Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (19 page)

Shaan and I get out of the rickshaw and he pays. “It’s going to be fine, Abby. Relax.”

We take off our shoes and walk toward the beach. The ocean breeze whips my hair around.

Shaan looks at his watch. “Abby, did you realize it’s Thursday today. Your mom is asleep right now, but when she wakes up it’ll be Thanksgiving.”

It’s the biggest business day for Mom. She sells more pies today than on any other day in the year. The shop remains open until noon. I usually help Mom at the store. After closing, we head to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. What I would give to be digging into one of her pies instead of having to deal with the mess I’ve created? A little voice says,
But then you wouldn’t be holding hands with Shaan, the cutest guy ever.

A row of food stalls stands on the edge of the sand near the street. They have thatched roofs, sandy floors, and rough wooden benches and tables for seating. Some of them are grinding chutneys, getting ready for the evening customers. The smell would have normally made me hungry but not today. Why can’t I be sitting here, eating roasted corn on the cob with Shaan and celebrating the successful interview?

I dig my foot into the sand. I stare down at the splinter rising from the weathered wood of the table. It didn’t pierce my flesh but it might as well have.

All I could think of is tomorrow and ugliness. What would that hateful photographer do? The string quartet plays suspenseful music.

Chapter 24

Shaan and I walk on the beach before heading home. I’m not ready to return yet. I don’t have a plan. Is there anything I could do?

How do you tell your father that you ruined the opening of his big movie and opened him up for tabloid trash because you can’t keep a secret? A slip of the tongue they say is a fault of the mind. I think this slip is because of a rude, horrible photographer.

How do you hope that he forgives you?

How do you not crumble, crawl into a crevice, or curl up? I say that aloud.

Shaan grins at me. “Abby, are you trying to be a poet and use that figure of speech thing with the same sound?”

“Alliteration?” I ask.

“Yeah, that.” Shaan grins. “Are you being all dramatic and poetic?”

I know he’s trying to cheer me up so I play along. I smack my hand to my brow. “To tell or not to tell, that is the question.” “Uh, Abby, it’s not actually,” Shaan says, his face dead

serious. “You gotta tell. The question is how and when?” “I’m just going to say it. I don’t think there’s any way to

sugarcoat or glaze this pie.”

I’m miserable and Shaan drapes his hand over my shoulder to comfort me, and then lets it linger longer. I smile and drown in his gorgeous brown eyes and briefly rest my head against his shoulder. The sand slides between my toes and sticks. A gust of wind blows my hair onto my face.

He tucks my hair behind my ears and then bends down toward my face.

Freaked, I turn my face. Slightly. The kiss lands just right of my lips. I’ve been watching too many Hindi films in Mumbai. Kissing is rare in Bollywood films. Instead, faces come close, close, and closer and then the camera swings to a tree or a fire. Love the fire! Is it a metaphor? Or as the hero comes in for the kiss, the heroine turns her face away like me, Abby Tara Spencer.

My face feels flushed. Shaan looks disappointed. I am too. On the rickshaw ride home, we sit close to each other,

our sandy legs touching.

Shaan drops me off outside Dad’s house. I squeeze Shaan’s hand. “Wish me luck,” I say. He hugs me and I lean in to kiss Shaan’s cheek as I say good-bye. This time Shaan turns and our lips brush. So light I’m not sure it happened. Was that a kiss?

He laughs and says, “Good luck, Abby.”

The rickshaw sputters away, splashing a puddle of muddy reality on my pants. I drag my feet as if I have ten-ton shackles on. I can hear both phones ringing inside the house, shrill and piercing.

A grim-faced Shiva opens the door. “Abby, where you go?”

Oops. I told Dad I would be home in an hour. Three hours later, here I am.

I walk into Dad’s office and find him with Thomas, Salima, and a third man who I don’t recognize.

“Where were you?” Dad asks. “You said you would be back in an hour. I was worried sick.”

“I’m sorry. I really am,” I say. “I went to the beach with Shaan and lost track of the time. I need to talk to you alone.” Maybe it’s the tremble in my voice or how pale I look, but Dad’s voice softens. “What is it? You can tell me

anything,
beta
.”

The endearment nearly does me in. I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

Thomas glares at me as if I’m trouble spelled with a capital
T
.

“Everyone, please leave us alone,” Dad says. They all troop out and Dad turns to me, puzzled.

I’m dumbstruck. I can’t find the words. I search for the best way to tell him, but my thoughts and feelings are jumbled like strings of Christmas lights. Where do I start unraveling them?

“Dad,” I say in a strange choked voice before Thomas knocks and comes in again. “Sorry, excuse me, Naveen, but it is the TV anchor for NDTV. They’re covering the premiere tomorrow. They need to talk to you. He called twice when you were in other meetings.”

Dad looks at me. “Abby, I have to deal with this now.

Can we talk later?” I flee.

I sit in my room for an hour thinking how to tell him about the photographer, but my mind is blank.

I think about how for the past few days, Grandma Tara and Shiva have been emotional that I’m leaving soon. After I played the violin for them yesterday, Grandma Tara hugged me. “I was getting spoiled by your performances every evening. I will miss them.” Her smile wavered.

Shiva said he would make paneer for me next week, then realized I won’t be there and was all sad after that.

I want to see Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa Spencer, but at the same time, I don’t want to leave my newfound

family in Mumbai. I wish I could be in two places at the same time.

Maybe after the whole thing blows up in the newspapers they’ll hate me and won’t want to see me.

