A Group of One Read online

  Since then, I’ve noticed him in class, and I like the way he doesn’t show off, unlike that brown-nose, Guy, who’s always sticking up his hand to impress the teachers. But when Jeff’s asked a question, his answer is always worth listening to. Then I started to notice his eyes, this amazing blue, and I think I’ve caught him looking at me quite a lot.

  Erin grins. “I really think he’s interested, Tar. Trust me, I see the signs. I’m never wrong.”

  I almost forget about my violin lesson and walk past Hélène’s driveway, until Erin reminds me.

  It’s probably one of my worst lessons ever—Hélène never gets mad, but she plaintively asks me to practice more. I smile guiltily. I took up the violin only because Nina started the piano and I wanted a different instrument. Hey, at least I stuck with it—Nina’s been through the piano, cello, and trumpet.

  My head’s still above the clouds as I walk home after the lesson. It’s a gorgeous evening, with bursts of red and yellow amongst the green leaves. I drink in the sunshine, and wallow in Erin’s words. I replay the few times Jeff and I have talked, the way I’ve caught him looking at me.…

  I’m well and truly wrapped in a wonderful Jeff haze.

  CHAPTER 5

  Then I open the front door.

  “… But it’s not fair,” shrieks Nina.

  Clash, bang from the kitchen. “Nina.” Dad’s voice. “There’s no need for histrionics.”

  Jeff starts to fade like mist.

  I catch a glimpse of Nina’s face—it’s almost round with sulking. Mom is sitting across the table from her; Dad is by the stove, shifting pots with more energy than strictly necessary. It’s his night to cook.

  Hey, I’m not getting into this. Quietly, I head for the stairs. I wave to Maya, who is in the family room cuddling Normy as she watches Sesame Street.

  But Mom sees me. “Oh, Tara, come in here, pet, we have something to discuss.”

  Dad darts a disappointed look at Nina. “Yes, I’m sure Tara is going to be more mature about this.”

  Huh? Dad hardly ever gets mad at Nina.

  I stop under the archway between the hall and the kitchen, trying desperately to hold on to Jeff. “Er, I have a lot of homework, and I should practice my violin.…”

  “It can wait,” says Mom with Marmee-ish determination.

  My family. I let out a small sigh as I join them.

  Mom says smoothly, “Go ahead, Raj.”

  What? Usually Mom does the talking.

  Dad clears his throat. “Tara, Rohini and I have talked it over and we both agree, don’t we?” Dad’s smile is the funniest mixture of awkwardness and urgency. I’m starting to get curious.

  “We certainly do,” says Marmee.

  Dad continues, “As you know, Mummyji is coming, and, naturally, we want her to be as comfortable as possible here.”

  The grandmother. I’d totally forgotten.

  Dad shifts in his chair. “But our basement, well, it can be damp this time of year—it’s hardly suitable for someone not used to our climate. So we were considering where…”

  The basement. That’s where the spare room is, where Gabby and Gampy and all our visitors stay.

  Nina’s slumped in her chair, scowling, arms tightly crossed. My stomach goes cold.

  Dad clears his throat again. “And we thought the best solution would be for one of you girls to move downstairs. Let Mummyji have your room.”

  Nina’s eyes glitter triumphantly as my mouth falls open.

  No way. That spare room’s a rat’s nest of Mom’s abandoned projects; it’s stuffed with everything she can’t bear to throw out.

  “Well, I’m in high school,” I say firmly, “and I have tons of homework, so, if anyone has to move, it should be Nina.”

  Nina gasps. “Why do I always get stuck with everything? Just because I’m the middle—”

  “You always say that, Nina, you’re so—”

  “Girls, that’s enough!” Mom’s dropped the Marmee tone. “Now, we’ve agreed, the basement room is out of the question and—”

  I interrupt. “Who’s agreed? I haven’t agreed. Nina hasn’t agreed.”

  Nina nods.

  Mom slaps her hand on the table. A glass of water rattles, spilling a few drops. “Look, the basement is not suitable for an extended stay, and that’s that.”

  Nina and I look at each other. She’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  Then Nina clears her throat, and in her polite, controlled voice, an uncanny imitation of Mom’s, says, “And may I ask how long Dad’s mother will be here?”

