SEVENTEEN
Juhi carried a box of books to the end of the hall and collapsed on a nearby stool. She was two months pregnant, and in between helping me pack and move boxes despite my protests, she managed to puke in the bathroom every two hours. She looked pale in the cropped gray sweater she wore over a pastel shirt and cargo drawstring pants.
“Stop lifting boxes,” I scolded. “You are not doing anybody any favors.”
She made a face at me and hurled a pillowcase at my belly. “Look who’s talking,” she jeered. “Miss Fat Princess herself.”
I ignored her and taped up the box labeled “miscellaneous.” Packing boxes in the eighth month of my pregnancy had not been easy. I was a trifle nervous that all the boxes I had labeled since this morning—a grand total of 10—were all tagged the same. The one
