Fifteen Lanes (10 page)

It was late when the boys’ mother finally stuck her head out the window and called them home to bed. I decided it would be a good time for me to slip in and put Aamaal and Shami to bed as well. We were all tired. Aamaal refused to go in until we gave awards to Lucky and his two accomplices, the clear champions of our new game. I dug through the stinking pile of refuse until I came up with a wilted flower for each of them. Aamaal presented them with great flourish and was delighted when the goats ate them. Then we all headed inside.

We skirted a pile of vomit just inside the door, the effects of Binti-Ma’am’s homemade alcohol. The stench of urine in the hallway was particularly strong, as it always was in the evening. The customers rarely bothered to walk a few steps farther and use the latrine.

We approached the open doorway of the lounge, which buzzed with the loud voices of drunken men and the aunties trying to tempt them upstairs. Snack vendors calling out their wares as they circulated the room added to the din. Betel nuts were a particular favorite. Old Shushila would spend the next morning, as she always did, cleaning up the red spit that would coat the floor by night’s end. By this point in the evening many aunties would be as drunk as the men, or high on drugs. I sped up, pushing my charges in front of me. We needed to pass quickly to avoid unwanted attention.

In my hurry, I didn’t see the man coming out of the lounge until he was upon us. He bumped into Aamaal, grabbing her shoulder to steady himself.

“What have we here?” he said, pinching one of her soft round cheeks.

“Just the little ones going to bed,” I said, prodding them forward. The boys slipped past but he still had hold of Aamaal, so I stayed where I was.

“You’re a pretty one, and already with a baby.”

I was relieved to see his attention diverted from Aamaal.

“I need to get them to bed,” I repeated.

“How much do you charge?”

“I don’t work, Uncle-ji.” I deliberately used the term of respect. “I’m just a schoolgirl.”

“I won’t hurt you. We could have fun.”

Aamaal whimpered.

“Go to bed, Aamaal. Tell Ma I’ll be along soon.” She stared at me with big eyes. I hoped she took my meaning. I untied the sari from my shoulder, gently shifting Shami into Aamaal’s arms. The man let her pull away from him, his attention completely on me now. Aamaal ran, Shami’s head bobbing on her shoulder as she rounded the corner.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said.

“I’m only eleven, Uncle.”

“Don’t be coy, girl. What’s your price?” He put one hand on the wall behind my back and leaned toward me. I shrank away.

“Noor, what are you doing here?” It was the first time in my life I was happy to see Pran.

“I’m just going to bed,” I said and tried to push past the man. He grabbed my arm.

“How much for the girl?” he demanded.

“She’s not yet working.”

“I’d pay a lot for a fresh girl.”

“You don’t want this one. She’s too dark.”

“I don’t care. Name your price.”

“Let go of my daughter!” Ma charged up behind Pran and stepped into the glow of the fluorescent lamp, grabbing my other arm.

The man laughed harshly. “She’s your daughter? But you’re a devadasi. Why delay the inevitable? How old were you when your parents sold you?”

“We’ll sell her in good time.” Pran put a hand on the man’s shoulder and steered him back into the lounge. “Come, I’ll show you a prettier one.”

Ma and I stood alone in the hallway. Her face looked pale in the stark light, her cheeks deeply hollowed.

“What was he talking about, Ma? What does it mean to be a devadasi?”

“It’s late, Noor. I need to get back to work, and you have school tomorrow.”

I stood my ground. “Tell me.”

She hesitated.

“It’s the tradition of our community. It goes back hundreds of years. One daughter, usually the oldest, is dedicated to serve the temple.”

“Serve in what way?”

Ma sighed.

“In what way, Ma?”

“In the old days we were courtesans to the priests and sometimes the wealthy landowners.”

“And now?”

“The history has been lost. Now we’re sold to the highest bidder. It’s how we support our families. The practice has been outlawed but it remains our tradition.”

“And I am also a Devadasi.” I wanted her to disagree. There had to be a way out.

“No one can escape their fate, Noor.”

I knocked her aside as I bolted past her, down the hallway, up the ladder, across our small, shared room and under her bed. Aamaal was already there. She was curled around a sleeping Shami but her eyes shone brightly from the shadows.

I pulled her into my arms with Shami sandwiched between us and massaged her knotted shoulders. “I’m all right, Aamaal. You did well.”

Closing my eyes, I breathed in Shami’s sour milk smell and the coconut oil I’d smeared on Aamaal’s hair that morning. Gradually her coiled limbs relaxed and her breathing became deep and regular. When Ma came in I pretended I was asleep. All through the night I listened to the noises of her customers. They took on new meaning. For the first time I associated them with my own future. When the last one had finally departed I was still wide awake.

I crawled out from under the bed before dawn and spent longer than usual scrubbing myself in the washing room. I packed my schoolbag and went to school without speaking to anyone. Gajra was at the fence waiting for me when I arrived. Together we walked over to a cluster of girls from my class.

“It’s not fair,” said one. “The boys always have games at recess. They can play cricket and football. There’s never anything fun for us. We just stand here on the sidelines watching.”

“I have a game,” I said, thinking quickly. “It’s called Toppling Towers. You all need to get out your erasers, as many as you have, and perhaps pencil sharpeners as well, if they’re flat and we can stack them.”

“Trust you to think of something fun for us to do. I bet someday you’ll be a games mistress at some posh girls’ school.”

“You forget she always takes first in Math and English,” said Gajra, forever ready to point out my achievements. “Our Noor will become something far more important than a games mistress. A doctor is more likely, or perhaps an inventor.”

“India’s own Steve Jobs,” crowed another girl. “What do you think, Noor? Will you one day be rich and famous?”

I forced a smile. “No one can escape their fate.”