  Mom’s face is a mask.

  Dad says awkwardly, “She has an open ticket; that way she can, er, keep it flexible, and of course we hope she’ll stay for a few weeks at least; it’s such a long way.…”

  Marmee’s smile switches on. “Yes, it’s a very long journey for Your Grandmother. It’s going to be very nice for you girls to meet her, and needless to say, we want to make her as welcome as possible.”

  My heart starts to pound. She’s been upgraded, or is it downgraded, from Dad’s mother to Your Grandmother. Well, tough. I’m not moving down there for her. And I’m not letting Nina, either—Mom and Dad are trying to divide and conquer. I look straight at Nina and smile grimly. Her face brightens.

  For a few seconds, Mom eyes us pleadingly. Then she sags back in her chair and sighs.

  Dad rubs the back of her neck. “Rohini, do you think maybe that room will do? I don’t think Mummyji will mind, she—”

  “Of course it won’t do, Raj. Not for Your Mother.”

  I quirk my eyebrow at Nina. Dad’s mouth tightens the slightest bit.

  Mom says quickly, “Her house is always perfect and you know how particular…” She rushes on, defensively, “Of course, she has servants, so it’s easy for her, but Indians who come here never understand…”

  “Dad’s mother has servants?” says Nina. “Hey, cool.”

  I mouth, Shut up.

  Dad says tightly, “Rohini, she’s coming to see us, not the house.”

  Mom’s nostrils flare like she’s a warhorse going to battle. “Yes, but the fact is, Raj, for Your Mother, the state of the house reflects on me, not on you.”

  Dad says angrily, “It’s our house, both of ours, and—”

  “If that isn’t just like a man! How convenient of you to forget what she was like when—” She notices us staring, and stops abruptly.

  Nina and I exchange glances.

  The corners of Mom’s mouth come down. “It’s just … I’d like this visit to be as … as successful as possible.” Her voice is shaky.

  Dad puts his arm around her and looks at us firmly. Oh no. Dad usually vacillates, but when he puts his foot down …

  “All right, girls, looks like we’ll have to toss a coin.”

  I say quickly, “Wait. Mom, Dad, I think the basement room can work. Just let me finish.” It comes to me as I talk. “Why don’t we clean it out? You’ve always wanted to; now’s the chance. And I bet it can be really gorgeous if we…”—I pause for dramatic effect—“… redecorate it.”

  A faint gleam comes into Mom’s eyes—interior decorating was one of her favorite courses.

  Nina pitches in eagerly, “Yeah, Mom, we’ll even help. And think how great it’ll be for Gabby and Gampy, and Rittie and Bish, when they visit.”

  “But—” starts Dad.

  I race on, “We’ll get a big heater, it’ll be like having her own thermostat, and don’t forget there’s a bathroom down there. It’s better than sharing with us—you know how Nina clogs…” I stop as Nina looks warningly at me.

  Mom says tentatively, “Raj? What do you think? If we really fix it up…?” She’s gazing into the distance; she’s already planning it.

  Nina reaches out and grips my hand.

  Dad sighs heavily. “Maybe it is the best solution … if you think…”

  Nina and I both go, “Yes!”

  Mom wags her finger at us. “Hold it—I’ll expect you
both to help, okay? With my new job, I’ll have even less time than usual.” She looks suddenly tired. “And I suppose I’ll have to drop my writing course.”

  “It won’t be too bad,” says Dad, cheerfully. “We’ll get in cleaners. Decorators, too, for that matter.”

  “Yeah,” Nina and I say fervently.

  “Raj, you can’t get cleaners in without tidying first. Besides, we have to coordinate everything, and decorators do a terrible job of papering.”

  Nina and I exchange horrified glances. Mom and Dad papered the kitchen last year. They’d bought the wallpaper only five years before that. Dad was up on a chair holding on to the wallpaper, with water trickling down his arm, yelling, It’s not sticking. Mom snapped, Do I have to do everything myself? and climbed up on the chair. Then she shrieked, It’s not prepasted! You bought wallpaper that’s not prepasted! And Dad said, I didn’t buy it, you did, and Mom hollered, Never mind who. Now what do we do?

