Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (18 page)

From the corner of my eye, I can see Dad’s face tightening.

I am my dad’s daughter. In a perky tone I gush, “Rani

is so beautiful. I saw her on the set of Dad’s movie.” And I babble on about being an extra in the song till Maya’s eyes glaze over and she turns to Dad.

“How come you and Abby’s mother didn’t stay together?” Maya drops her fishhook again.

Dad swims around it. “C’mon Maya. It’s in the past. I was twenty-two. Meredith was twenty-one. We were kids. We will always be together for Abby.”

Way to go, Dad. I suddenly have a newfound respect for him.

“How do you think your fans will react to you having a teenage daughter?” Maya asks.

“My fans love my films. My personal life belongs to me. I hope they continue to support my films.”

Maya tries to bait Dad a few more times but then she quits. She’s suspicious but she realizes that Naveen Kumar has a story and he’s sticking to it.

“I think I have all the information I need.” Maya says, gathering her things. “I have to do my job.”

I exhale.

Dad stands up and smooths his pants. “And you did a great job as always. Interview is done. Tell me, how are your kids?”

They switch back to being old friends.

“If I don’t see you before you leave, have a safe trip back, Abby,” Maya says as she walks out of the suite.

The minute Maya and her team walk out of the room, I jump up and dance around the room. It’s over. I didn’t screw up. Dad matches me step for step. High five!

I eat another piece of cake and skip all the way to the car.

Chapter 22

On the car ride home Dad seems distracted. He stares out the window.

“Abby,” he says, “Maya is a friend. She knew there was more to this story. She tried, but not too hard out of respect for our friendship. Others may not be as respectful.”

I know that but I don’t want to hear it.

“Abby, I chose this life. With fame comes lack of privacy. It’s part of the business. I can take the potshots. But, I don’t want you or your mom to be dragged in.” He sighs. “What a day it’s been. I have the worst headache.” He leans his head on the backrest and closes his eyes.

My fists are balled. I wish I could delete parts of my life story and rewrite it. Start it over. Not have Dad walk into the story in the middle like a secondary character. I want

to rewrite and have him with me at Doughnuts for Dad in elementary school. I want to have him warn Mom of his allergy when I first start eating solid foods. “Mere, Abby might have my deathly allergy to coconut.”

I stare out the window at the street without seeing. I feel frustration rise in me. I need a door to slam.

Dad’s house looms ahead of us. The usual crowd at the gate is larger today because his new film is coming out in two days and there is buzz about it. Each bus in the city seems to have his and Rani’s faces plastered on it. Dad and Rani dancing.

When we get home, Dad goes to his room to rest and deal with his headache. I decide to walk over to Shaan’s place. “I’ll be back in an hour,” I promise Dad.

I need the fresh air and sympathetic ear.

The waves beat against the rocks, foaming and spitting as I walk along the road. The sky is overcast and the humidity feels like a wet towel dripping down my shirt.

The paparazzi are staked outside, constant like the groups of onlookers. They are milling around the hood of a car a few feet from the gate. All of them have their cameras slung around their necks. They are chatting, killing time, and lying in wait for their prey—Dad. When he steps out, they jostle and shove each other for the best spot and train their lenses on him.

I hear them talking about Dad, I can hear his name

between other Hindi words. “Naveen Kumar! Naveen Kumar!” My Hinglish isn’t good enough to understand them completely. But I know they’re cracking jokes and being crude at Dad’s expense. I hear Rani’s name too. One of them made scummy kissing noises.

I keep my head down, my fists clenched.

The photographer who made the mocking sounds spies me and saunters toward me. He signals me to wait and says something I don’t understand.

He raises his voice and this time in English asks, “Miss, you are living there?” and gestures to the house.

I nod but keep walking. He follows.

“Miss, where’s Naveen Kumar? We are waiting all day.” I don’t respond.

“Hey, miss, I’m talking to you!” he says. My reflexes are on alert.

“Is Naveen Kumar busy with Rani?” he asks, smirking. His leer, his lewd tone, his innuendos push me over the edge of self-restraint.

Ooh! I want to punch him. He doesn’t know my dad, but he feels like he could be familiar with him. He acts as if Dad owes him something. As if it’s Dad’s job to pose for him!

“Stop following me!”

“Miss! Miss! Come on, where is Naveen? Hey, miss, I’m talking to you!”

I snap, “You need to leave me and my dad alone!”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I bite my tongue. I want to reel the words back, swallow them. But just like you can’t turn back the hands of time, I realize I can’t wipe out words that have been uttered.

I know the photographer heard because I see the spark of shock, surprise, and then glee in his eyes. He must have seen the look of regret and alarm in my eyes.

He stops in his tracks and grins ear to ear like he’s won the lottery. He reaches for the camera slung around his neck, focuses his lens, and has the nerve to say, “Thank you, sweetie!” before he presses the button and takes my picture.

Click! Click! Click! Click!

I stand there helpless, knowing there’s nothing I can do that won’t make the situation worse. I can’t grab his camera or throw a hissy fit. It would only provide him with more ammunition. I give him the most hateful look I can muster. He doesn’t blink. Turning away, he hails a passing cab, eager to report his discovery, I’m sure. He gives me a mocking salute before the cab drives away, emitting toxic black fumes.

I stand on the sidewalk, red-faced, shaking in frustration.

I have no one to blame except my big mouth.

Way to mess it up, Abby! What would that man do?

Nothing good, I knew that.

I walk to Shaan’s house in a daze. I’ve never felt such hatred in my life. I want to scream, punch something, and kick all at once.

