Read Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood Online
Authors: Varsha Bajaj
Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood
Varsha Bajaj
ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
For Jill, who believed
Chapter 1Be careful what you wish for
The one thing I want most in my life…? Hmm.
Miss Cooper needs to know that? Really?
My eyes dart from Zoey on my right to Priya diagonally across from me to the clock directly above Miss Cooper’s head. Three minutes to the bell. Unlike me, my friends are scribbling furiously.
We’re studying characters in literature and their deepest desires. I’ve read
Because of Winn-Dixie
every year since fifth grade. India Opal, my favorite character, wants to meet her mother. Miss Cooper said in her PBS voice, “Understanding your own desires will help you know the characters in novels better.” When Miss Cooper orders and assigns, you do her bidding or go to detention.
I gnaw my pencil. Ever since I fell in love with the violin,
I’ve imagined a string quartet, the full enchilada—a cello, two violins, and a viola—providing a sound track to my life. I told Mom about it and she laughed. “Oh, Abby, you’re funny! Most kids have an imaginary friend. You have a string quartet.”
Mom gets me. It’s always been Mom and me. We go together like the violin and the bow or apples and piecrust. We’d look like clones born twenty-one years apart except her hair is dirty blond and mine is as dark as the night. She says I have my dad’s hair. He’s Indian—as in, from India. And her lashes are a need-mascara length while mine are so thick and long, they look fake. But our brown eyes both turn lighter when the sun hits them.
As I reread and ponder the question, my string quartet picks up their bows and plays a deep, thoughtful song.
The bell buzzes.
I hurriedly scribble,
The one thing I want most in my life is excitement.
Liar!
My inner voice bursts out like an annoying pop-up on a computer screen and surprises me.
The thing you want most is to meet your father!
the inner voice accuses.
I strangle the voice. That is too personal. I could never whisper it, let alone write it down for a school assignment.
My life is a plate of perfectly edible but ordinary scrambled eggs. I want them savory, creamy, cheesy, and maybe with bacon on the side.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful or anything. Life is okay, just too normal. Nice mom, adorable grandparents, decent school sprinkled with a few teachers I love and some I can’t stand, and friends with
exciting
lives.
Zoey joins me as I threw things into my paisley-printed backpack. “Abby, you going to the Yogurt Cup with Priya and me?”
I nod.
Priya bounces over. “Race you to the bike stand!”
Juvenile
, I think but race anyway.
We bike in silence down the winding suburban road lined with crape myrtle. Our bikes cut through the humid, still air as we make our way to the Yogurt Cup, our haunt during the summer. Frozen yogurt is our way of crushing the Houston heat that holds us hostage July through September and sometimes even longer.
The short ride has us sweating already, as if our bodies are screaming,
Need to cool down! Why are you outside? It’s ninety-eight degrees! So what if it’s early October and school’s already started?
When we reach the store, we lock up our bikes out front. “Our exchange student from Norway arrives in six days,” says Zoey. “Her name’s Ingrid. She’s a senior in high school.”
Now
that
defines excitement. Why can’t my family host an Ingrid from Norway?
“Should I have a party? Invite a bunch of people to welcome her?” Zoey knots her thick, straight hair.
“Yeah,” says Priya. “It’ll distract me from the fact that my sister’s baby was due yesterday.”
That
also qualifies as excitement. Priya’s older sister and her husband are expecting a baby.
Our bikes secured, we walk in and hug the cold air like a long-lost friend. The scent of peach blossomy cleaner greets us. The décor is candy colored and futuristic like a
Jetsons
cartoon, only cooler.
Besides the air-conditioning, Counter Guy is the other reason we love this place. Zoey has the biggest crush on him. Today she’s wearing her favorite outfit, neon leggings and an oversized T-shirt with a swirly pattern, in case Counter Guy looks her way or telepathically guesses she wants to talk to him. He’s a high school senior—grades out of Zoey’s league, but so what?
When Priya once suggested that Zoey talk to him, Zoey almost fainted. Priya, on the other hand, is waiting for the day when Taylor Lautner gives up acting and enrolls in our school. Me? I don’t trust guys that much—other than my grandpa, of course. A smiling stork didn’t drop me swaddled in a pink blanket with
Abby Tara Spencer
embroidered on it into Mom’s arms from a puffy cloud. At thirteen, I know
better. I have a father, but I’ve never met him.
Now, if my father suddenly burst into my life,
that
would be excitement. But that’s as likely to happen as winter in July.
As I consider having a crush on a boy to introduce some thrills into my uneventful life, Zoey pokes me. “So, did I tell you guys that Ingrid from Norway plays the violin too, and she doesn’t know much English?”
“She and Abby can speak through their music,” Priya says in a Mrs. Cooper-PBS voice.
I reach for my favorite yogurt flavor, yellow cake mix. Mirroring her accent, I say, “My violin playing is as important to me as blood is to vampires.”
