The Vinyl Princess Read Online Free PDF Page A

here because his apartment is teensy, and once my dad left and the massive table arrived, it seemed to make more sense that they work from here. Ravi has written four books and he’s won all kinds of literary awards, but it seems to make no difference to the way he lives his life. He doesn’t seem to need much to make him happy. He reads books almost every waking moment of his life, and I don’t think he has a lot of friends outside his little academic world. My mom likes working for Ravi because she can poach a lot of the research she does for him for her own half-finished dissertation. I also think she likes Ravi. He’s a nice person in a bumbling, neurotic sort of way. He’s like an East Indian version of Woody Allen.
    “Oh, and, Miss Allie?” he remarks. “Thank you for the Tchaikovsky. You’re right: It’s outstanding, the finest recording of the unfinished symphony that I’ve ever heard. I don’t have any idea how I’ve lived so long without it in my collection.”
    “You’re welcome, Ravi.”
    “There’s tea on the stove,” says my mom.
    “Thanks.” I wander into the kitchen. The pot of chai sits on the gas. My mom buys the spices in Little India on University Avenue and then she slow-cooks it with the milk and sugar on the stove like they do in India. Ravi taught her how to do this and to my mom it’s culinary quantum physics. It’s the only thing my mom knows how to cook. I take a mug from the cupboard and pour the fragrant steaming milk into it. I hold it up to my face and inhale. It’s glorious, nothing at all like Starbucks.
    I balance the mug on a stack of LPs I “borrowed” from Bob & Bob’s and make my way upstairs, stopping in front of Suki’s door. I press my ear against it and listen for signs of life, a habit I developed soon after she moved in. When my dad moved out, my mom decided to rent out his old office to a student. We cleaned it up and painted the walls a soft green. My mom put an ad in with student housing and Suki arrived on our doorstep the next day. She looked to weigh about ninety pounds soaking wet, and she really was soaking wet. It was pouring rain and she had no raincoat or umbrella. We showed her the room, she signed the lease, and my mom handed her a stolen umbrella on the way out.
    She moved in a week later with her meager belongings and, although she shares a bathroom and the kitchen with us, we never see or hear her. We’ve never even heard her so much as flush the toilet. Curiosity got the better of us one day and we broke into her room while she was at school. My mom insisted that it isn’t technically a break-in if you have a key and you suspect foul play. I’m not sure what she meant by foul play . Someone who never makes a peep would seem like the opposite of foul to me. I expected something monastic, and it was rather spare, but Suki had everything she needed in that tiny room: A hot plate and packets of miso soup and green tea were neatly laid out on an empty suitcase on the floor. A tiny desk with her computer and a small collection of books sat up against the only window, and a tidily made futon was rolled out on the floor with a clock next to it. A plain wood-framed mirror hung on the wall with a snapshot of a smiling Japanese family tucked into its frame. Her clothes were lined up in a neat row in the closet. We closed the door and felt incredibly guilty for being such busybodies. We accepted Suki’s ghostliness after that, just as she seemed to accept our tendency to shout at each other and play weird music at all hours.
    I carry the chai into my room and set it down on the desk next to the chaotic jumble of wires and components that I call my stereo system. I suppose that system might not be the right word. None of my pieces came from the same place or even the same era. I have an ancient Technics turntable. I prefer it to the one I grudgingly got recently with a USB plug for making mixes. I have a newish Sony CD player, four Infinity speakers