Indie Girl (21 page)

My parents both looked uncomfortable. I knew my mother was tempted to break the tension with an offer of freshly baked walnut muffins and coffee. But she didn’t offer food.

“Miss Taylor. May I say something?” my mother asked. She came to my side and put her arm across my shoulders.

“Our Indie, she has done so much for you,” my mother said quietly. “And she has asked for nothing in return. We have never quite understood her fascination with this fashion thing, but we have always respected her and chosen to support her. But I must say, Miss Taylor, your mistreatment of our daughter has saddened me enormously. We are both mothers after all. Our children are everything. We would die to protect them from hurt. Surely you agree?”

Aaralyn flinched. She looked over at Kyle, who was
sitting on our grassy front lawn and was quite content pulling petals of daisies and laying them on the top of his head.

Then Aaralyn shut her eyes for a second. Her eyelids were dusted with beige shimmer powder. Even in the bright morning sun, her skin was flawless. But beneath the perfect veneer, she looked troubled.

“Mrs. Konkipuddi, Indie, that’s one of the reasons I am here today,” she said. Her voice was almost whisper-quiet, and completely lacking in the harsh undertone she had almost always spoken to me in.

“Apart from telling you about Brooke, there’s something more important. After I fired Aldo yesterday, I lay in bed all night and realized, with momentous regret, that I have never thanked you. Not for anything. Not for the sensational job you have been doing with Kyle and for all the immeasurable things you did for me and my magazine. That Trixie Van Alden story. Then Luca Berlutti, which was the scoop that got my magazine sold and set me up for life. And, of course, finding out about Aldo.”

“That bit was my mother,” I said, smiling more fully now.

“You have to understand something about me, Indie. I have always fought to be in control. I have always wanted to be at the top of my game. I have never wanted to admit that I needed help from anyone. And then you come along, a teenage babysitter with no work experience, and you
help me in ways I could never have imagined. It was all a bit too much for me to comprehend. I just didn’t want to admit that I had failed in so many ways. It left me feeling so inadequate.”

My heart swelled at hearing something from Aaralyn that sounded so poignantly truthful.

“And Indie, before I go, there’s just one other thing,” she said.

“When I came to your school, you were the first one to stand up and ask me a question. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, Aaralyn. How could I forget?”

“Your question was about what a person needed to get into this business. I told you the only truth I know: that it takes connections and contacts. I stand by that.

“But,” she continued, now putting her hand on my arm, “if there’s anybody who can make it without those connections, Indie, it’s you. You live for fashion and those are the people who always make it in this business, connections or not. You are passionate about it and, more than that, you’re smart about it. Do you know how rare that it is? And, beyond all that, you have a grace and courtesy beyond your years, an utter lack of guile. I do hope you’ll go where your dreams take you, Indie.”

My father had heard every word and nodded.

“We’ll see,” I said, my voice steady and resolute. “But
right now I have a plane to catch.”

“Well, I’d better get back to the office,” Aaralyn replied brusquely. “Brooke is out lunching at The Ivy and wants to spend the afternoon following Paris Hilton around Kitson.” At that, she rolled her eyes.

“Oh, and by the way,” she said. “Cayman called from camp this morning. He says to say hi. He’s going to e-mail you in India.”

I smiled. It was going to be a fun summer after all.

Aaralyn extended her hand toward me, reconsidered for a second, and then leaned in to hug me.

“Next summer, maybe?” she asked.

“Next summer,” I replied.

She put Kyle in his car seat, got into her car, and drove off.

And this time, knew I didn’t have to run after it.

Kavita Daswani has been a fashion correspondent for CNN International and CNBC Asia, and has written for the
Los Angeles Times,
among many other publications. Her first adult novel,
For Matrimonial Purposes,
was hailed as a “cross-cultural confection” by
People
magazine, as “delightful” by
USA Today,
and as “Bridget Jones with a distinct Indian flavor” by
School Library Journal. Booklist
called her novel
The Village Bride of Beverly Hills
“a thoughtful romantic comedy.” And Jennifer Weiner raved that
Salaam, Paris,
Kavita’s third adult novel, is “the perfect blend of real-life drama and fairy-tale whimsy.”

Kavita lives with her husband and two sons in Los Angeles, where she writes for
Women’s Wear Daily
and
Vogue India.
She makes her YA debut with
Indie Girl.

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