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  For Ian

  and Karen and Robin,

  with thanks for the love and laughter we share

  Acknowledgments:

  Many people have assisted and encouraged me through the writing of this book.

  First I’d like to thank Ian for his generous love and support and for cheering me on in spite of (or is it because of?) the fact that he doesn’t read fiction. Thanks also to Karen and Robin, for their enthusiasm for this book and for reading it again and again. Their many intelligent (okay, at times, scornful) comments ensured that my characters talk the talk. They continue to inspire me with the comedy-drama of everyday life.

  I owe many thanks to my writing group—Karleen Bradford, Jan Andrews, Caroline Parry, and Alice Bartels—who gave me many ideas and never let me take the easy way out. They encouraged me through the good, bad, and ugly times of writing this book and were helpful guides through the labyrinths and false turnings I invariably took before I found the way of this story.

  I would also like to thank my agent, Melanie Colbert, for her tact, enthusiasm, and encouragement, and for her generous faith in my work.

  Many thanks as well to my editor, Reka Simonsen, for the respectful and insightful way in which she guided the manuscript to its final form.

  There are many friends who have supported me generally and specifically through the writing of this book, and I thank them all. They are too numerous to mention, but I must thank Louise Young for her enthusiasm for this book, as well as for our thought-provoking discussions on how to honor the writing and for inspiring me through her own example.

  CHAPTER 1

  Lines. Boundaries. When I look, they’re everywhere, holding in—and keeping out. Erin and I walk past a brick house with five girls skipping rope in the driveway. Two turn the rope, the others jump in and out—fluid lines, always shifting. Only, who’s in, who’s out?

  Erin nudges me. “What’s with you, Tar? Come on, spill. What happened at school?”

  “It’s that … that loser, Tolly.”

  “Mr. Toller? I thought you liked him.”

  “Depends on how you define like,” I say. “I mean, I thought he was an okay teacher, even if he is an awful geek. But … know what he said to me today?”

  “What?”

  “He was trying to set up a welcome banner in different languages, and he says, Hey, Tara, kiddo—you know, that pseudo-cool way he talks?—hey, kiddo, what’s your language?”

  Erin groans. “Oh, great.” She knows what’s coming next. It’s not like it happens often, but she’s heard Mom go on about it, and she’s one of the few kids who actually understand.

  “So I say, English, and he says, No, your mother-tongue, and I say again, English, and then he says—”

  “He didn’t ask you where you’re from!”

  “Not exactly, but he asked what my heritage is. I mean, why does he single out kids who look different—why doesn’t he ask Lesley, or Doug? They have some heritage, too. But, no, it’s just me and Chang and Trev.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “Usual stuff. I mean, if he weren’t a teacher I’d’ve told him where to go, but all I said was my parents were originally from India, and I was born here, in Canada. Then he said, Pity you don’t know your language.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. I’m telling you, I ought to get a medal for self-control. I just looked him in the eye and said, English is my language. I mean, what is his need to … to classify me, like some botanical specimen? Why should he decide who I am? Of course, afterwards it occurred to me I could’ve said, Pity Kate doesn’t speak her mother-tongue—Gaelic.”

  Erin grins. “Hey, you should’ve said you had mixed ancestry—Chinese, French, Native Indian.”

  I’m starting to feel better. “Yeah, or made up a country and started to babble.” I grab Erin’s arm. “Oh! I should’ve told him something like drop dead in Hindi and said it meant welcome.”

  Erin bursts out laughing. “Perfect! Do it, Tara, come on.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t actually know how to say drop dead in Hindi.”

  “Ask your mom.”

  “As if she’d know. Dad would, though.” I grin. “I’ll have to—”

  As we near my house, Erin stops and sniffs. “Your mother’s cooking. Something Indian.”

  “I can’t smell a thing.”

  “It’s definitely Indian. Smells good.” She sniffs harder. “I’m getting a trace of poori.”

  I start to laugh. “Stomach.”

