When Dada and I read Anne of Green Gables, we agreed that Marilla, with her quiet, no-nonsense strength, was just like Dadi, who was listening even as her fingers expertly knotted jasmine flowers into a garland. These books still feel warm from the touch of my grandparents’ hands.
“Priya.” Ma calls for me to join them.
Rishi slurps his tea. “I made a new friend today,” he announces.
Ma’s smile lights up her face. “If you’re both happy, this is all worth it.”
I make up a story about having a friend too, because that smile on Ma’s face is a reward.
“Ma, Jane said she liked my shirt. I told her about how you and I picked the cloth from the fabric store near our house in Bombay and how you sewed it for me,” I lie.
Jane did speak to me; she pointed to my top and said, “It’s so pretty.”
I should’ve responded. I want to talk with Jane. Yet I didn’t say a word to her.
A nod and a smile were all I could manage.
My English doesn’t sound like Jane’s. What if she doesn’t understand me? What if I make a fool of myself again?
Everything is so foreign, like the trees that drop gold leaves, the kids in high school who drive cars, the lockers in which we’re supposed to store books, and the couples who kiss and embrace openly in the cafeteria. I had never seen two people kiss on the lips before in real life, only in Hollywood films, and I almost choked on my food. In Bollywood films, the actors don’t kiss on the lips. The camera discreetly moves away during intimate moments.
That evening, I take a break from homework and helping Mom and watch Full House on the TV in the motel communal living room. I listen carefully to how the actors roll their Rs and slant their As. One day I imagine having hair like DJ’s. I want jeans that hug my hips like DJ’s do, and a shirt that I can tuck into the waistband. My shirts hang around my hips.
I am sitting on a bench by a mural of books, open, flying, on shelves and suspended in space, in the most magical room I’ve ever known, when the school librarian says, “Listen up. I’m starting a book club. It’s open to everyone.” She holds a book high with both hands and does a dance. “This is our first selection. We’re starting with the classics.”
The room spins.
Little Women.
Her copy is exactly like mine, with the same logo of a penguin in its orange egg on the cover.
I don’t hear anything after that, because the Atlantic Ocean separating me from my grandparents roars in my ears.
I blame the heady smell of the books, and the sound of those waves, for the words that almost escape my mouth.
Right before they take flight, though, I reel them back like a kite on a string.
Without realizing it, I have risen to my feet in excitement, my mouth open. Everyone notices.
Kids giggle.
I look around and slump back into my seat.
But for a nanosecond, my eyes lock with Mrs. Kennedy’s. She smiles.
“I have a sign-up sheet on my desk,” she says.
As I pass her on my way out, the librarian places her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll chat about the girls and Marmee while we eat lunch. I hope you come.”
I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.
Speak, my brain commands.
I don’t listen. I nod.
I have so much I want to tell Mrs. Kennedy. I’d tell her that, once I start speaking, I won’t stop. My best friends in Bombay always said I talked too much. I’d tell her that I have never seen a library as beautiful as hers. Could she recommend a book for me to read?
Somehow, I know that she will understand.
All the words imprisoned throughout the day escape on the bus ride to the grocery store that evening. I tell Ma and Rishi about the book club.
“Will your friend Jane be there?” Ma asks.
I blink. One of these days my lies will catch up with me. I don’t know if she’ll be there, but I want Ma to think Jane is my friend. I lie again. “Yes, yes she will.”
Excited, Rishi says, “You have to go. That’s your favorite book.”
In the grocery store Rishi points to a jar of peanut butter.
“What’s that?” Ma asks.
“It’s what all the kids eat,” Rishi signs. “Priya can make a peanut butter sandwich for her book club. It’s during lunch.”
I know what she’ll say next. “Is it expensive?”
“We have to stop converting everything into rupees,” I say.
Ma checks the price and puts the jar in our cart.
On the bus ride home, Rishi signs and again asks, “When is the book club?”
I sign back and tell Rishi I’m not going.
He looks at me surprised. “Why?” he signs.
“I don’t know anyone,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows and challenges me.
“Of course, you do,” he signs. “You know the girls from the book.”
His words sink in and call me out.
Wait.
When did he get so smart? I do know the March girls, and although they are characters in a book, they are real to me.
I hold on to his hand. This little brother of mine has grown up and become so wise in a few short months. Rishi has thrived despite his obstacles. He is a survivor and is inspiring me to be the same. I might have taken care of him when we were little, but today, he is showing me the way. It might not have been my choice to come to America, but I am here. I must keep marching.
On Tuesday, I wake early. My hair lies flat on my head. How do all the girls in school have high and curly hair, with a poofy roll up front, that adds at least an inch to their height? I try to get my hair to poof up, but it won’t. I have seen a girl spray her hair in the bathroom. Maybe that’s what does it.