  From the family room, we can hear Maya singing along with the closing bars of Sesame Street.

  I nudge Nina and we creep upstairs to my room.

  “Jeez!” I huff. “What on earth is Dad’s freaking mother like…?”

  Nina just shakes her head, her eyes wide.

  I frown. “I wonder what Dad feels about her…?”

  We start laughing. It’s a joke in our house that whenever Mom asks Dad what he’s feeling he always comes back with I think.

  “Look, we’ve got to find out more about all this. I’ll try and talk to Mom, okay? And you keep your ears open—if Mom’s on the phone to Rittie or Gabby…”

  Nina grins. She has the most amazing knack for eavesdropping.

  She flings her arms around me. “At least we have our rooms. You were great, Tar. Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I set my clock radio for early the next morning so I can talk to Mom, but I wake up even before it goes off. I spend a few minutes lazing in bed—will I see Jeff today? Maybe this time I’ll say just the right thing, and … I jump as my radio comes on.

  I dress quickly and rush downstairs to the kitchen. This is my best chance to get Mom alone—Dad’s already gone to work, Maya won’t be up for a while, and Nina never gets up until the last possible moment. There’s no point even trying to talk to Dad, he’s hopelessly vague, but if I can get Mom to stop being discreet and Marmee-ish …

  “Hey, how come you’re up already?” Mom hugs me and plants a series of kisses.

  I go for the direct approach. “I want to talk to you. About Dad’s mother. What’s going on? Why’s she coming now?”

  Mom takes out some cereal bowls with one hand, opens the cutlery drawer with the other. “She must be lonely, dear—she’s been widowed for years. And she hasn’t seen your father in a while.”

  I digest that. Is that supposed to mean Dad’s mother isn’t interested in seeing Mom? Or us?

  “Okay. So how come she’s never been here before? And don’t give me that bull you gave me years ago, about how busy she is.”

  Mom glances at me as she takes out the Cheerios and Weetabix. “Well, she is. She’s a…” Mom pauses. “… a Very Capable Woman, with many demands on her time.”

  “Come on, Mom, I’m fifteen, and I’m not stupid. You keep saying I can talk to you about anything, and here you are, giving me the runaround.”

  Mom puts the cereal boxes down. “I’m sorry. I do want you to be able to talk to me about anything.”

  Bull’s-eye. I manage to smother my satisfaction.

  “It’s just, she is Raj’s mother, and whatever problems, er, differences, I may have … well, I don’t want to influence you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What makes you think you can?”

  “Brat.” Mom taps my cheek.

  “So what happened, Mom? Why didn’t you get along?”

  Mom’s face is guarded. “Well, let’s just say she wasn’t … thrilled when Raj and I got married.” She gets the milk jug out of the fridge.

  “Yeah, yeah, I figured that. But why? Hey, you’re nice and fair, aren’t you?”

  Mom turns around and snaps, “Don’t be flip, Tara. Not all Indians are concerned about skin color—you should know that. Raj’s parents are well educated, they’re not the lower-class type.” She bangs the milk down on the table.

  Oh sure! It’s fine for Mom to criticize the hypocrisies of Indian customs, but no one else can. And where does she get off with this class stuff anyway?

  But I choke down my irritation and say in my most reasonable tone, “That’s exactly my point—I don’t know anything about them, and I want to. It’s my family, and…”

  Mom takes the orange-juice jug out of the fridge and clicks her tongue. “Wonderful. Three drops. Why can’t you kids wash the jug?”

  “It wasn’t me, it’s Nina. Here. I’ll do it.”

  I wash the jug and get the orange-juice concentrate from the freezer.

  “So talk, Mom. What’s the family feud about?”

  Mom’s getting the peanut butter from the cupboard. She turns around, exasperated. “For goodness’ sake, there’s no feud, Tara. We just didn’t get along.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  She’s stiff again. “It’s just … Raj’s parents were very proud of being Indian and…”

  “Oh, great!” Shades of Tolly!

