Chloe in India Read Free Page A

end of the day, she said, “Really, Chloe? On day one? Day
one
?”
    When I tried to explain that
he
was the one who started it by making fun of my name, Mom actually laughed.
    “He was calling me ‘chickpea,’ Mom.
Chhole
is, like, some kind of cooked chickpea dish.”
    “Well, I think it’s cute.” Mom ruffled my hair. “My little garbanzo bean.”
    Dhruv and I have been enemies ever since.
    —
    As soon as Mrs. Singh turned her back to hand the papers out, Dhruv crossed his eyes at me.
    How original.
    “Our project today is portraits,” announced Mrs. Singh. “You have exactly fifteen minutes to draw your partner. No erasers. We start”—she paused for dramatic timing—“now!”
    I like drawing dogs and 3-D shapes. I do not like drawing runny-nosed, chipped-tooth boys named Dhruv Gupta. So when Dhruv said he’d go first, I just nodded and sat cross-legged on the floor.
    Dhruv sat across from me, his paper on top of a big hardcover book that he balanced on his knees.
    There are no tables and chairs in the art room, which I thought was weird at first, but now I’m used to it. In India, people sit on the floor more than they do in America.
    For the first three minutes, I sat still, listening to the sound of pencils scraping against paper. The air was heavy and sticky with rain that refused to fall. It was hot. Delhi was having a bad monsoon season. Every morning, when Dad checked the weather, it was the same story: temperature in the high thirties to low forties—that’s in the hundreds back home—record humidity, no rain.
    The park across the street from our house was drying up. Even though Dechen, our housekeeper, wiped the terrace down every morning, by evening it was coated in a thick layer of dust again. If I licked my finger, I could write my whole name on the glass-topped table.
    The heat in Delhi is different from summer heat in Boston, where you know it’ll last only a couple of weeks. Besides, you can always throw on a bathing suit and go to the spray park or cool off in the air-conditioned public library for a while. Delhi heat is heavy and wet and there is no escaping it. It’s all around you, every day, pushing against your skin, into your lungs. It’s like living in a greenhouse with no walls.
    At school, it’s even worse than at home, where Mom will sometimes click on the air conditioner in her office and let us play cards on the marble floor under the gush of icy air. The school’s concrete walls trap the heat and there’s no AC except in a few tiny pockets: the principal’s office and the sickroom. One time I pretended to have a tummy ache, just so I could lie down on the sister’s cool white sheets. After twenty minutes, though, she sent me back to class.
    I watched the ceiling fan turn in lazy circles, pushing hot air around the art room. The corners of Dhruv’s paper fluttered. I tried to sneak a peek, but he pulled his knees closer to his chest so that I couldn’t see.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the clock. Only five minutes had passed. Sweat was gathering at my hairline. It tickled. If I didn’t wipe it soon, the sweat would slide down between my eyebrows and along the side of my nose.
    I reached up and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
    “Ma’am!” Dhruv yelled. “Chhole is fidgeting!”
    I gritted my teeth. “I am
not
a chickpea,” I hissed. “My name’s not
Cho
-lay. It’s Chloe.
Klo
-ee.”
    “Now she is talking!” Dhruv yelled. “How can I draw her if she is always talking?”
    Mrs. Singh glanced up from her desk at the other end of the room. She put one skinny finger to her thin lips. “Shhh!” she hissed.
    Why, oh why, did I have to be paired with Dhruv Gupta? Why couldn’t I at least be paired with another girl? Anvi Saxena has a long neck and straight black hair that falls like a curtain around her shoulders. I’m really good at drawing long necks and straight hair. I have a special technique.
    But Anvi was paired with