Distracted, I fill too much yogurt in my cup, and it oozes onto my hand. At forty-two cents an ounce, yogurt puts a dent in a girl’s money fast. I work hard for my yogurt money by helping at my mom’s coffee shop, Slice of Muse. It’s a coffee-for-your-zing, pie-for-your-tummy, and poetry-for-your-soul place.
“The two of you will bond through the purity of your vibratos.” Zoey adopts the most pathetic excuse for an English accent.
I smack her with my pink plastic spoon. “We’re doing Mrs. Cooper’s voice, not Simon Cowell’s!”
Yesterday I picked mango, strawberries—my fave fruit—and fruity pebbles. So today I choose different flavors. I pile
on the toppings without really thinking. Chocolate chips, itty-bitty cheesecake things, and other stuff. If I’m going to pay for extra ounces of yogurt, I’m going to get my money’s worth of toppings.
“It’s not fair. You guys have all the excitement in your lives,” I whine.
“You could have your name tattooed on your forehead or start playing your violin outside Target,” suggests Zoey.
“Or I could dye my hair purple,” I say, getting into the spirit.
“That will be three twenty-five,” says Counter Guy, and Zoey turns red. You’d think he said, “You’re cute. What are you doing Saturday evening?”
We pay and look over at our table. A group of kids has stolen it. Don’t they know it belongs to the ZAP trio? Zoey, Abby, and Priya. In third grade, Zoey and I stood up for Priya when the popular girls called her mint-chutney-and-cheese sandwich moldy. Since then, we’ve been a team. Our team finds a different table.
Priya looks into my yogurt cup and says, “I read yogurt cups.”
“Like tea leaves or tarot cards?” Zoey giggles. “Yep.” Priya looks serious.
I push my cup toward her. “Tell me my future, oh, all-seeing one.”
Priya waves her spoon-wand and stares into my yogurt’s soul.
“Are you a magician or a psychic?” I ask.
Priya shushes me. “I see you ruling the world one day…” “While playing the violin,” chimes in Zoey.
I grab my cup back and tasted a spoonful of yogurt before it melts. Ice cold pleasure. The toppings all work together today. Some days they don’t. Like when I got peanut butter morsels and strawberries.
Ooh, I taste something different. I dig around my cup to trace the new taste. Coconut flakes. I always thought I hated coconut—don’t ask me why—so I’ve never chosen it before.
For a few minutes, we savor our yogurt in silence. Then an itch on my cheek orders,
Hey! Scratch me.
I put my spoon down and obey. My cheek feels hot. The itch takes possession of my forehead and arm.
Uh-oh. Frantic scratch, scratch, scratch.
Priya looks up from her yogurt, “Abby, your face! Did something bite you?”
Zoey tears her eyes away from Counter Guy. “Oh my God, you have big red splotches on your face!”
The itch mushrooms to my arms. I stare at my skin in the reflective tabletop. I look like a horrid picture of a diseased plant from a science textbook!
My lips are numb and the itch squeezes its fingers around my throat. I try to take a deep breath and can’t.
What’s happening?
Priya stands over me. “Oh my God, Abby. Your lips are huge.”
“Like a cross between Angelina Jolie and Nemo,” says Zoey, flailing her arms in the air.
I search for more air. I inhale the deepest breath possible but can’t get enough. I inhale again and again. Am I hyperventilating?
Where has all the oxygen disappeared?
Seeing the panic in my eyes, Priya reaches for her cell phone. And can’t find it. She grabs Zoey’s. It has a low battery signal.
“Abby, are you dying?” Zoey shouts, panicked.
Counter Guy runs to our table with his cell phone in hand. I itch, gasp, and try to feel my numb lips all at once. Priya grabs the cell phone and jabs 911. Zoey hops around and
holds my hand.
“We need help at the Yogurt Cup on the corner of Chestnut and Rice,” Priya orders. “My friend can’t breathe. She’s sick. Hurry!”
Chapter 2Dna
I gasp. Each breath is a struggle. The emergency medical people arrive within minutes of the 911 call.
They shoo everyone away from me, take my pulse, stare at my impression of a fish on a steel hook, radio the nearest ER, hoist me onto a stretcher, and head to the ambulance.
Priya and Zoey gather my stuff and scurry beside me. All I want is a big gulp of oxygen and my mom. “Call
Mom,” I wheeze in Priya and Zoey’s direction.
“We did already,” says Priya. “And so did the EMT. She’s on her way.”
“We can’t allow you to ride in the ambulance, but her mom is on her way,” says the EMT. “Your friend is not alone.” “Don’t worry, Abbs,” says Zoey. “Text us the minute you
get home.”
The world around me swirls. The ambulance is like a dinosaur in the parking lot. People stare. I could die of embarrassment if whatever is happening to me doesn’t kill me first. I should’ve worn my new crisp underwear, not the old comfy ones with faded pansies on my butt.