Twice that evening I go into Dad’s study, but I can’t find the words and we’re interrupted. I try, but I feel like something within me shuts down. My mind races. I barely eat dinner. And then a thought flits through.

Maybe the photographer would take the picture and the story to the papers and they will refuse to print the stuff after all.

It could happen. Maybe they’d call Dad first to check the facts.

I latch onto that thought.

Shaan calls later in the evening. “What did your dad say?” “I didn’t tell him,” I whisper. “Shaan, I don’t know how

to tell him.”

He’s silent.

I call Mom. It’s Thanksgiving morning in Houston. She must have left for work early. I leave a crazy message telling her how I’ve ruined it all. When I hang up, I wish I didn’t leave the message.

I call Priya and Zoey but neither of them answers.

I toss and turn all night. My thoughts are like knives, piercing and painful. I finally nod off around four in the morning so I ended up sleeping late.

Chapter 25

When I wake up the house is quiet except for the sounds from the kitchen and the faint murmur of running water from Grandma Tara’s bathroom.

Maybe the story didn’t make the newspapers after all.

Maybe the story…I chant, willing it to be true. I tiptoe downstairs, hoping against hope.

Every morning, all the newspapers are delivered to the house. Today, the magazines and newspapers scattered all over the coffee table look like bloody, inflamed wounds you don’t want to see.

I pick one up and drop it as though it’s burned my fingers.

Meet Superstar Naveen Kumar’s Secret Daughter [insert horrible picture of me]

Where’s Mrs. Naveen?

I scan the rest of the papers like an addict.

It’s a Girl! And She’s Thirteen!
In the accompanying cartoon, a stork drops a teenage me on Dad’s doorstep.

Naveen’s Love Child. Made In USA. Born In the USA. Hidden In USA?

Has the Queen Met Her Stepdaughter To Be?
with a grainy picture of Rani and me on the set.

No! They dragged Rani into the mess too.

Daughter In the Closet.

Abby In the Box.
A cartoon of me jumping out of a box, startling Dad.

And then some get uglier.
Naveen’s Wild Youth Results in Teen. Naveen Kumar’s Battle for Custody.

Whoa! Custody? Now that’s a thought that never entered my mind. Would he? My life is with Mom in Houston. For a few minutes, the idea of Mom and Dad fighting over me paralyzes me with fear. Then sanity returns. It’s garbage. Poison. Hot off the press.

Could my flight please be
now
?

The newspapers mock me. I sit on the couch and close my eyes to shut them out but instead they transform into Oompa Loompas and stomp around.

The phone rings. It’s Mom. She’s beside herself. “Abby, what happened? What did you ruin?”

I spill it all. I tell her about how I lost my cool when the photographer goaded me. I had stupidly wanted to protect Dad. I read her the headlines—even the custody one.

Mom is speechless. When she finds the words, she says, “Oh, Abby, honey, this is awful. How has your dad reacted to all this?”

“I couldn’t tell him last night. He’s not home right now.

The premiere is in a few hours.”

“Abby, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go alone to a foreign country. What was I thinking?”

“Mom, stop,” I interrupt. “If I’d only kept my lips sealed like you and Dad told me, none of this would’ve happened.”

“Abby, if you weren’t coming home in a few hours, I would take the next flight to Mumbai. I promise. What was that custody headline you just read to me?”

Then before I can say anything she says, “Naveen has never mentioned that word. It’s the ugly newspapers.”

I sigh in relief. After I hang up, I just stare like a zombie.

Where is Dad? Where is everybody?

Shiva comes running in. “Abby, he’s home.”

When Dad walks in, I notice he hasn’t shaved. His eyes look disappointed and his shoulders droop.

“Did you see all this ugliness?’ he says, waving at the newspapers. “Abby, I am so sorry.”

He shouldn’t blame himself. He could yell and tell me I was an idiot.

Wait. Then I realize. None of the newspapers have named a source. He didn’t know I’m responsible for the leak. For a minute, I’m tempted. Can I just keep silent?

No!

I can’t. I did have to live with myself.

What if the truth emerges after I leave and I hadn’t owned up? That would make the situation even worse.

My mouth is dry. Then the stubborn lump melts and mercifully turns into words. Through my constricted throat, I manage to say, “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

I take a few blubbery, gaspy breaths and launch into my confession. “Yesterday, I accidentally told one of the photographers to leave my dad alone.”

Dad looks confused.

I take a breath and continue. “I was mad at him and the way the photographers bother and stalk you all the time.”

I can’t look at his face. “The photographer kept yelling ‘Miss! Miss!’ in my face and wouldn’t stop following me, so I snapped. He pounced on my words, realized I slipped up, and then took pictures of me.”

Realization dawns on my father’s face. I can tell he’s at a loss for words. His eyes cloud over, and he clenches and unclenches his fist.

“Can you do something?” I ask, angry. “Sue them?”

Dad looks weary. “It’s not worth it. I should have protected you more.”

He probably regrets the day he invited me to Mumbai.

Grandma Tara stands outside the door. Her eyes tell me she heard it all.

Shiva thinks the world can’t be trusted anymore. All anybody wants is money he says and spits into the big rubber plant. He earns a look from Grandma Tara who doesn’t think the world has become so materialistic and unethical that Shiva should spit in the house.

“I’m sorry too, Grandma Tara,” I tell her. “I’ve ruined everyone’s plans. I know Dad was looking forward to talking about the first film he’s produced.”