Lovetorn (14 page)

“Fine,” said Catherine, transposing the names of the orchestra and the charity. “Don’t think it makes that much of a difference, but whatever you say.”

We all looked at it. Even sketched in pencil on a sheet of lined A4 paper, it had a clean, professional appearance.

True to his word, Toby emailed me later that day with the list of pieces the orchestra was planning on playing. The names meant nothing to me: Danse Infernale—
The Firebird Suite
by Igor Stravinsky, Vivaldi’s Concerto Grosso in D Minor—Spring from
The Four Seasons
, Piano Solo—“Flight of the Bumblebee” by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. European classical music was a whole other world. It was never played at home in Bangalore or something I’d learned about in school. I don’t think I’d ever even heard a sampling of it—something that, at this particular moment, filled me with a considerable amount of embarrassment.

As soon as I’d finished reading his note, an email popped up from Vikram. Seeing their names in my in box, one directly beneath the other, made me feel a bit sick.

“Hi Shalu,”
Vikram wrote.
“What’s going on? Haven’t heard from you in a while. How are Uncle? Aunty? And Sangita? And school? Everything really good here. Busy with finals. Lots and lots of work. I’ll call you in the morning, okay? Love you lots, Vikram.”

Somehow, I didn’t feel as excited to hear from Vikram. And then it hit me. It was almost identical to every other email he’d sent me since I’d been here. It was sweet and affectionate. But he asked me about the same things he always did—my parents and sister—and told me about the same things he always did—college and his busy life. There was no mention of Stravinsky, or fundraisers, or the most worthwhile charities to support. Not that there should have been, of course. But everything about Toby was new and interesting, and everything about Vikram was the same as it had always been: cozy, kind . . . and the same. I hated feeling that way. But there it was.

Toby texted me before dinner.

“
Did u get my email? All ok?
”

“xlnt,”
I wrote back.
“Repertoire looks good.”
(Not that I’d know the difference.)

“Need to go over a few things,”
he wrote
. “Lunchtime Monday?”

Chapter Eighteen

EVEN THOUGH,
technically speaking, Toby hadn’t asked me out to lunch, I spent the weekend happily deluding myself that he had done just that. Despite my limited experience with such things, even I knew that there was a definite difference between being asked to go to lunch with someone and meeting them at lunchtime. But I liked the idea that Toby had asked to see me at a time when he was no doubt busy and in demand. There was going to be food involved. It would, most likely, be just the two of us. This was as close to a “lunch date” with him as I would ever get.

We had arranged to meet on the lawn by the big oak tree.

On Monday morning I could barely think about anything else; homeroom, math, English—it was all a blur, me just going through the motions. It wasn’t in character for me. But this whole thing—my infatuation with this boy—was very out of character for me as well.

At the appointed time I rushed over to the meeting place. He wasn’t there yet. I wondered if he might have a picnic basket and a blanket, if we would be like all those other kids who relaxed on the grounds at lunchtime, eating sandwiches and salads from plastic containers. We would have an interesting and funny conversation, and maybe I would see something in his eyes telling me he felt about me like I felt about him. I smoothed down my hair and took a book from my bag, pretending to look casual, but I couldn’t concentrate on a single word.

I looked up after a few moments and saw him crossing the grounds toward me. He was with two girls. My heart sank. There was no picnic basket, and he was bringing friends. Maybe one was his girlfriend, I realized. The thought alone made me nauseous.

He stopped for a second, said something to the girls; they looked my way, nodded smilingly, and hung back. He strolled alone toward me. My heart rose a little.

“Hey,” he said, tossing his hair away from his eyes. “Sorry I’m a couple of minutes late.”

“It’s okay,” I said, tucking my book back into my bag. “Shall we sit somewhere?”

“I can’t really stay,” he said. “I just needed to give you this.”

My heart sank again. This wasn’t what I had hoped it would be. From a folder in his backpack he pulled out the orchestral seating plan for the night of the concert.

