Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (23 page)

We have so much to talk about.”

They have a lot of catching up to do.

If I had any doubts about Dad’s ability to win over people, they are gone after I see him with my grandparents.

“This sauce is the best I have ever eaten,” he says to Grandma as he reaches for a second helping of her spaghetti and meatballs.

He admires Grandpa’s handiwork around the house and asks, “When are you two coming to visit me in Mumbai?”

“Well now,” says Grandpa pleased, “we’ll have to plan that, won’t we?”

That night, Priya greets me at her door with “Abby Spencer, you are late!”

I can barely keep the grin from my face. Her party’s guest list has grown. I can see at least ten girls behind her.

I take a deep breath. “Well, since you rolled out a red carpet,” I say, pointing to the construction paper, “I thought I’d bring along a real, live movie star.”

On cue, Dad gets out of the car and saunters up to the door. The girls inside shriek in disbelief.

Priya is speechless.

Her mom makes some garbled sounds and then faints. Luckily, she’s quick to revive and we don’t need to call 911.

After things calm down, I show them the magazine cover. Even though one copy is a charred mess, Dad has a few more copies in his suitcase. Lots of oohs and aahs!

Dad asks them if I’ve told them about Shaan and me being in a song in his next film. Priya and Zoey’s faces are priceless.

“Dad,” I say. “I didn’t tell them because I didn’t think we’d make it in the movie. We could be cut, you know.”

Dad grins. “I do have some influence. I plan to make sure that you kids stay.”

More shrieks. Then it’s performance time.

Dad takes out his iPod as planned and plays the song from the movie and I play it on my violin, which I’d bought along.

Dad and I teach them the
dhak, dhak, dhin
moves. Shake, shake, twirl, and bump. Dancing + happy = happy dancing late into the night.

I’ll never forget that party. Ever.

I text Shaan and fill him in. If only he could be there, it would be complete.

The next morning, Dad insists on coming to Mom’s store. We tie on our aprons and get to work.

Mrs. Harris, one of Mom’s regulars, looks over at Dad, and winks at me as she leaves with her chocolate chiffon pie. “My, my!”

“He’s my dad,” I say, and she turns bright red.

I text Priya that Dad is at the store. She tells her mom who beats the drums and makes sure the entire community knows. Every South Asian person in Houston must have come to buy a pie that morning.

Mom has to call in the reserves—Grandma and Grandpa!

With a pie in my hand, I look around me. I have to literally stop and take in the moment and capture it and savor it like a bite of blueberry pie.

Dad is at the counter, Grandma running the cash register. Grandpa coaxes the crowd into order and Mom runs back and forth replenishing pies. All the people I love, my entire family, are with me, around me, and my heart feels as light as a balloon floating above a field of bluebonnets. If only Grandma Tara were here! But I know I’ll see her again.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, looking at the empty pastry case at noon, “you didn’t tell me how your movie did.”

“It wasn’t important, Abby.” But then he beams. “It smashed all box office records. I plan to start a charitable foundation in Mumbai with some of the profits. “Will you come down and help me?”

“I’ll be there to help you when summer rolls around,” I promise.

They are the best three days. There is a once-in-a-decade dusting of snow in Houston. Only appropriate. Dad is here. It’s a miracle. Even the weather gods understand that.

I’m so content I almost don’t need presents for Christmas. Almost. The string quartet merrily plays “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

“He’s my dad,” I say. “Meet my dad.” I say it a million times during those days, and—believe me—it never gets old.

Kelly Barrales-Saylor at Albert Whitman edited this book and made it stronger. Kristin Zelazko has an amazing eye for detail and made sure Abby’s journey was on schedule.

My agent Jill Corcoran’s enthusiastic response to this story carried Abby and me through the journey.

Gratitude goes to Cynthia Leitich Smith and Kathi Appelt, who helped me believe that I could write. They have hearts as big as Texas.

Thank you to my readers and writing friends: Vonna, Kathy, Marty, Laura, Russell, Melissa, Shelli, Vicki, Liz, Chris, and Joy.

My biggest thanks go to my family. Karishma wanted me to write a “happy story about India.”

Samir’s zest for life is reflected in my writing. Rajeev’s quiet strength is my anchor.

Thank you to my Dad, Shashi Walavalkar, who read every line of the manuscript and has been present every day of my life.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2014 by Varsha Bajaj

978-1-4804-7557-1

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