I tug at the colorful volume. Wait, this isn’t a book… it’s a diary. Ima’s diary, from—

F

irst, I toss and turn half the night, then I sleep through my alarm, and wake up with just minutes until I need to leave the house.

So of course, I can’t call my family before school.

After school, for a change, I rush back to Bubby’s, intent on getting through to Ima and the family before it’s too late at night again.

“Hi, Bubby, I’m home,” I say breathlessly, waving to my grandmother. “I’m just calling Ima.”

I know better than to just grab the phone and dash up to my room; I don’t want Bubby calling Shomrim again because she hasn’t noticed me enter the house. On the other hand, if I don’t make a speedy exit from the kitchen, Bubby will get busy offering me rugelach or cookies or whatever she’s baked today, and while I can’t complain about the snacks, I know that as soon as I sit down, she’ll start asking a million questions about my day, and since Zaidy’s going to ask them all over again when we sit down to supper — and because I have nothing new to tell them since yesterday — I’ve learned to avoid the questions before they even start.

I can dial the access code in my sleep by now. The long-distance ringtone echoes in my ear. Ring… ring… ring…

No answer. Again. What’s going on?

I check the time, it’s five p.m., ten thirty at night in India. My family cannot possibly be sleeping.

I try my mother’s cell phone, and then Abba’s, even though he usually uses the late-night hours for learning and doesn’t like to be disturbed. This, I decide, is an emergency. A homesickness emergency. Then I try the landline again.

No answer, no answer, no answer.

A pit of anxiety forms in my stomach.