OVER MY HEAD

OVER MY HEAD, Chapter 2

2 

"No week at the Shore?" I practically screech. "Why?" 

Here I had been jogging home from the Gary disaster, trying to focus on the only positive thing in my life: I was going to go to the Jersey Shore for a whole incredible week. And there I could meet a hot lifeguard. Then I'd be kissing salty skin, holding hands and seeing the moon rise over the ocean. Maybe even falling in love... 

Then I get home and BAM! The vacation and the hot lifeguard are washed away. My life is spinning completely out of control. 

And forget about karma. Being a good person, friend, daughter, student, citizen...it doesn't make any difference to the universe at all, does it? 

I'm on the couch in the living room with my little sister Doodles and my big brother Hari who is home from college for the summer. My parents are standing in front of us laying out the horrific news. "We have to go to the Shore," I say in a firm voice. I'm trying to be confident and sure of myself, but I'm almost in tears. Again. It must be heartbreak. I can't be pre-menstrual. Is there such a thing as post-menstrual? That would leave like, what? One day a month for a girl to be emotionally balanced? 

"Sangeet," my dad says in a gentle voice. "We did not make this decision lightly." 

God. Something is wrong. I study his face. He seems tired and sad. 

"It's just a money matter, that's all," he says. 

"Are we poor?" Doodles says, eyes wide. "Are we gonna have to live in a box now?" 

That's something my grandma in Seattle says to my mom. "Lena," she says, "if you young people insist on having everything right away, taking loans, buying big cars, having fancy vacations to India, you'll end up living in a cardboard box by the railroad tracks some day." 

"Dad? Your job?" Hari says. He looks like a younger, taller, more laid-back version of my dad, but right now he and my dad share the same tense expression. "I thought you had tenure." 

Dad's a schoolteacher in an elementary school. He's tenured, which means nothing, short of the end of the world, can endanger his job. 

"No no. It's nothing like that," Dad says, then paces back and forth in front of us, running his hand through his short black hair. 

"Kids, we don't want you to worry," Mom says. She looks frazzled, her auburn hair escaping from her bun. In the summer her hair is always up because it's the only way she can deal with her severe case of humid weather frizz. 

It's a good thing I didn't inherit that. Poor Doodles, however, is not so lucky. But she doesn't care. Some days she doesn't even brush her hair. In fact, right now she looks like Einstein, but without the mustache. 

"We have to be economical," Mom is saying. 

Economical. Isn't that what we always are? We have to be the most economical family in all of Doylestown. We have no cell phones, no cable TV, we've got old cars, and nearly 100% of my clothes have been purchased from clearance racks. Guess I can forget about getting that dress from This Is It! Of course, I don't really need it now. 

Mom says, "We have a more practical need for that money. We-" 

"We found," Dad interrupts, "that for much less money, we can get a family membership for the entire summer at the Fanny Chapman Pool. Which is what we've done. Including swim lessons for you girls." 

"Yeah!" Doodles leaps off the couch, arms in the air, as if someone just scored a touchdown. Ten year olds are cool like that. Practically anything excites them. "Everyone goes there," she says. "All right!" Doodles runs and squeezes Mom and then she wraps her arms around Dad's narrow waist.