  Mom’s mouth is tight. “Yes, well, they saw it as part and parcel of supporting the Independence movement.” She spreads slices of bread on the cutting board and starts to slap on the peanut butter. “They felt they had to reject everything British—take the moral high ground.”

  “Give me a break!”

  Mom grimaces slightly. “Well, it was their whole way of life—their big cause.” She flushes, hurries on, “Not that everyone in India wasn’t for Independence; it’s not as though my parents were for British rule. They’ve talked about how appallingly the British treated Indians—like dirt, worse than dirt—but…” She swallows. “Raj’s parents, they were part of the committed inner circle—Mahatma Gandhi, the nonviolent demonstrations, everything. You know they even went to jail for it.”

  I can’t quite repress my grin.

  Mom wags her peanut-buttery knife at me. “Brat—it was civil disobedience, to overthrow oppression, and completely justified.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. Martin Luther King used some of Gandhi’s principles, and it’s cool, but—”

  Mom looks around. “Where’s the strawberry jelly?”

  I get it from the fridge.

  “I still don’t get what their problem was with you. You’re not a Brit, you…” I stop. There’s precious little Indian about Mom.

  Mom shrugs disdainfully. “They wanted Raj to marry someone more Indian.” She unscrews the lid and digs her peanut-buttery knife right into the jelly. It drives me crazy, but I bite my tongue. “And they wanted—no, expected—their son, us, to live in India.”

  “What?” I start to laugh. Yeah, that would go over big. Mom doesn’t even believe in being a hyphenated Canadian. Home’s home and it’s here. That’s why she gets so mad at Tolly and his kind.

  “So what happened? Was there a fight?”

  Mom claps the slices of bread together. “Let’s just say they made it abundantly clear that a good little Indian woman ought to follow her husband to his home.”

  “Yeah, right! Like Dad didn’t have a say in it.…” I trail off. Dad pretty much goes along with whatever Mom says.

  Mom puts the sandwiches in the plastic containers and bangs the lids shut. She’s almost talking to herself. “We discussed it before we got married; we both decided—it was unthinkable for me. Things are difficult in India. I’d left Bombay when I was thirteen; I’d lived in England and then here—did they want me to never belong? I had to survive, but”—Mom’s voice has a trace of bitterness—“to Raj’s parents, any westernized Indians had simply sold out to the oppressors.”

  “Oh, please!”

  Mom’s on a roll. “But it’s not as though the Indian c
ulture is just one thing. Bombay—Mumbai, they call it now—it’s westernized, international, but it’s India, too; and I can’t help the way I was brought up—it was my parents’ choice; but just because I don’t blindly glorify the Indian culture, pretend it’s all perfect, Raj’s family…” She swallows. “It was his mother, mostly. As far as she was concerned, I lured their son away from India. It was awful for Raj. We were so happy, but…”

  From upstairs, the toilet flushes.

  Mom’s head snaps up. “Goodness, that must be Maya. Tara, wash some apples, will you, dear?” She plugs in the kettle and dashes upstairs.

  Mechanically, I wash the apples, then pour myself a bowl of cereal.

  It’s crazy. Indian enough, not Indian enough. Lines, boundaries, on every side. I’m not exotic enough for the gee-I-love-your-culture types like Tolly, but too Indian for the rednecks that yell Paki.

  It comes rushing back, like a dark cloud. Samantha. In third grade. I don’t like Tara, she’s black.

  Me staring at my arms. Not black. My own familiar skin, brown, smooth. Golden, Mom said. It didn’t make sense.

  Me, telling Mom. “I’m a person, not a color.”

  Mom was livid. She sailed into school and spoke to the teacher, then the principal. I hugged the superiority Mom wrapped around me and tried to console myself with the thought of Samantha getting into trouble.

  But the principal ended up speaking to the whole class about same and different, how it didn’t matter about the color of your skin, and I just wanted to shrivel up and disappear. Don’t look at me, look at Samantha, she’s the one. Samantha apologized, but she said it again the next time she got mad. Except that time I didn’t tell Mom.

  Mom comes back to the kitchen and starts wiping the counter. The kettle is noisier now, gurgling as it heats. Nina’s banging around upstairs. She’ll be down soon, and Maya, too, even though she insists on dressing herself.