Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins Page A

so busy?” I asked instead.
    â€œThe university had some reunions, and we got a huge rush. All kinds of customers.”
    â€œHow much did we make?”
    â€œEnough to give our employees a raise. All of them except one have found rooms to rent, and they could use the money.”
    I sighed. Steve was a softie, just like Mom. He could never say no when somebody asked for money. “Just three percent, right? Like we agreed?”
    â€œYup. But that still leaves plenty to fatten our accounts, Jazz.”
    We talked numbers until the grumpy man rapped on the glass door.
    â€œHave to go, Steve. I’m only allowed to talk for ten minutes at a time.”
    â€œOkay. How’s the kid doing?”
    â€œSweet as ever. Eric’ll never change. The rain makes the bugs here extra huge and disgusting. They’re everywhere.”
    â€œBring him along to the phone sometime. I’ll pay for the minutes. Get to the Internet, will you? And we’re splitting the cost of our calls, so keep track of them.” He paused. “It’s been pretty boring around here, Jazz.”
    You won’t be bored for long, I thought, picturing Miriam’s thick-lashed green eyes, auburn hair, and slender figure in those short skirts she loved to wear.
    â€œFocus on profits, Morales,” I warned him sternly. “Business, business, business. You’ve got to save enough money to buy that jeep.”
    â€œI know,” answered Steve. There was a brief silence. “Call soon,” he said.
    â€œI will,” I promised.
    I was halfway up the hill before I realized we hadn’t fixed a time for our next conversation. I couldn’t call randomly in the middle of the night again; I wanted to be sure he’d be there so I didn’t wake up his parents. Now I was stuck trying to get hold of him during the day, unless Dad discovered a quiet place to send e-mail. Hopeless cause, I told myself glumly as I climbed the stairs to our apartment.
In more ways than one
.
    Mom and Dad had decided they liked the Indian custom of drinking late-afternoon tea and that our balcony was the perfect place for it. They’d plugged in our new CD player, and soft sitar music drifted outside from the living room. I’d been resting in my room, thinking about my conversation with Steve. As soon as I heard the music, I grabbed a pen and a piece of the stationery Helen had given me and joined everyone.
    Eric had taken some of his bugs outside to be sociable, but he seemed a little overwhelmed. A wide variety of creatures was crawling around on the balcony floor. Our parents were sitting cross-legged on chairs with their feet tucked under them. I decided not to tempt any biting insects with my toes, either.
    Dad was frowning over a computer instruction manual. A company in Mumbai had donated four outdated Russian computers to the orphanage, and Sister Das had left a stack of manuals on our kitchen table as a not-so-subtle hint for Dad.
    Mom was still rummaging through the folder Sister Das had given her, smiling over photos of herself at five, seven, and thirteen that Helen had sent to the orphanage. “How’s Steve?” she asked, putting down the folder to pour me a cup of tea. “It sure is strange not to have him around. It feels like part of the family’s missing.”
    â€œFine.”
It feels like part of myself is missing
, I thought, but I didn’t say so. “When you go to the orphanage, Mom, could you check and see if any mail came? I’m expecting a letter.”
    â€œSure, honey. Mail takes over a week to get here, though, so don’t count on it.”
    Dad shook his head. “The Internet’s supposed to be all over the place in India, but I can’t find a place to access it. Sister Das didn’t even know what I was talking about when I asked her.”
    I unfolded the piece of stationery in my lap. The smell of lavender wafted up, and I held the paper to my