Once there, Dad parked the Lotus in a carefully selected shaded spot, and we walked around and looked at all the cars, and the people, and the dogs. Personally I liked the dogs almost as much as the cars. There were always lots of them at the car show.
Dad ran into Ernie Uncle, one of his friends who owns a garage that specializes in exotic cars. He’s always fixed all our vehicles—even Mom’s minivan, though he rolls his eyes about it. I wandered off with Yogi to get myself some guilty treats—warm honey-roasted nuts and a stick of cotton candy. Something that shade of neon pink couldn’t possibly be good for you, but it tasted wonderful!
I was busy eating the cotton candy or I would have seen that Dad was now talking to that guy. Because it was him—you know—whatshisface from Fellsway.
“Hi, Mini,” he said. He looked great in cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and Teva sandals. I wasn’t surprised. A guy who looked good in pajamas with a stubble and bedhead could look good in anything. Meanwhile, I was a fashion disaster.
In my defense, even someone who gives a damn about personal style doesn’t dress up when they’re going out with their dad. I wore well-worn cutoff jean shorts, a Red Sox T-shirt, and $1 flip-flops and had my hair up in a goddamn ponytail. Tiny Percy Jackson and the Olympians–inspired earrings that I had owned since sixth grade dangled from my ears. In other words, I looked like a twelve-year-old, and I carried, as you might recall, a bright stick of cotton candy that was just then probably the same color as my face.
“It’s Vir, right?” Apparently I could still talk while in shock, and remember stuff.
“Yogi’s behaving well, I see,” Vir said.
“Thanks,” I said. “He’s been here every year since I was ten, so he knows the rules. And he does behave well most of the time—you just haven’t seen him at his best.”
“I was just talking to your dad,” Vir said, “about his car.”
He leaned in a little and smiled, causing momentary confusion and tongue-tiedness in me. “Are those Ferrari earrings? No, those are Pegasuses… or should that be Pegasi?”
“They’re from when I was younger,” I explained. I was so going to bury these at the bottom of the basmati rice bin!
“You liked mythology?”
“Just Rick Riordan, to be honest.” I’d read all the books. Mom had read most of them to me, actually.
“Same!” Vir grinned. “Blackjack, right?”
I nodded and smiled back.
“I’m sure Dad liked talking about his car.” I sneaked a look around to scope if he was here with anyone. No girlfriend in evidence as far as I could see.
“He did,” Vir said. “Actually, I had one more thing to ask him.”
He walked back to Dad and the Lotus. I stood there for a moment—undecided—then shook my head and went off to get some lunch instead of following him. Yogi whined as I pulled him away.
“You’ll like a hot dog better than him,” I told Yogi, and got a sizzling-hot one for him and one for Dad. By the time I got back to the car, Vir had vanished.
Dad took the hot dog from me.
“I just met the nicest boy, Mini,” he said. “He knew more about cars than most kids these days. Remembered the Esprit from The Spy Who Loved Me and everything.”
I’m sure he did, Dad. I’m sure he did.
Chapter Seven
It was the farthest I had driven on my own—ever.
Since I could pretty much stay on Route 27 all the way to Shoma Moorty’s office, Dad said it was okay for me to go by myself. I even put on the radio station instead of driving in total silence, fists clamped around the steering wheel, the way I used to last year.
It was easy to find the little strip mall. There were a real estate agent, a dental office, and a florist on the bottom level. Namaskar was in a suite on the second floor. I smoothed my hair down once nervously and rang the bell. “Coming!” Yes, that was Shoma Moorty’s voice, all right.
She opened the door. She was very tall. Her kohl-rimmed eyes had hanks of spiky hair falling into them. Yoga pants, sweatshirt. Lots and lots of gold chains. Barefoot. Huh! I mean, I hadn’t expected her to be wearing a sari or anything, but this was not what I had visualized either.
“Come in, come in, Mini,” she said. “You have Vinod’s height, but you look just like your mama.”
“Really?” It was a compliment—we both knew it. “Thanks for saying that.”
“Your sister takes after your dad,” she said, “soccer player and smart, and all.”
“Hey, I’m smart,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “But”—she gave me the once-over—“you have style. Like I said… you’re like your mom.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
“Masala chai?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, looking around the large, sunny space.
She padded off to a kitchenette.
Her office was hung with giant pictures of wedding mandaps. They looked like Bollywood sets, glitzy and completely over the top. No way Vinnie would get married in something like that.
“So, Vinod doesn’t want to pay for Vinnie’s wedding?” she said. “I should call him and straighten him out.”
“You have Dad’s number?” I was shocked.
“If it hasn’t changed,” she said. “It’s been years, though. How’s he doing? Since Megha passed, he’s not been in touch with anyone.”
I guessed that by anyone she meant anyone Indian. “I know,” I said. “He didn’t really feel like going to, you know, Indian get-togethers, for the longest time. Dad doesn’t cook, for one thing.”
“Or return phone calls,” she said. “No, I understand. It’s always the women, beta, that keep the social circle going.”
“Vinnie kept in touch with some of her Indian friends,” I said, a bit defensive. Vinnie had grown up in and out of all these Indian people’s homes because Mom was around for