The ride to school was as silent as the trip home the day before. Dad held my hand again as we crossed the parking lot. Mom walked on the other side of me. I was grateful for the show of solidarity but it wasn’t the same as forgiveness. Her back was rigid as we entered the school. Her eyes betrayed her anxiety, flitting from side to side as though she expected to see the walls plastered with my half-naked image. I wondered if she was thinking about her plan to run for school council president that year. Was it another disappointment I should apologize for?

When we reached the office, we were asked to take seats. We probably waited less than five minutes. It seemed much longer.

Mr. Smiley came out to greet us, shaking both of my parents’ hands. They made some small talk about the heavy traffic as he ushered us into a large meeting room off his own office. I
was alarmed to see not only the vice principal but my homeroom teacher, the coordinator of the International Baccalaureate program, my community service advisor and the school counselor. For a fleeting moment, I registered horror that now
everyone
knew, which was silly when you think about it. Who on earth did I think
didn’t
know?

As we took our seats, my parents insisted I sit between them. It made me feel marginally better to know that they were both claiming me as their own. Mr. Smiley looked as though he’d regained some of his trademark good humor. He opened the meeting by asking if we’d managed to talk things through as a family.

“We still have a few things to settle,” said Dad.

Mom held the same tight expression she’d had yesterday in the elevator. I fervently hoped she didn’t start bawling again.

“Well, we’ve had some very useful discussions on our end,” said Mr. Smiley. “Mr. Donleavy, Grace’s community service advisor, thinks he has the perfect program to help Grace make amends for what she’s done and gain some insight into the risks of this kind of behavior.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” said Mom in a voice that sounded like she wanted to do anything but.

“Mr. Donleavy, why don’t you explain,” said Mr. Smiley.

Mr. Donleavy immediately produced multiple copies of a package of information, which he slid across the table. He gave me an encouraging smile as I took mine and I did my best to smile back. Everyone liked Mr. Donleavy. If it’s possible for a teacher to be hot—and let’s be honest, some of them are—Mr. Donleavy was our school’s number-one hottie. Before all this happened he’d even started to make me feel guilty because
I’d so resolutely vetoed his various suggestions for community involvement. I guess he got the last laugh.

I looked at the pamphlet clipped to the top of my pile. It had pictures of girls of various ages doing everything from yoga to studying. I really hoped he wasn’t going to suggest I work with little kids. My single experience doing that was when I’d agreed to help one of my cousins babysit one summer. She left me alone on a beach with her three-year-old charge for ten minutes while she went back to the cottage to get us drinks. I got so distracted building the kid a sand castle that I didn’t notice him wander away. We eventually found him, but after that my cousin and I both agreed I was not babysitter material.

“This is an NGO that works to prevent second-generation trafficking,” said Mr. Donleavy. “They have a variety of programs for the girls, including after-school tutoring, life skills, sex education—”

“Wait a minute,” Dad interrupted. “Who did you say these girls were?”

“The daughters of sex workers,” said Mr. Donleavy, without a second’s hesitation. The poor guy had no idea the beast he was about to awaken.

“SEX WORKERS!” Mom shrieked. “My daughter makes one tiny mistake and you think she’s fit to work with sex workers?!”

“It’s not a punishment—” started Mr. Donleavy.

“Well, actually—” cut in Mr. Smiley.

“She’d work with the daughters, not the actual—” the counselor interrupted, trying to bring things down a notch.

“She sure as hell won’t!” said Mom, jumping to her feet. “I’ve heard enough. If you people can’t come up with a better plan
than this, this …” No one cut Mom off; she was just too angry to finish her sentence.

“What kind of work would it be?” I asked in a small voice.

Dad put a hand on Mom’s arm. She sat down again.

“There are several activities, Grace,” said Mr. Donleavy, “but I had a particular one in mind. If I may …?” He looked at Mom, who gave a grudging grunt.

“The NGO wants to start a new teen-to-teen program. The girls would be a little younger than you, probably thirteen or fourteen. They’d like to pair students one by one, so you’d mentor one girl, sort of like a big sister.”

“What would we do together?”

“Well, to some extent that would be up to you. You might help with homework. But, as you got to know each other better, you might plan outings. A lot of these girls never leave their own neighborhood, and it’s a very poor neighborhood they live in.”

“Will she know what I’ve done?”

“She’ll know you’re volunteering for school credit. What you tell her beyond that is up to you. But these girls grow up in brothels, Grace. I think you’ll find they’re pretty difficult to shock.”

I nodded.

“I think I could do that. What do you think, Mom?” I was determined not to do anything else to disappoint her.

She gave me a long, steady look. Not taking her eyes off me, she answered, “I think any girl would be lucky to have Grace for a sister.”

My relief was so intense tears sprang to my eyes. I didn’t kid myself that my mom was over her anger but it was a start.

Mom and Dad left shortly after that and I spent another hour with the counselor talking about how to handle potential bullying at school. She made me promise to tell her if anyone gave me a hard time. All I had to do was show her my phone. Messages were coming in so fast I had to keep deleting them for fear they’d consume my message space. As tempting as it would have been to turn in my tormentors, I didn’t know who they were. The last I’d heard, Todd and Madison were denying involvement, though I’d had a brief text exchange with Kyle, who confirmed his antipathy toward Todd. He refused to elaborate, just saying Todd had messed things up with him and Anoosha. Of course, I didn’t tell him my own problem.

I walked into my third-period class feeling like everyone was whispering about me. It was probably the first and last time in my life I was happy to be in a Math class; the lesson was at least sufficiently challenging to hold everyone’s attention. The class passed slowly but without incident.

The next period was lunch. I’d already resolved to spend that in the library and went back to my locker to drop my books.