The minute Shaan opens the door, he knows something is wrong.

“Hey,” he says and examines my red face, my hunched shoulders.

I can’t speak.

I follow him to the living room. Luckily, no one else seems to be around.

“What happened?” Shaan asks. “Was the interview that bad?”

The interview! It seems eons ago. All the effort Salima and Thomas had taken to coach me had come to nothing.

“Abby, did you screw up the interview?”

I still can’t speak. How do I explain myself?

“I followed all the rules for the interview,” I say, “but I screwed it up anyway.”

Shaan looks puzzled.

“I told the reporter guy outside to leave my dad alone!” I say.

“What reporter? At the interview?” Shaan asks.

I need to start at the beginning for Shaan to understand my panic.

I take a deep breath.

Shaan realizes this is serious. He waits in silence for me to continue.

“The interview actually went well,” I say. “Maya, the lady who interviewed us was sweet to me. I mean she tried to dig and stuff, but Dad handled her well. We had this great photo shoot, and this amazing dinner the other day, and we’ve been bonding. Dad and me.”

My voice is now shaking.

Impatient, Shaan interrupts, “What did you do?”

I tell him about the photographers outside Dad’s house and just spill it all. I gulp. “Shaan, it was the way he said it. As if he owned Dad. I felt protective and I told him to just leave my dad alone!”

“You what?” he asks. Then he says in a calmer, more hopeful voice, “Maybe he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he didn’t understand or put two and two together.”

I shake my head. “He heard. He understood.” Shaan is silent for a minute. “Are you sure?”

I nod.

“Oh Schmidt!” he says. Shaan has borrowed my phrase. “What do you think he’ll do?” I start crying. “Shaan, I

messed it up, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t say anything. What can he say? He gets me some tissues and we sit in miserable silence.

“Abby, you can’t go home with red swollen eyes. Let’s go for a ride to the beach, get some air. Maybe we can figure something out. We barely have a few days left,” says Shaan.

He’s right.

We stand on the curb outside Shaan’s apartment for a taxi. It starts to drizzle. A rickshaw sputters to a halt in front of us. The driver pokes out his head, “Where do you want to go?” he asks in Hindi. I’m surprised I understand him.

I’ve been wanting to ride in a rickshaw but Dad had said, “I don’t know, Abby. I prefer you didn’t. Shiva can drive you in a car wherever you need to go.”

Well, Shiva can’t drive me now. He isn’t here. Dad said he
preferred
I didn’t ride in one. He didn’t forbid it. Did he?

Shaan gets in. The drizzle turns into rain. I throw caution under the motorized three-wheeler and get in.

The driver revs the engine, and with a loud put-put-put, we’re off.

Chapter 23

The rickshaw looks like a large motorized bug on three wheels. It bounces and hits every one of the dozens of potholes on the road to the beach. The first one sends Shaan and me into midair like two moles that were whacked. Shaan being taller hit the metal rod on the ceiling and cusses like a rapper. I don’t quite hit the roof, but it’s a near miss and I look up at it.

Wow! Oh wow!

On the roof is a multicolored collage of calendar pictures of Laxmi, Ganesh, Krishna, Rama, and other Hindu deities I don’t recognize.

Shaan says with a grin, “All the Hindu gods are watching over us.” He folds his hands to pay his respects.

I’m not sure how to react, not wanting to say anything offensive.

Shaan solves the problem. “You can smile you know.”

I let my imprisoned smile out but I also say a silent prayer.

I need all the help I can get.

The rickshaw can’t really pick up much speed on its little engine but it can weave. When Grandma Spencer taught me to knit she chanted, “Abby, needle in and needle out.” The rickshaw does exactly that. In and out, in and out, between cars and around garbage piles at the highest speed it’s capable of hitting. Zoom! Zoom! Bump! It’s the little engine that could.

The rain picks up. The rickshaw doesn’t have any doors. At the stoplight, the driver lowers the rubber flaps on the sides to shield us against the damp. It’s as much protection as crossing your fingers when faced with a bear.

The driver also decorated the front of the cab with a wild array of tinsel garlands. More pictures of dead and living Indian legends like Gandhi and—wouldn’t you know it—Naveen Kumar are plastered in the front. The string quartet plays
dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin.

Shaan points to the picture. “Your dad’s watching you too.”

By this point, my fractured funny bone is healed. I smile and shrug. “Dad and the gods. Maybe the gods will help me out and cure my big mouth.”

If this rickshaw ride were under different circumstances,

I would’ve had a blast. I would’ve videoed the inside to show all my friends. I would’ve posted this ride on YouTube.

We hit another pothole. This time it throws us right into each other’s arms. Are Mumbai’s potholes helping my love life? Is it an omen? The rubber flap waves and sprays water on us, and in spite of the circumstances, we laugh and untangle ourselves, but still sit close.

And then something crazy happens. Almost as crazy as finding out your father is a Bollywood star. Shaan reached over and. Held. My. Hand.

Warm.

Slightly larger than mine. Real.

Nice. Tingly.

A perfect envelope for my hand.

I smile and lace my fingers within his. They fit. He squeezes my hand to reassure me, and somehow I know that while I have to face the consequences of my action, I’m not alone.

Shaan doesn’t let my hand go till we get there.

The rickshaw sputters to a stop. We can see the ocean ahead of us. The waves remind me to breathe. The rain has petered off. Shaan says it’s unusual for rain in November anyway. There aren’t many people around. It’s a weekday and it’s still early in the afternoon.