Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood Read Online Free Page A

was pregnant.
    Why has nothing changed? Shouldn’t the sun at least not shine so bright?
    I brush my teeth as if I’m trying to strip the enamel. Like brushing hard is going to erode my anger. Can I crawl back into bed and lie there wallowing in anger mixed with letdown? Anger + letdown = anglet or angdown…whatever. I rummage through my laundry basket for a pair of not-too dirty jeans. I find a pair and scramble into them. As I pull on my orchestra T-shirt, I remember the director telling us we’d get a new piece of music today. In spite of
    my messed-up life, I feel the anticipation. Maybe the music would be as dramatic as my turmoil.
    Pots and pans clang in the kitchen. What is Mom doing this early?
    The aroma of blueberry pancakes lures me downstairs. Weird! That’s a weekend breakfast. Did I sleep through the week?
    There it is. A stack of pancakes with a slather of butter between each one, the way I like them. That way the butter melts into each pancake. Mrs. Butterworth stands with her hands together.
    Mom hovers, eager to satisfy my every need instead of sipping her coffee and watching the Today show like normal. What do you want to drink? Orange juice or milk?
    Really?
    I want to dig into the stack to fill the hole in my life. Maybe the syrup will soak up the anglet feeling.
    But I don’t. The string quartet plays an angry concerto.
    Bonding over pancakes was what we did on weekends growing up. She would top them with chocolate chips, blueberries, raspberries, or Craisins. The choice of topping depended on our mood. When I was little, she used molds to make hearts and bears. She’d taught me to look for the bubbles before I flipped them so they would be perfect. A few years ago, we retired the molds. Who knew—pancakes taste just as good round.
    Sharing pancakes that morning would seem wrong. Last night I was told that my father didn’t bother to reply when he found out about me. My anger has been building since yesterday. Seriously, Mom? Does she think pancakes can fix how I feel?
    How would my life have been different if my father had been thrilled to hear I was coming into this world? Would he have eaten pancakes with us? Would he have loved me?
    “I’m not hungry,” I say.
    “Abby, have a bite. A little one.” Oh, I want to.
    “I’m not hungry,” I snap. My voice is flinty. It has to be if I have to get those words out. I realize I’m getting angry with the wrong person. Mom had me, by herself. After all, she has been the one to raise me. She was around and my dad wasn’t. I should be mad at him, but he isn’t here to be mad at.
    Mom blinks several times as she picks up the untouched plate of pancakes and puts it aside.
    “Should I tell Priya and Zoey that my dad doesn’t care about me?” My laugh is hollow.
    “You can do whatever you want,” she says, resigned, as she slides the pancakes down the garbage disposal and hits the grind switch. The whirring metallic noise makes me wince.
    “Abby, we have to talk about Kabir—I mean, your father,” she says as she yanks the dishwasher open and almost throws the plate in. She grips the counter and takes a deep breath. “I plan to reach out again and try to find him. Contact him and find out his medical history. I waited this long because I knew all this would be hurtful. But really, there is more I need to tell you.”
    “Bit late don’t you think? Do they make Hallmark cards for the occasion? Where do you find them? Are they under Surprise, your daughter is a teenager ?”
    Listen to yourself, Abby. You sound like a witch. But I can’t help it.
    Mom makes a peace offering. She reaches for my arm. “I’ll dig through my stuff and find his contact information. Abby, we were young. Too young and we made mistakes. I am sorry.”
    My hands shake as I get onto the school bus. I’m that big fat mistake they made and I have to be forgive them for being too young?
    My discovery for the day: two-stepping with anger introduced me to my dark