  Erin will eat anything Mom makes, even the stuff Normy won’t touch, and Normy’s got the biggest appetite in the world. When we first got her as a kitten, Nina called her Tiny, until Mom said, That’s the worst misfit of a name; that cat is simply enormous. So Tiny graduated to Normy—short for ’Normous.

  I can smell it, too. Indian food all right.

  When Mom cooks Indian food, no one ever knows how it’ll turn out—she’s either in one of her crazy happy moods, and she’ll gleefully fling together all manner of bizarre ingredients; or she’s shiny-eyed and earnest, trying to be the good mother, and she’ll cram in everything she thinks is healthy for us. Lately, since she got laid off, she’s been cooking a lot of Indian food. The earnest kind.

  “Mmm. Smells really good,” says Erin.

  I put my arm around her. “Okay, okay, come and try it.” Before all this Tolly stuff happened, I’d planned to bring up Jeff, sort of casually, to see what she thinks. Maybe after she’s gorged herself I’ll still get the chance.

  As we go up my driveway I say, “Hey, Erin, don’t say anything about Tolly in front of Mom, okay? You know what she’s like.”

  Erin laughs. “Poor Tolly, he’d really get it!”

  “Yeah—lucky for him I’m too old to sic my mommy on him.”

  I open the door.

  It’s a maelstrom. The Beatles. Loud. Nina’s into them. I hear snatches of Mom singing—no, bellowing—along with tuneless vigor.

  “Hi, Mom,” I shout. “I’m home.”

  She’s in the kitchen, dancing in front of the stove. In those green leggings she looks like a grasshopper. She’s making pooris all right. She turns around and waves, her face glowing. I wonder what’s up.

  Nina has her usual swarm of pestilent friends over, and they’re bopping away in the family room. Nina’s wearing a denim hat with a huge fake sunflower. Maya’s there, too—poor kid, she looks hypnotized by one of Nina’s friends, who’s in lime green and purple. It’s an assault to the eyes.

  “Tara-My-Stara! Hi, Erin. Hey, Nina,” roars Mom. “Turn that down.”

  Nina continues to dance, rolling one arm around over the other. God, nobody does that anymore. Except, of course, her geeky little friends, who rush to copy her.

  I march into the family room and turn the volume down. Maya comes running to hug me.

  “Hey, Tar,” wails Nina.

  “Mom said to turn it down.”

  “O
hhh!” Nina glowers. “Come on, guys, let’s go to my room.” She flounces off with her oh-so-cool friends.

  “Go on, Maya.” I nudge her. “You go, too.”

  Ha! That’ll teach Nina. She hates Maya tagging along.

  “Tara-My-Stara. Darr-ling.” Mom’s using her extravagant pseudo-Italian accent. “Come and try my splendida pooris.”

  Erin’s already sitting at the kitchen table by the bay window, wolfing down pooris with Mom’s one-pot bhaji. She ignores Normy, who stares unwinkingly at her plate.

  From Nina’s room, the bass pounds.

  Mom deftly fishes a poori out of the oil, drains it on a paper towel, and kisses me. Her eyes are dancing. Through the archway, I notice the table in the dining room is decked out with the best china and candles. The napkins are even fluted like butterflies—but there are only the usual five places.

  “Okay, Mom, what’s with all this?”

  “Whaddya mean, what’s with all this?”

  “Come on, Mom. The pooris. The dining table. And the big grin on your face.”

  “It’s a surprise, dahling.” The posh British accent this time. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “Now, now, just wait.” It’s her most pompous tone. “All shall be revealed at dinner, with the entire family assembled—I haven’t even informed your father yet.”

  “Come on, Mom, tell.” I start to tickle her. “Tell me now.”

  Mom squeals, “Stop. Not while I’m frying. Okay, okay, pain.” She grins. “Guess who got a job?”

  “A job? What job? Where?”

  Back to the phony Italian accent. “Work first, darr-ling, ask questions afterrr. Prrress me that last poori.”

  I slap the ball of dough in the center of the poori press and pull down the handle. “There, happy? Now talk.”

