Lovetorn Read Online Free PDF

“It’s a short drive home.”
    My first day had gone worse than I could ever have imagined. I hated the fact that I was teased and had ended the day as friendless as when I’d begun it. I just wanted to get away from school and never come back.
    “How was it?” my father asked once Sangita and I were settled in the back. My satchel sat heavily on my lap, weighed down with textbooks and papers. My new black shoes pinched my toes. I felt suffocated.
    “It was okay, Papa,” I volunteered. Mr. Phil looked at me through his rearview mirror.
    “And you, beta ?” he asked of Sangita.
    “Actually, Papa, it was fun. It’s a good school. They have a lot of cool things. I met a nice girl, Amy. She was my science experiment partner.” The more Sangita spoke, the worse I felt. My father turned to me again, a look of worry crossing his face.
    “Sangita, it seems like you are settling in. Shalini, tell me,” he asked. He wanted more details from me, but I wasn’t prepared to give them to him. If I started talking about the awful things Charlie had said to me or the way Sasha had referred to me as “Miss al-Qaeda” as I walked past her locker this afternoon, I would start to cry.
    “Papa, don’t worry. Everything was okay. We will adjust,” I said.
    “Tomorrow will be a better day,” he said finally. “Every day will be easier. Before long you will be telling me you are loving it here.”
    We rode the rest of the way in silence.
    At home I went upstairs to change. I stopped in the doorway of the bedroom that was to have been Sangita’s. My mother had transformed it into a makeshift temple. She had brought everything to replicate the daily prayer ceremonies of our home in India. A low dresser was overlaid with one of her saris: a flowing blue-and-gold fabric that smelled of her. Over it she had placed a dozen figurines of Hindu deities: the gods Ganesha, Vishnu, and Shiva; the goddesses Parvati, Laxmi, and Durga.
    In the center was a tall statue of the blue-skinned Krishna, his baby face framed by bouncy black porcelain curls, his rose petal lips curled around his flute, his most potent instrument, intoxicating all who heard it, bringing gopis— maidens—to their soft-skinned knees. Here, in this otherwise plain room, the golden flute on the statue stood out like a beacon.
    I stepped inside and stood in front of the shrine. The stone figure of Durga was painted in bright, garish colors. She was sitting atop a tiger, her eyes wild, her ten arms carrying a myriad of weapons. Under her golden, gem-studded crown her hair was long and loose. I realized now, staring at her, that I had never really looked at her before, that this statue—like so many I had grown up with in our home temple in India—was just another piece of carved and decorated stone that I had bowed to every morning. I realized I hadn’t prayed since we had left India. Given the way I was feeling now, empty and lonely, it seemed a good time. I looked straight into Durga’s wide eyes, folded my hands together, bowed my head, and said a prayer that tomorrow would be a better day at school.

Chapter Five
    ALTHOUGH MY FATHER’S BOSS, Mr. Jairam Thakker, was Indian, he liked to be called Jeremy. Jeremy Tucker. Or as Sangita and I would refer to him, Mr. Jeremy.
    My father was talking enthusiastically about him, his smarts, his vision, his drive. Work was going great, my father said. This was really the right move.
    We were sitting around the coffee table in the living room after dinner. Sangita was peering intently at a new needlepoint project, and my mother was reading the Hindi newspaper she had picked up from the Indian store the other day. I was on the floor, wrapped in a pink crocheted blanket, its tiny frayed threads brushing against my cheek. On my father’s iPod was a recording of a golden oldie, a song by Kishore Kumar, who was known for his sad, melancholic ballads. I wished that we could be listening to something a bit more cheerful, perhaps