India's Summer Read Free

trailed off. “I’ve got to get out of there, Sarah. At this rate I’ll end up some twisted old spinster like Miss Roberts.”
    “You could get another cat.”
    “And grow a beard I suppose.”
    “Just think of it as a vacation for now,” Sarah said, laughing. “Try and relax. You’re tired; enjoy yourself.”
    India sighed. “What am I going to do without you?”
    “Date Bradley Cooper? Soak up the sun? Shop on Rodeo Drive?” Sarah offered.
    “Sarah. I love you.”
    “Love you too. Send a postcard. Skype me. Or ‘whatever,’ as they say over there!”
    “Will do. Bye.”
    How Sarah manages to stay so upbeat after giving injections and checking prostates all day is a mystery to me, India thought, clicking the off button and opening her wardrobe.
    What would Audrey wear? she wondered. After a few minutes she pulled out her Agnes B. wraparound black dress and held it to her shoulders in the Cheval mirror. “I shall wear my hair up!” she decided. “Très chic.”

FACEBOOK STATUS – I’m stuck in a holding pattern.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay, and thank you for your patience. There seems to be more air traffic than usual. We will be making our descent just as soon as we have clearance.”
    India fidgeted nervously and tried not to look out at the wing. Were those flaps supposed to be opening and closing like that? She’d never been fond of flying. And her seat had been in an upright position for thirty minutes. She was dying to get up and stretch. Thanks to Joss’s air miles, India was flying business class. The copious amounts of decent, free champagne, not to mention the fine Sauvignon, had soothed her nerves for a while, but now she had a slight headache.
    She looked again at the “leaving” presents Sarah had given her, at the tiny pink leather Smythson notepad inscribed in gold lettering C’est la Vie and its bright blue companion, Profound Thoughts.
    “No guesses which one I’ll fill up first,” India had joked, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gifts.
    Sarah knew India so well, how she was always planning on writing a book and constantly scribbling down notes; observations, one-liners. She tucked the notepads back into her handbag, and, as the plane circled inland, she tightened her seatbelt again. They were so low she could see the lines of freeways, the mathematically precise grid of the streets, and the road signs. Clutching the armrest, she closed her eyes as the Airbus bumped down on the runway and braked sharply. Please, please, let this be a whole new beginning, India pleaded silently. I am so ready to start over again.
    An hour later, she was edging her way toward the head of the line at Immigration Control, where a decidedly unwelcoming official greeted her with a nod, and took her passport.
    “Press your thumbs there,” he said, indicating a plastic screen.
    Finger printing? India wondered, awkwardly pressing each thumb as instructed.
    “Look into the camera now,” he ordered, tapping endlessly on his computer keyboard.
    “Do I smile?” she asked, getting even more nervous. More tapping.
    Maybe there’s an alcohol limit for getting into America, she thought, half serious now.
    “What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?” he continued humorlessly.
    Okay, India registered. This is not the time to bring up Bradley.
    “I’m here to visit my sister.” She smiled.
    There was a pause. His face remained expressionless, then her passport and visa were thumped, and India stepped into the “Land of the Free.”
    It seemed that lots of other people had had the bright idea of tying a ribbon around their suitcases. Eventually, she dragged her Samsonite off the conveyor belt and headed toward the line for customs.
    “Are you bringing any livestock into the country, ma’am?” a heavily armed official asked.
    “Not today,” she said, smiling, wondering how one could possibly smuggle a chicken onto a plane and why.
    “I do have some English