“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” he said. “We’ll have it all set up the night before. But I wanted you to have a copy of it just in case anything comes up, if one of the musicians is sick or something and we have to make some last-minute adjustments onstage.”

“Oh,” I said. “Cool.”

“That’s it,” he said. His thumb was hooked through a belt loop. He stared at me through feathery-dark lashes. He was so good-looking, it kind of took my breath away. “Oh, we’ll need bottled water backstage at intermission. The theater department knows how to do the lighting. It’s all good. If you think of anything else, text me. I’ll do the same. But for now, that’s it. Gotta run,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, cursing myself for my pathetic monotone responses.

He turned and went off, rejoining the group, leaving me standing by the oak tree, yesterday’s squashed sandwich at the bottom of my bag.

Even though I was fully cognizant of the fact that I had set myself up for this disappointment, I felt utterly dejected the rest of the day. I had allowed myself to think that this lunch meeting with Toby was going to be a big deal, that it would be some insanely romantic interlude in an otherwise ordinary day. Instead, he had handed me a sheet of paper and within thirty seconds had returned to a far more attractive and radiant group of people. Who could blame him?

There was something different about the couch when I got home that evening. The four cushions that usually lay on it were now propped up, their pointed velvet corners touching. I squinted at them.

My mother. This was how she always arranged cushions. She had been down here. This was her handiwork.

A surge of excitement swept through me. I leaped upstairs, rushing past the temple room from where I could smell freshly lit incense. She had been in there too. Somewhere between last night and this morning, my mother—my drug-addled, depressed, dependent mother—had come back to us. My heart cheered.

She was in my bedroom folding T-shirts. She turned to look at me as I stood in the doorway, my hands clutching the frame. There was a lightness to her face.

“Has Sangita gone swimming?” she asked. She had noticed my sister’s stronger, tanned body, strands of her dark hair burnished by the sun. “With her new friend?”

“Yes, Ma. Amy. Her best friend.” I let my arms drop.

“Good. Friends are important,” she said.

She and I stood in silence. I wanted to ask her about the night before, to ask her how she was feeling, what she was going through. But I was scared to disrupt the calm that seemed to have settled over us.

“Your clothes are folded,” she said. “I’m feeling a headache coming on. I need to lie down.”

She went into her bedroom and gently shut the door.

She did not come out of her room again for the next four days.

Chapter Nineteen

THE TWO WEEKS BEFORE
the concert were a blur.

My mother went to her second support group and was on her third set of drugs. My father still didn’t know what went on inside the room, although he had spoken to the elderly father of another woman in the group who had said he felt that all the women there “just complained.” Dr. Gupta would only say that progress was being made, that the forum would provide a place where my mother would “feel safe,” as if she was in any danger at home. My father was simply grateful that my mother would leave the confines of her room at least once every two weeks, although he had to concede that there were instances when her mood seemed lighter, that she said more than a few terse words in the course of the day.

But I still had heaps of household chores to deal with, a huge amount of homework, a fiancé I needed to try and speak with at least a couple of times a week. There were days when I would walk with Sangita to school in the morning and not see her again until bedtime. Then there was the obsession with a flute-playing boy that wouldn’t release me. I couldn’t stop thinking about Toby. Renuka said that I was “totally allowed to be crushing on him” and that it didn’t make me bipolar, which was a relief.

Amina, in the meantime, had piled extra tasks on the group in preparation for the big show. She said we needed to be “relentless” about selling tickets. Mr. White announced the concert in homeroom a couple of times, and afterward a few of the kids—including Charlie—came up to me and bought a few tickets. Magali took four, and even smiled weakly at me and said thank you as she handed over the money for them. I was also responsible for arranging the concession booth; a local store had sponsored a refreshment table; and I had managed to convince Delhi Delites & Supplies to donate boxes of Indian snacks, which we could sell to make extra money.

Eight days before the concert, Amina called me in a panic. Not all the tickets had been sold. The auditorium was still half empty.

“I can put up more posters,” I offered. “I’m sure that will help?”

