Blue Jasmine Read Online Free PDF Page B

walked one block a ball suddenly rolled toward us. Mela picked it up and threw it to the girl who had missed the basket.
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    â€œNo mention,” I said. When she replied with a puzzled expression, I remembered Pappa had once told me that inAmerica people say You are welcome instead of No mention . “You are welcome,” I said.
    She smiled and nodded and her blue eyes brightened as her confusion cleared away.
    â€œCan we play with her?” Mela asked in Gujarati.
    Before I could answer, the girl threw the ball toward Mela, and Mela picked it up.
    â€œI’m Jennifer. What’s your name?” she asked.
    â€œMy name is Mela Trivedi.” Mela knew three sentences in English. Her name, her age, and our address. Mommy had taught her those so if she ever got lost, she could ask for help.
    Jennifer looked at me. “My name . . . I’m Seema,” I said. “You live here this house?”
    â€œNo. This is my uncle’s house. My house is six blocks away on the other side.”
    Mela was holding Jennifer’s ball, and I told her in Gujarati that she should give it back to Jennifer.
    â€œShe gave it to me. Why can’t I throw it in the basket?” Mela asked.
    â€œWhat is she asking? Does she want to play?” Jennifer asked.
    I hid my embarrassment by keeping my gaze down on Mela’s face.
    Mela caught the word play and nodded her head. “Play. My play.”
    â€œYou can shoot the ball in the basket,” Jennifer said, motioning with her hand.
    When Mela held the ball above her head to shoot it, it dropped behind her and rolled away. A tall girl who was crossing the street picked it up. She began bouncing the ball, and her touch seem to turn it into her dance partner.
    â€œRia, throw it to Mali,” Jennifer said to the girl.
    â€œI am not Mali,” Mela said to me, stomping her foot. She wouldn’t catch the ball either.
    â€œHer name Mela. Mali ‘gardener’ in my language.” I said.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mela. You have a very, pretty name,” Jennifer said, kneeling down so she was eye to eye with Mela and handing her the ball.
    Mela gave her a smile as big as the basketball.
    Then she tried to throw the ball, but it didn’t even touch the bottom of the basket. Ria picked her up and gave her a piggyback to the net. Mela threw the ball and made a basket. Jennifer began clapping, and so I did too. Mela looked very pleased with herself.
    â€œWhere do you live?” Ria asked.
    â€œNext street,” I said, pointing toward our house.
    â€œRia, this is Seema,” Jennifer said.
    â€œMy name is Mela and I am four,” Mela said.
    â€œHi, Seema. Hi, four-year-old Mela. Do you want to play with us?” Ria said.
    â€œI play not basketball,” I said.
    â€œIt’s easy.”
    â€œI play basketball,” Mela said.
    While playing, I noticed that Ria’s short hair was tightly curled. If those curls were opened up like a fan, they would reach her shoulders. Her skin was not as white as Jennifer’s but the color of saffron-and-nutmeg rice pudding, and her large eyes were twinkling with naughtiness. Jennifer’s hair was the color of sweet papaya and hung straight down her back, and her eyes were clear water-mirrors that reflected the sky.
    Ria asked me, “Do you know Priya Ray or Asha Mehta?”
    â€œNo.” I said.
    â€œThey go to our school and their parents are from India,” Jennifer said. “Do you know any other kids?”
    â€œI not know anyone,” I said.
    â€œYou know us,” Ria said, pointing at Jennifer and herself.
    â€œYes,” I said, and smiled.
    question after question bubbled in my mind. I wished I could speak English fluently. I strung one more sentence together. “How big the classes?”
    â€œAbout twenty-four, twenty-five,” Ria said.
    â€œIn India, we fifty in one class.”
    â€œThat’s