d finished it already.
    I wasn’t going to spend any more time as a public spectacle than I had to. It was even worse going out with Mom. I hated the way people overlooked her and catered to me, curiosity obvious in their faces. And it did something to my insides watching her study the face of every older, darker-skinned woman, as though waiting for one of them to recognize her.
    Mom gave me one of her “I know what you’re up to and I don’t like it” looks but left without saying anything.
    Dad began to ask Danita about Sister Agnes. Apparently, she was an elderly nun who was refusing to participate in his computer training sessions. Dad and Sister Das were trying to figure out a way to lure her in.
    â€œI’m going to my room,” I said, but I wasn’t sure anybody heard me.

FIFTEEN
    â€œJazz brought in a photo of Prince Charming!”
    â€œWhat? Let me see!”
    â€œHand it over!”
    The girls at the academy were still convinced Steve and I had a thing going. They’d been bugging me every day to tell them more about him. Finally, I caved in. I brought my favorite photo to school, a candid shot I’d snapped at the track when nobody was looking; Steve was chatting with the guy he’d just outjumped, his expression happy but gracious. He was wearing a white sweatshirt that made his teeth look even whiter than usual. He looked absolutely perfect. He always did.
    I figured