Veera Hiranandani - The Whole Story of Half a Girl

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright 2012 by Veera Hiranandani
Jacket photograph copyright 2012 by Jupiter Images

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hiranandani, Veera.

The whole story of half a girl / Veera Hiranandani. 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: When Sonias father loses his job and she must move from her small, supportive private school to a public middle school, the half-Jewish half-Indian sixth-grader experiences culture shock as she tries to navigate the schools unfamiliar social scene, and after her father is diagnosed with clinical depression, she finds herself becoming even more confused about herself and her family.

eISBN: 978-0-375-98441-9

[1. Coming of ageFiction. 2. Racially mixed peopleFiction. 3. DepressionFiction. 4. Middle schoolsFiction. 5. SchoolsFiction. 6. East Indian AmericansFiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.H5977325Wh 2012

[Fic]dc23

2011026178

Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v3.1

Contents

chapter one

Im in school, sitting with my hair hanging long down the back of my chair, my arm around my best friend, Sam. Were planning our next sleepover. Sams parents have the tent and sleeping bags; her mom even bought us cool spy pen-flashlights just for the occasion. To top it off, its Friday and summers only two weeks away.

Jack, my teacher, passes out recipes from the next and last country our fifth-grade class will be studyingIndia. I look down and see the makings of biryani, which is a special kind of rice dish. Jack always teaches us about the countrys food first, then gives us the lay of the land and the history. Getting to know the food, Jack says, is the best way to really understand a country, just like sharing a meal with someone helps you get to know them. You can tell a lot from what a person eats. I agree. Jack always brings huge, delicious, sloppy sandwiches for his lunch, like meatball subs and Philly cheesesteaks, and thats sort of how he isa big, friendly, messy man.

Jack takes everyone into the school kitchen and were all assigned jobs. I have to measure the rice. Sam has to measure the spices. Other kids shell peas. Jack does all the chopping with the sharp knives. Before you know it, the rice is cooking and people are helping Jack saut the onions, garlic, and spices. He tells everybody to stand back and holds the pan up, tossing all the ingredients like some super-famous chef, except Jack isnt a super-famous chef and half of it lands on the floor. The delicious smells swirl around my nose and make my stomach growl. I love biryani. Lifes pretty good.

Then I get home. Moms face is all droopythe way it looks when shes upset. But she doesnt say much. She just stirs and stirs something in a pot on the stove. I look in and see a mess of purple mush. Eggplant skins and empty tofu packages sit on the counter. Tofu makes my eyes hurt. It makes my head hurt. It makes my throat hurt. My younger sister, Natasha, appears on the stairs with her drumsticks. She starts drumming on the railing and Mom tells her to practice in her room. I go off to get my homework over with. I have an essay to write on what its like to live in India, but I dont need to do any research. I just have to ask my dad. He was born there.

Finally, at dinner, while Im trying to figure out why the tofu is so purple, Mom says, Kids

And Dad says, Wait, Ill

And Mom says, You should

And Natasha says, Ha! because shes five years younger than I am and doesnt know what to do with herself half the time.

And Dad says, I have some bad news, which explains why Moms acting strange and probably why the tofus so purple. His face looks red and a little puffy, like hes going to cry. Ive actually never seen my father cry. Two years ago my uncle died, Dads brother, and Dad didnt cry at the funeral. Not that he wasnt sad, because he looked sadder than Ive ever seen him.

I lost my job. I was fired, he says. His eyes are wide.

Dad is, or was, head of sales for a company that publishes math and science textbooks. Sometimes he brings the books home. Theyre really heavy, with very thin pages, and are meant for college kids. They have crazy titles like Fundamentals of Human Biology and An Introduction to Differential Geometry . It makes me dizzy just looking at the covers, which are always filled with graphs, numbers, and outlines or silhouettes of someones big smart head. Dad can understand them, though. He used to be a math professor at the same college where Mom teaches English literature. Thats where they fell in love.

The reason he was fired, Dad explains, is because he had a bad quarter.

Whats a quarter? I ask. He looks at me and tries to smile, but the corners of his mouth dont quite make it. He takes a deep breath and rubs his chin.

Its a period of three months, a quarter of a year. Sales were down last quarter. Way down.

Oh, I say.

A lot more questions zip through my head. Like why were the last three months so bad? Did he make someone really mad? Will he get another job? My heart speeds up, but I keep quiet. Natasha presses her fork into her purple tofu casserole, mashes it flat with the prongs.

Who wants dessert? Mom asks, even though weve all barely touched our dinner. She usually makes sure weve eaten enough of every weird thing she puts on the table, but I guess Mom doesnt really want to eat her tofu casserole any more than we do. I get up and help her clean off the table. She takes mint chocolate chip frozen yogurt out of the freezer and starts to heap it in big white bowls lined up on the counter. I take a bite of mine, and for a moment, the cool minty sweetness is all I can think about.

chapter two

Later that night, I find Dad in his study, hunched over the newspaper. The doors open and I poke my head in.

I need to ask you about India, I say, hoping hes not too upset to talk to me.

He lowers the paper. Whys that?

Its my final report for school. I have to find out what its like to live there.

Well, its been a while since I lived in India, he says, and smiles.

I step into the room, holding my pad and pencil. But what was it like?

Hot.

I need more than that , I say, and plop myself on the chair in front of his desk.

We slept on the roof at night because it was so hot.

What did you sleep on?

Mats.

What kind of food did you eat?

You know the kind of food we ate. Curries, pakoras, dal, rice, naan. All the stuff youve eaten. He puts the paper down, leans back, and closes his eyes.

What did you do for fun? I ask.

Fun? he says, and opens his eyes again. My brother and I were troublemakers, so wed make trouble for fun, I guess.