Blue Jasmine (9 page)

“Look at her hair. So bouncy and playful,” I said.

“Her hair is pretty, but I saw her when she walked in. She walks with an attitude,” Jennifer said. Yet all through lunch Jennifer kept watching Carrie. I wondered why.

That evening, I wrote Raju a letter.

Often. I thought about writing to Mukta, but I was afraid to ask her about her
kaki
. One more month passed. The February days were cold, but getting longer. On most weekends we met Indian families for dinner. The food, music, and talk made us all happy.

I got to know Asha well, since Asha's mother, Supriya Auntie, and my mommy became good friends, and her four-year-old brother Vishal and Mela enjoyed playing with each other. Many days after school Mommy, Mela, and I went to their house. When Asha practiced her piano I watched her hands glide smoothly over the keys. I wished I could learn to play music like that, but I knew piano lessons were too, expensive. In India if I wanted to learn something I wouldn't have worried about money. Things were different now. I knew that Mommy and Pappa were saving money so we could go back to visit India in two
years, and that I had to forget piano lessons if I wanted to visit my family.

In social studies class Ms. Wilson assigned us to present a report on a famous person. We had to research the person and then dress up like him or her and give a three-minute speech. The English and social studies classes were still giving me trouble, and I was terrified about standing up in front of the class and talking for so long.

At lunch one day I talked to Jennifer and Ria about it. Ria said, “You could be Abigail Adams or Sacajawea.”

“I don't know who Saca . . . Sacawea is.”

“It's not Sacawea, it's Sacajawea,” she replied.

Carrie was sitting at the next table and I knew she was listening to our conversation.

“I don't know anything about them. What if I pick a famous Indian person?” I asked softly.

“Who?” Jennifer asked.

“Kasturba Gandhi. She was Mahatma Gandhi's wife.”

Ria and Jennifer both nodded.

When I went home I told Mommy that I was going to be Kasturba Gandhi. I had played Kasturba's part the year before in a play, and I knew how she'd marched alongside her husband to gain freedom for India. I knew that the British government had repeatedly thrown her in jail, and yet how strong she'd remained, inspiring a generation of
women to fight for freedom. For the part, I'd worn a
khadi
sari, a rough, hand-spun cotton sari like the one Kasturba used to wear.

“I wish I had packed that sari. Mom.'' I said.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Dadima's
khadi
sari. The one I wore in the play last year.”

“Mommy has lots of saris. Why don't you wear her pink sari? It's so pretty,” Mela said, coloring a horse crimson.

“Because Kasturba wore only white saris made from the material she wove herself. Isn't that right, Mom?” I said. I turned to look at her, but she was gone.

“I don't like white saris,” Mela said.

“Then you shouldn't be Kasturba.”

Mommy returned with the sari that I'd worn for the play. “You packed it?” I was astonished.

“Dadima asked me to take it for you. I really didn't want to carry it, but she said, ‘It is Seema's special sari and you had better take it.' I must say that I almost took it out of the suitcase at the last minute when I couldn't fit all the things we wanted to bring here.”

“What made you bring it?”

“When Dadima told me that she'd helped weave this sari when she was ten years old, it became too precious. I had to bring it.”

“I'm so glad!”

Over the next few days, I wrote my speech. Mommy and Pappa both read it. I memorized it. I tried putting on my sari a few times until I could do it without Mommy's help. Now I needed the courage to get up in the front of the class in that sari and say my speech.

I'd noticed that whenever I spoke in class, Carrie watched me intently. Whenever I left to go to my math class, I felt her eyes glued to my back and it made me uneasy, because she never spoke to me. One day at lunch she sat next to me. There was not enough room, so I slid closer to Ria. Carrie didn't say thank you or give me a smile.

“My name is Carrie and I come from Lakeshore School. It's a private school,” she announced.

“I'm Jennifer and this is Ria and this is See—”

“Hi, Jennifer. Hi, Ria. Nice to meet you,” Carrie interrupted.

“Aren't you in Seema's class?” Ria asked.

“Yes.” Carrie said.

“Hi, Carrie,” I said.

“Hi,” she replied, with the warmth of freezing drizzle.

Jennifer glanced at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“How do you like our school?” Ria asked.

“I'm in a dumb class and I'm bored. Some people don't
even know how to speak English. In my old school people like that would never get admitted,” Carrie said, shooting a glance at me.

I felt the blood rushing to my face. Through my wheat-colored skin they would never know how embarrassed and mad I was, so I was safe. I began eating my sandwich faster.

“Seema is in algebra. Maybe you can take that. It'll be challenging,” said Jennifer.

“Very challenging,” Ria said, and nudged me with her elbow.

“I don't know if I have the time to take on extra work.”

