10 Things I Hate About Pinky - Sandhya Menon Page 0,86

per block, what we can hope to do in an evening, that kind of thing.”

“Yep. And Pinky and I’ll hunt down the pictures of your family at the habitat,” Samir added.

“Great.” Dolly smiled. “We should be able to get that stuff done today, right?”

“Right,” Pinky agreed. Then she made a face. “But you’re leaving Monday. You won’t be here when we’re going door to door.”

Dolly looked just as dejected. “I know. But I’ll be there in spirit. And as soon as I get home, I’ll dive into the deep end with you guys.”

“Okay,” Pinky grumbled. “But I don’t know why the retreat needs to be three weeks.”

“Because my parents are freaked out that I’m going rogue, and this is the only way they know how to do something about it,” Dolly said, rolling her eyes. She got up and grabbed her keys and purse. “Anyway. I’ll see you guys later?”

Pinky nodded, and Samir lifted his hand in a wave. A few moments later, they heard the front door open and then close.

They were alone. The house settled around them.

He looked at Pinky, hoping his nervousness didn’t show. “Shall we?”

She took a deep breath and stood. “To the attic.”

* * *

It was dusty in the attic, and any notions he had of romantic possibilities were swiftly banished when he saw the bat droppings.

“Bats?” He stared wide-eyed and panicked at Pinky. “Bats?”

“Relax,” she said, pulling a string. An anemic light bulb shone down on them from the rafters. “They’re all dead. That’s from a long time ago. And anyway, they hardly ever have rabies.”

“Great. Yep.” Samir felt a shudder ripple through him. “Ancient bat feces. That’s just perfect.”

Pinky shook her head and took off for a corner, where a big trunk sat. There were a bunch of boxes on top of it, and when he saw her struggling to move them off, Samir shook off his own fear and revulsion and walked over to help.

Once the boxes were out of the way, Pinky slid the latch on the trunk and opened it. It was filled with dusty picture albums and even loose pictures, the kind that came out of Polaroid and old film cameras. Samir whistled. “There must be a couple hundred pictures here.”

“Yeah.” Pinky squatted next to the open trunk and looked up at him. “So I guess we better start digging.”

* * *

“Dude.” A laugh burbled up from deep inside Samir’s chest. He had a silver photo album open, which he’d been idly flipping through. Most of the pictures were of Pinky’s and Dolly’s families doing mundane family things like grilling salmon or going for a boat ride or picking apples at the orchard in town. About a dozen so far had been at the butterfly habitat, and those he and Pinky had carefully set aside. But this one… He held it up to Pinky, laughing harder at her expression as she took it in.

It was a picture of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old Pinky on the pier, fresh after a swim. Her hair was in a giant halo around her head, and she had been mid-blink when the picture taker had snapped the picture. The effect was that she looked like a hybrid between a hedgehog and a blobfish.

She snatched it out of his hand. “Hey! The humidity does strange things to my hair! And that expression on my face was obviously just unfortunate timing!”

Samir chuckled and wiped the sweat from his brow on his shirt. “A likely excuse.”

“Next time, I want to see old pictures your mom has,” Pinky said, narrowing her eyes. They both realized the implications of that statement at the same time—it would never happen, because Pinky didn’t want to date Samir. His mom wouldn’t be showing her anything.

Samir cleared his throat and looked away, back into the trunk. “Hey,” he said, reaching into the bottom. “What’s this one?” It was a loose photograph of someone who looked amazingly like Pinky, except her hair was longer (though still a riot of various tropical-bird colors) and her clothes were more dated. Her arm was in the air, fist raised proudly, and she was surrounded by people, all of whom looked like they were marching at a protest.

Pinky took the picture from him, studying it for a moment before flipping it over. “Harvard, 2002,” she read. “Oh my God.” She flipped the photograph back over and studied it again. “This is… This woman is my mom.”

Samir leaned over to see the picture more clearly. “Holy crap. That’s your