It flopped limp in his hand.
Dad took a couple of long sips from his coffee mug, the rim hiding his eyes. “I’ll go get Mom,” he finally said. And before I could call him back, he had walked out of the room.
Another fifteen minutes passed before Mom showed up. When she did, she was wearing her Barnard T-shirt over a pair of Dad’s old boxer shorts. She had her glasses on and her hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head.
“What is it, Chloe?” she said. She kept one hand on the doorknob.
“I’m sick,” I said, but my voice came out small and uncertain.
Mom strode to the side of my bed and placed one hand on my forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot. “You don’t feel hot.”
“Not that kind of sick.” My voice was even smaller.
Mom put both hands on her hips. “Well, what kind of sick exactly?”
I hesitated. “I’m homesick.”
“Good grief, Chloe!” Mom snapped. “I’m on deadline. I have to produce twelve hundred words on the rotavirus vaccine in the next sixty minutes, so as long you’re not presenting with severe diarrhea, I don’t have the luxury to give a damn!”
She spun on her heels and marched out of my room, slamming the door behind her.
There was a time, not too long ago, when I thought my mom would actually fall down dead if she didn’t turn a story in on time. Turns out, “deadline” is just a figure of speech.
I still had on my Boston Red Sox T-shirt, Friday-night soy sauce dribble and all. I slipped my shorts on. Rather than brush my hair, I pulled a baseball cap over the tangles. Anna was in the kitchen, cutting a mango into neat slices. She glared at me when I opened the fridge and gulped some OJ straight from the carton. I didn’t say anything, only grabbed a granola bar from the cupboard.
I could hear Mom pounding on the keys behind the door to her office. Dad was too busy cooing over Lucy in the living room to notice when I opened the front door and slipped out.
I’m not supposed to leave the house without telling anybody, but I really couldn’t be bothered. Besides, nobody seemed to care.
Outside, the air was still, hot, and very humid. The sky was gray and swollen with water that refused to fall.
It was only ten o’clock. By noon, it would be one hundred and ten degrees. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
“Stupid monsoon,” I muttered as I slipped through the gate to the park. I had never wanted it to rain so badly.
I kicked at a rock in the walking path. It came loose, so I picked it up and threw it. It landed farther down the pavement, skittered a few feet, then slammed into one of the champa trees in a cluster at the center of the park. It felt good. I kicked another rock loose and then threw it at the tree. Then another.
“Bas!”
a voice said.
I froze, a rock ready to launch in my pulled-back arm.
“
Bas!
Stop!” the voice said. It was a girl’s voice. It was coming from the champa trees.
I walked over to the base of the trees and looked up. Way up high—higher than I’d ever dared to climb, up in the uppermost canopy—I could see a pair of feet dangling down. They were bare feet, black on top, brown with mud on the soles.
“Lakshmi?” I said.
A face appeared between the knees that were attached to the feet by a pair of stick-thin shins.
Lakshmi’s face grinned down at me.
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“You come.” It wasn’t a question, more like a command.
Lakshmi beckoned to me with one hand and as she did, the top of the tree swayed. She grabbed at a branch for balance. “You come!” she repeated.
“I dunno,” I said. I’m no chicken, but watching her up there made my stomach go queasy.
“You scared,” Lakshmi said. Again, it was a statement, not a question.
I was really not in the mood to be picked on, so I kicked off my flip-flops and hauled myself up onto the lowest branch of the tree next to hers. Mine was a bigger, older tree, so I could climb up to about Lakshmi’s height and still be among thicker,
Dad took a couple of long sips from his coffee mug, the rim hiding his eyes. “I’ll go get Mom,” he finally said. And before I could call him back, he had walked out of the room.
Another fifteen minutes passed before Mom showed up. When she did, she was wearing her Barnard T-shirt over a pair of Dad’s old boxer shorts. She had her glasses on and her hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head.
“What is it, Chloe?” she said. She kept one hand on the doorknob.
“I’m sick,” I said, but my voice came out small and uncertain.
Mom strode to the side of my bed and placed one hand on my forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot. “You don’t feel hot.”
“Not that kind of sick.” My voice was even smaller.
Mom put both hands on her hips. “Well, what kind of sick exactly?”
I hesitated. “I’m homesick.”
“Good grief, Chloe!” Mom snapped. “I’m on deadline. I have to produce twelve hundred words on the rotavirus vaccine in the next sixty minutes, so as long you’re not presenting with severe diarrhea, I don’t have the luxury to give a damn!”
She spun on her heels and marched out of my room, slamming the door behind her.
There was a time, not too long ago, when I thought my mom would actually fall down dead if she didn’t turn a story in on time. Turns out, “deadline” is just a figure of speech.
I still had on my Boston Red Sox T-shirt, Friday-night soy sauce dribble and all. I slipped my shorts on. Rather than brush my hair, I pulled a baseball cap over the tangles. Anna was in the kitchen, cutting a mango into neat slices. She glared at me when I opened the fridge and gulped some OJ straight from the carton. I didn’t say anything, only grabbed a granola bar from the cupboard.
I could hear Mom pounding on the keys behind the door to her office. Dad was too busy cooing over Lucy in the living room to notice when I opened the front door and slipped out.
I’m not supposed to leave the house without telling anybody, but I really couldn’t be bothered. Besides, nobody seemed to care.
Outside, the air was still, hot, and very humid. The sky was gray and swollen with water that refused to fall.
It was only ten o’clock. By noon, it would be one hundred and ten degrees. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
“Stupid monsoon,” I muttered as I slipped through the gate to the park. I had never wanted it to rain so badly.
I kicked at a rock in the walking path. It came loose, so I picked it up and threw it. It landed farther down the pavement, skittered a few feet, then slammed into one of the champa trees in a cluster at the center of the park. It felt good. I kicked another rock loose and then threw it at the tree. Then another.
“Bas!”
a voice said.
I froze, a rock ready to launch in my pulled-back arm.
“
Bas!
Stop!” the voice said. It was a girl’s voice. It was coming from the champa trees.
I walked over to the base of the trees and looked up. Way up high—higher than I’d ever dared to climb, up in the uppermost canopy—I could see a pair of feet dangling down. They were bare feet, black on top, brown with mud on the soles.
“Lakshmi?” I said.
A face appeared between the knees that were attached to the feet by a pair of stick-thin shins.
Lakshmi’s face grinned down at me.
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“You come.” It wasn’t a question, more like a command.
Lakshmi beckoned to me with one hand and as she did, the top of the tree swayed. She grabbed at a branch for balance. “You come!” she repeated.
“I dunno,” I said. I’m no chicken, but watching her up there made my stomach go queasy.
“You scared,” Lakshmi said. Again, it was a statement, not a question.
I was really not in the mood to be picked on, so I kicked off my flip-flops and hauled myself up onto the lowest branch of the tree next to hers. Mine was a bigger, older tree, so I could climb up to about Lakshmi’s height and still be among thicker,
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