  Mom slides the poori into the oil and says, “It’s a short-term writing job. I had the interview Tuesday and I heard today.” On with the posh British accent. “Face it, dahling, you have a brilliant mother.” She flips the poori over as it puffs.

  “Modest, too.”

  “Indeed, another of my many talents.” Mom turns off the burner. “There. Come and try it.”

  I sniff at the one-pot bhaji. Nothing too startling—potatoes, okra, some tomatoes, chick-peas; Mom doesn’t believe in messing a whole bunch of pots. If it weren’t for Gabby, Mom’s mother, we wouldn’t even know what real Indian food is like. She always cooks everything separately—dahl, rice, chapati, and two vegetables.

  I taste the bhaji cautiously. It’s actually not bad. I grab a poori for myself and dish some bhaji for Normy. I can’t stand her fixed gaze.

  As I join Erin at the kitchen table I ask, “So where’s this job, Mom?”

  “At a shelter. I’m to do a report outlining the needs of the women using it. And the best part is, I can do the research around Maya’s kindergarten time and write at home.”

  “Hey, great, Mom. Good for you.”

  “Yeah, congratulations,” says Erin, reaching for another poori.

  “Erin. That’s like your fourth. D’you know how greasy that stuff is? It’s definitely not good for your skin.”

  “Oh, Tara, leave her alone. We’re celebrating.”

  “Yeah, Tara.” Erin makes a little face. “We’re celebrating!”

  Mom pats her on the head and she just grins. If anyone else did that she’d freak out.

  Wailing in the distance. Then Maya’s heavy steps coming down the stairs. Waaail, thump, thump, thump, waaail!

  “Lovely. Now what?” mutters Mom.

  I can tell what. Nina kicked her out.

  Waaaail! Jeez. Maya’s got powerful lungs.

  Mom picks her up. “Oh, sweetheart. What is it?”

  Maya buries her face in Mom’s shoulder. “Nina,” heave, “says,” heave, “I can’t plaaay.” Shudder. “I want,” heave, “to,” heave, “play with her.”

  “But, darling, Nina can’t play with you all the time; she’s older than you, and she has her big friends over.” Mom rocks Maya back and forth. “Never mind. How about I read you one of my stories?”

  Oh God, hasn’t the kid suffered enough?

  Mom’s always taking courses—she’s tried interior decorating, watercolors, tie-dye, and now children’s writing. We don’t want to hurt her, but her stories are totally gaggy, full of clunky feminist stuff. Luckily, Maya’s instinct for self-preservation kicks in—she shakes her head and wails louder.

  Mom pats Maya’s back soothingly. “All right, sweetie; you just come and sit with us.”

  I roll my eyes slightly. I’m three years older than Nina, but apparently that doesn’t count. It’s not that I mind Maya around, it’s just—Nina always gets away with everything.

  But then Maya wriggles over onto my lap and gives me her sunrise smile—slow, lighting up the world—and my heart melts. I cuddle her and kiss her firm red cheeks. “Never mind, Me-Oh-Mayo.”

  Mom asks, “So how was your day, Tar? Anything interesting at school?”

  I glance furtively at Erin over Maya’s head. Is Mom mellow enough not to freak out?

  Nah. Who am I kidding? There’s nothing Mom enjoys more than spouting off—if it isn’t racism, it’s sexism or the deplorable state of education.

  “Nothing special,” I say. “Same old.”

  I just haven’t got the energy to talk her out of having what she calls her gentle little word with Tolly. Mom’s like a tornado. And if I don’t dive right into her vortex, she gets all self-righteous and disappointed, like her take on life is the only enlightened one.

  But I’ve got a mind of my own. I mean, she’s my mother and I love her and everything, but there’s no way I want to be a carbon copy of her. And I don’t want to be whatever Tolly thinks I am, either.

  I want to be me.

  CHAPTER 2

  After Erin goes home, totally stuffed, Mom switches on her cockney accent, “Aw righ’, ven. Naow to get all dolled up. ’Ow about ’elping your muvver look smashing, pet?”

