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to both of you. He can’t help that.”
    Dad begins serving supper. On Mom’s plate, the stroganoff over the noodles looks creamy delicious.
    He delivers my plate. On mine, the steaming rice is plain and white.
    “Aw, come on, Dad. I haven’t been to the bathroom since I came home. Can’t I have some stroganoff?”
    “Absolutely not. You have to rest your digestive system.”
    “You can have leftovers tomorrow for lunch,” Mom says, touching my wrist.
    “Great.” I taste my rice. Bland as its color, as my life has been. “You know that Jazz can only spend lunch hours with Cameron? And I have to pretend she’s volunteering at the library with me or she’ll get in trouble with her folks.”
    “Don’t they like Cameron?”
    I swallow my dry rice. “They don’t know him. It’s just, he’s a Westerner, and Jazz thinks they’re shopping for a husband from India for her already.”
    “If Cameron is such a Casanova and goes along with her deceit, maybe he’s not such a prize. Jasmine might be better off with a boyfriend her parents select.”
    Dad comes back on a statistic about divorces, and we have a discussion on romantic versus arranged marriages.
    We had this same discussion last time, except, a few days later, there was a news story on Indian women who had been duped into marrying guys who were only after their dowries. Their families arranged those marriages.
    After the revelation on Kim’s death, it turns into a cozy evening, apart from the dry rice supper, and it’s only afterward when I am on the computer looking up something for my history homework that I remember that Kim’s parents had asked for donations to the Kidney Foundation. What does that have to do with
E. coli
?

RETAKE :
Tuesday Morning

    N ext morning Jazz knocks at our door, something that didn’t happen last time. “Sorry I’m here early.” She walks in, breathless. “I just couldn’t stay at home a minute longer. My parents were talking about my grandmother finding a suitable boy for me.”
    “But they don’t even know about Cameron.”
How have I changed fate?
I wonder. The last time I lived through Monday, I didn’t eat the stupid hamburger and fries, wasn’t sick, ate a good supper. Oh man, then I got up, had cereal on my own and headed out early. I met her at her house, and we left right away. This morning, Mom insisted on taking my temperature, quizzing me on my bathroom episodes and serving me a digestion-friendly breakfast. “Why would your parents want a husband for you now?”
    “I’m turning fifteen in February. They say I don’t have toget married right away. I can get engaged and still finish school.”
    “What about college? Can’t you stall them at least? Tell them you need to concentrate on school.”
    “I’m not allowed to have an opinion at my house. They think I’m becoming rebellious. That’s exactly why my uncle took my cousin Beena to India last year. I just had to get out of there, or I was going to blow it.”
    I frown, then point to the kitchen. “Want some breakfast? Granola with chia seeds? It will keep you regular.” I raise my non-eyebrows at her.
    “Is that what you had?”
    “Nah. I had organic goat yogurt. I have to be gentle to my intestines. On account of my burger and fries yesterday.”
    Jazz chuckles at that one. “Thanks, I’m good. I ate a breakfast bar.” It felt nice to distract her for a moment, but now her brow wrinkles. A dark ridge forms between her eyebrows.
    “I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “Do you want to talk to Mom or Dad about the India thing?”
    “No. They can’t do anything.”
    I shrug. “Maybe they can call Children’s Aid.”
    “And Children’s Aid will take me away from my family. How can I turn my back on them? Live with strangers. Oh!” She stops then and covers her mouth. “Sorry.”
    “No worries. It’s different for me. I never knew my birth family.”
    “Didn’t you ever want to find out about your real parents?” Jazz asks.
    “Mom