“It’s not looking good,” she said. She sounded on the verge of tears. She had had such high hopes for the event, and she was taking personally the fact that the concert was not going to be sold out.

But then, three days later, she called again.

“We’re at full house!” she shrieked. “Someone called and bought the rest of the tickets! It’s crazy!” She was ecstatic.

The night before the concert I couldn’t sleep. I had weird dreams of baby Krishna curled up in his mother’s arms, flutes that danced in the air as if suspended from invisible strings, Vikram’s face in the rain, Amina and me on a carousel ride. It was all nonsense, and I put it down to nerves. But I woke up tired. I wanted to stay in bed a little longer, but I had promised Amina that I would be at the school grounds by ten to oversee preparations.

It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday, the kind of day for which Los Angeles is famous. I made my way straight to the auditorium, which we had asked the night janitor to leave unlocked. I turned on all the lights, and they came on with startling brightness. The stage floor had been waxed to a shiny gloss; the music stands and chairs were already set up. I pulled out the seating chart Toby had given me and checked that everything was in order, counting the chairs and how many were in each row. It was perfect.

I walked back down the stairs to the seating area and up and down the aisles. The dark red carpet had been vacuumed, the armrests between seats cleaned, the wooden floors underneath swept. It looked as if nothing had been missed. But when I got to the last three rows, I noticed a couple of empty plastic water bottles littering the floor, a takeout bag, an old magazine, chewing gum wrappers. I wasn’t sure what had happened there—maybe the janitor had to leave suddenly or had forgotten to do the back. I left the hall and found the room where the janitorial supplies were kept, grateful that the door was unlocked. I dragged a long, unwieldy broom and dustpan to the auditorium. I began sweeping the floor at the back of the room, making sure to check under the seats and in each armrest for old cups and used ticket stubs.

I was startled to hear the doors open. I looked up and saw that a few of the musicians were coming in. I checked my watch. I had forgotten that there was going to be an eleven o’clock rehearsal. Toby was leading the group. At first none of them saw me. They went up onstage, finding their places, laughing among themselves. I stood, leaning against the broom, watching. I couldn’t take my eyes off Toby.

A girl with a harp was the first to see me.

“Oh, hey,” she said. She was still holding her giant instrument. I wondered how she had gotten it here.

Everyone turned to see who she was talking to. I had put on my oldest clothes this morning, not thinking I’d run into anyone. My hair was in a ponytail coiled at the top of my head. I must have looked a sight.

“The janitor forgot to do these last three rows,” I said. My voice rebounded off the walls in the quiet room. “I’ll be done in a few minutes and then I’ll be out of your way.” I let go of the handle of the dustpan, and it clattered loudly to the floor. I bent down to pick it up and then accidentally let go of the broom. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was.

Toby smiled, put down his flute case, and came bouncing down the steps.

“Here, let me help,” he said. He walked toward me. He picked up the dustpan and broom.

“Who’d they make these for?” he asked. “LeBron James? Jeez, they’re huge!” We both laughed. He swept while I bent over to pick up any trash, which seemed easier than dealing with the broom and dustpan. When everything looked in order, I told him I would take the equipment back to the cleaning closet and he could get on with the rehearsal.

“Thanks for helping,” I said.

“No problem,” he replied, his hands on his waist. “I want this to be a good night too. Not going to happen if someone smells last week’s KFC under their seat.” We laughed again. The lights overhead were positioned right on his dark, shiny hair. He smiled his bright smile. His eyelashes curled up just so. I was crazy about him.

After I left the auditorium, I saw Amina, Patrick, Justine, and Catherine in the foyer. They were unfolding large tables, tacking up posters, and removing stacks of programs from cardboard boxes. Amina said she could barely sleep the previous night, and the others seemed preoccupied and nervous. I could understand why: we had each invested so much time in this event. It belonged to all of us. We needed it to be a success.

“What are you smiling about?” Amina asked me. I was unfurling a banner for the refreshment stand. After my exchange just now with Toby, and flush with the warmth I felt that he so gallantly came over to help me sweep, I had a smile from ear to ear.