  “There isn’t time for plastic surgery, Mom.”

  Mom wags her finger at me. “Funny. Just help me pick something to wear.”

  “Oh, all right!” I heave a mock sigh. It’s actually quite fun going through Mom’s closet. Occasionally I luck out and get her to pass something on to me.

  Mom settles Maya at the kitchen table with a coloring book. “I won’t be long, sweetie. You make me the best picture you can, okay?”

  Maya nods. “It’ll be a mas-terpiece.” Maya doesn’t talk a lot, but she picks up words and gloats over them like jewels.

  Upstairs, Mom and I rifle through her closet. It’s crammed—Mom never throws out anything. I like to dig around at the back, where her silk saris hang. They’re gorgeous but Mom never wears them—too constricting, she says. Of course, she keeps them, on the basis that one day she’ll convert them into dresses or curtains. Yeah, right.

  I find an old pair of bell-bottoms, hold them against me, sway to the bass thumping from Nina’s room.

  I wish I were taller, like Mom. I’m a stumpy old five feet three inches, and Nina’s already a bit taller, even though I’ll never admit it to her. She’s so full of herself because everyone says she’s gorgeous. She looks just like Mom and Gabby. It’s weird, because, if you take their features one by one, nothing’s that terrific—thinnish lips, long nose, light-brown eyes—but, put together, they somehow look great.

  And Nina’s got their lovely skin, too. Gabby’s birthplace, Kashmir, is supposedly renowned for beauties—fair-skinned beauties. It’s one of Mom’s favorite diatribes, right up there with the sexism in India, the suffocating roles of women—how Indians focus so much on skin color. You know, Tara, if a girl is dark, she’s considered ugly, and difficult to marry off! Small bloody wonder the Brits were able to take over!

  My skin’s a bit darker than Nina’s, more like Dad’s, but apart from big eyes and thick hair—thank goodness, it doesn’t frizz like Nina’s—
I’m nothing special. Mom insists I’m beautiful, but she’s my mother, what else can she say?

  It’s not that I care—I’m not a mindless bimbo, endlessly fixating on hair and guys. But it is kind of sickening to have a sister guys might be after more than me. I guess I’ve been thinking more about it lately because of, well, Jeff. My mind does stray towards him an awful lot—it’s alarming. And exhilarating.

  “Hey, Tara, where the heck are you?” calls Mom.

  “I’m looking, I’m looking.” I work my way out with an armful of clothes.

  Mom’s room is a total wreck by the time I find the dusty-rose chiffon dress she forgot she had.

  “Perfect.” Mom smiles. “You do have an eye, pet.” She looks at the mess of clothes on her bed and floor. “Oh, I’ll clean up later.”

  Dad gets home just as Nina’s horde leaves. He makes his way through the gaggle of girls and swings Maya around. “How’s my Me-Oh-Mayo?” Maya breaks into her smile and hugs him tight.

  He sees Mom. “Wow! Look at you! Are we going somewhere? What did I forget?”

  “It’s a surprise. Go and change, Raj. The wine is chilling, and I’ve made a wonderful dinner.”

  Dad catches her around the waist and gives her a big kiss, right on the mouth.

  I moan, “D’you have to do that in front of us?”

  Mom grins and calls after Dad as he goes upstairs, “We’re eating in five minutes, Raj. Nina, did you hear?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard.” She’s still at the door, shouting after her friends.

  “Maya, go wash up. Scrub nicely, now, just like I showed you.”

  “Okay,” says Maya. “I’ll do it thor-ough-ly.”

  We don’t all sit down until half an hour later. Maya has to be changed, ’cause she got soaking wet washing up thor-ough-ly, and the bhaji isn’t hot enough anyway. Then, because this is an elegant meal, Mom reminds us of the no BFT rule. That’s no bodily-function talk, and the reminder is mostly for Nina, who, as soon as we start to eat, invariably disgorges some disgusting story featuring nasal discharge, diarrhea, or vomit, or, if she’s feeling particularly refined, ear wax or body odor.