Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood Read Online Free Page B

side. Who knew you could stumble into the shadows without being bitten by a vampire or doing drugs?
    Maybe discovering my dark side will bring another layer to my violin playing like famous violinists with tragic lives.
    Abby Spencer, violinist. Her dark side meets the bow and the strings vibrate to produce the next violin prodigy.
    Priya and Zoey are already at the lockers getting stuff together when I get to school. “Hey,” I say as I jiggle my locker open.
    Part of me wants to blurt out: You guys, I know now that my father didn’t even reply to my mom when she told him she was pregnant. Ha! Funny, huh?
    But I need more time to figure things out. Find answers to the questions they might ask if I start that conversation.
    Questions.
    I have questions I haven’t asked yet. Last night my brain floundered and struggled to keep afloat. Did my father fulfill his dream and become a newscaster? If he had stayed in America, would their romance have had an expiration date? If he had reacted differently, would she have changed her life plans? Is he married? Does he have other children?
    Priya has her arms loaded with her algebra textbook, binder, and homework folder. “You look pale. Are you okay?”
    My stomach rumbles. Loud. Oh great. I figured people with tortured souls didn’t need breakfast.
    “I didn’t eat breakfast and obviously I need food,” I say, embarrassed.
    Zoey fishes out a beaten, crumpled granola bar from the depths of her locker. “Want this?”
    “Eeew.” Priya wrinkles her nose.
    A prehistoric granola bar from the depths of a locker is my punishment for turning down a loving blueberry apology on a plate.
    My stomach couldn’t rumble and attract attention in algebra. I shrug and take the bar. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.
    “Anyway, Abby,” said Priya. “I have a big favor to ask. You know how there’s International Day tomorrow? Mom’s doing a booth on India and she wants me to dress in Indian clothes, but I really don’t want to.” Priya takes a deep breath, and her eyes beg.
    “Why not?” I ask, puzzled.
    “I don’t want to be gawked at.”
    Priya does hate speaking in public. I guess this falls in the same category.
    “Wait, are the clothes ugly?” interrupts Zoey.
    “Nooo!” says Priya. “I wouldn’t make a great model. Abby would be so much better, right? Zoey, I’d ask you except you’re a foot taller, and none of my clothes would fit you. Abby, will you do it? Mom wanted me to ask you for days and I didn’t and she’s mad.”
    “Do I have to twirl around?” I grin. “I’ll do it!”
    Hey, I’m the perfect choice. I’m half-Indian after all, even if I look part Caucasian. A chance to try on my identity!
    Priya sighs with relief. “Thanks, Abby. You’ll do a great job. You’re such a performer. I’m a behind-the-scenes person.” How ironic! I’d be wearing Indian clothes. I’m a performer.
    Like my dad, the newscaster. Maybe I inherited more than his hair and lashes. Is my DNA calling?

Chapter 6
Seriously?
    Mom sits on the living room floor (crisscross, applesauce) with a million pictures scattered around her and a couple of empty shoeboxes. She scans and searches her past. I always wondered why she didn’t have a picture of my father in a picture frame or at least in a keepsake box.
    Now I understand. She must have been so hurt at his indifference. I would have been hopping mad. Typically, Mom is not the angry type. She thinks anger is a waste of energy.
    “Hi, Abby! How was your day?” she asks. Mom tries hard to be normal-upbeat but I think I saw her try to wipe a tear away without me noticing.
    The question hangs in the air.
    “I should’ve had your dad’s picture more available, but I didn’t. It was too painful.”
    Typical Mom. I would have probably ripped his pictures if I were in her shoes.
    I grab a bag of Chex Mix and go to my room exhausted. She gave me one of my dad’s pictures a long time ago—a head shot, like a driver’s