“It's not extra work,” I said.

“Not extra, just more difficult.” Jennifer said.

“I'll see,” Carrie mumbled. Her face had lost its luster.

“Seema, have you figured out what you're going to be for social studies class?” Ria asked.

“Yes. Didn't I tell you? I'm going to be Kasturba, Man—”

“Who is Kastur—whatever the name is? No one on this planet knows who that is,” Carrie said.

“Kasturba was Mahatma Gandhi's wife, and millions of people in India and the world over know about her,” I said.

Before Carrie could say anything I took the last gulp of my juice and got up saying, “Bye, Jennifer. Bye, Ria. See you later.”

I don't know what happened after I left, but that afternoon Carrie glared at me. Her hair that I had thought was so pretty when she first came to school now looked like a thousand glassy-eyed lizards.

That afternoon as I was getting my things ready for algebra class, Carrie wrote something on a piece of paper and passed it to the next desk. Sam picked up the paper, read it, and laughed. Then Danny read it and giggled. Just as he was passing the note back to Carrie, I grabbed it and walked out. It read,
It seems that Seema can't seem to learn English. Give Seema some math and she seems to be satisfied
.

I didn't know what to do with the note. When I first started school I had been so worried about not knowing English, but Ms. Wilson had helped me and so had my ESL teacher. After six months of school, when I was feeling so much more comfortable, Carrie had to come and spoil it all. I wished Jennifer or Ria were in my class. I wouldn't be alone then. If Raju were here, it would be even better.

At dinner Mela tilted her head and asked sweetly, “You look sad, Seema. Are you hurting?”

I began to cry. Even though Mommy had made my favorite meal, spicy bread and potatoes cooked with tomato gravy, I couldn't eat.

I told Mommy that I was worried about Carrie. She listened
to me and tried to comfort me. “Tomorrow will be better.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't. You have to believe that, though.”

Instead of the next day being better it turned out to be the worst day yet.

“If Carrie weren't in my class I wouldn't be so nervous about the presentation,” I confessed at breakfast.

“She's only one person and she can't do anything to you. You have to draw your courage from who you are. After all, you're going to be Kasturba and you're going to wear a sari that Dadima wove. Think of all those brave women who fought for independence.” Mommy said.

I repeated Mommy's words to myself as if it they were a magical mantra. I was so afraid of Carrie that I worried that fear would dry my mouth and I wouldn't be able to get a word out. I chewed nervously on the end of my pencil when social studies began. Danny was the first to present. He was the Green Bay Packers' quarterback, Brett Favre. Dressed in a green jersey with the number four on it, a helmet and shoulder pads, he looked like a mini version of the players I'd seen on TV. I didn't understand American football, so I didn't know what he was talking about. When I watched football, unlike with cricket, I couldn't see the ball, and every play ended with
men piling up on one another. Many kids asked Danny questions, so it took a long time for him to finish. After Danny, Kim talked about Sally Ride, the first woman astronaut to travel into space. By that time my stomach began to twirl. I put my arm on it to hold it in place.

When I was two kids away from presenting, the bell rang and Ms. Wilson said that the rest of us would have to present the next day.

Carrie turned to Danny and said, “I don't like Brett Favre, because I'm a Bears fan, but I liked your speech. It was the best.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“I wish we were done already. Tomorrow will be
so
boring. We should have a rule to only present people we know. Who cares about a bunch of strange people from some foreign country?”

Danny didn't answer her. She went on, “Don't be surprised if I call in sick tomorrow or if I
s-e-e-m
to get sick just before someone's presentation.” She stretched out the “seem” so long that Danny gave me a quick glance. This fueled Carrie. “You seem to know what I am saying. Maybe I'll show up. It'll be fun!” she snickered.

I got up to leave for my ESL class.

“Good luck getting rid of your accent, Seem-a,” Carrie pressed each sound as if she were sipping a delicious drink.

I stopped. Say something, I urged myself, anything. But nothing came to my lips.

She laughed. I don't know if anyone laughed with her. I fled.

All through English I was too upset to learn a word. As soon as the bell rang I left without waiting for Jennifer or Ria. I had a problem and had to work it out myself.

It had snowed about an inch that afternoon, which made the sidewalks slick. I was still not used to walking very fast on snow, and suddenly, someone tugged my braid. As I turned to look I lost my balance, slid, and fell flat on my back. My right elbow was scraped and my right hand hurt, but I managed to get up. When I looked back all t saw were the masses of chick-pea–colored hair bouncing away.

Mommy bandaged my elbow and rubbed some almond oil on my hand. She didn't ask how I fell and I didn't tell her, not until that night, after Mela went to bed. “Mom, can you listen to my speech one more time?” I asked.