Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins

into the glass phone booth, and turned my back on the man.
    The phone rang three times before Steve picked up.
    â€œJazz! I was hoping it was you! It’s been a week already. What took you so long to call?”
    â€œWe don’t have a phone in our apartment. Lots of Indian families don’t; I’m using a phone in a store.”
    â€œThat’s terrible. I’ll have to wait for you to call all the time then.”
    â€œI haven’t figured out a way to e-mail yet, but Dad’s trying to find a good place. We’ll have to write regular letters until then.”
    â€œI’ve already written you one,” Steve said. “I sent it to the orphanage.”
    Auntie Das had told us before we’d left Berkeley that it might be better to receive our mail at Asha Bari, since the post office was used to delivering foreign mail there. I’d given Steve the address and was thrilled that a letter was already winging across the ocean to me.
    â€œSo, tell me about India,” he said. “What’s it like?”
    I hesitated. What could I say? How could I describe it to him? “It’s amazing, Steve. Crowded. Confusing. Colorful. Oh, I don’t know. Ask me something specific, will you?”
    â€œOkay. What’s been the best thing so far?”
    That was easy. “The monsoon. The rains, I mean. They make everything green and fresh-smelling. And the flowers! They’re incredible.”
    â€œYou always did like rain. All right, next question. What’s been the worst thing?”
    â€œWell . . . ,” I said. “There’re a lot of poor people here. Beggars, even. Children who don’t have enough to eat. That part’s awful.”
    â€œIt must be tough. I mean, you see the poverty on TV, but it must be harder in person.”
    â€œIt is. And there’s more bad news. I start school on Wednesday.”
    â€œSchool? In the summer?”
    â€œSummer in India is in April and May. They actually have a rainy-season term going on right now.”
    â€œStill, I can’t imagine your parents making you go to school.”
    â€œThey’re not. But they gave me a choice between the academy or the orphanage.”
    â€œReally? I’d have picked the orphanage.”
    â€œYou and everybody else. The nun who’s in charge has already recruited Eric to coach soccer, and—you’ll never believe this—Dad’s going to teach the nuns how to use their computers.”
    â€œI thought he hated teaching. He always says he’s strictly a behind-the-computer kind of guy.”
    â€œHe does. He did before coming here, anyway. Now
he’s
going off to that orphanage, too.”
    â€œSort of leaves you out in the cold, doesn’t it, Jazz? That’s rough.”
    The sympathy in his voice gave me permission to keep going down my list of complaints. “There’s more, Steve,” I said. “Everyone stares at me like I’m some kind of freak. I can’t figure out why.”
    â€œHmmm,” Steve said. I could tell he was trying to come up with a good explanation. “I bet they’re not used to seeing Asians and white people in the same family. You know. A mixed-race family. We’ve lived in Berkeley all our lives, Jazz. It’s no big deal here, but you might get a different reaction there.”
    â€œMaybe you’re right,” I said doubtfully. But why did they still stare when I was on my own?
    â€œLet ’em look,” Steve said. “You guys can be an ad for the American melting pot.”
    â€œSo how is life there, anyway? What have you been doing?”
    â€œNot much. Besides work, work, and more work. The Biz has been really crazy this week. I did see some of the kids from school at the Y when I went for a swim.”
    Which kids? Guys? Girls? Was Miriam there? Was she
wearing a bikini? A skimpy one?
I forced myself not to ask any dumb questions. “Why’s the booth