Chapter One

one



Berkeley students basked in the spring sunshine. They were watching a group of Hawaiians hula to the beat of traditional drums. I pushed my way through the crowd, bumping into a display of tie-dyed T-shirts.

The vendor caught it before it fell. "Take it easy, kid!"

"What's the rush, Jazz?" the drummer asked.

I mumbled an excuse and kept going. The hat must be empty, I thought. I usually jump-started the giving for the hula dancers by dropping a dollar in the drummer's battered straw hat, but I couldn't stop now. I had big news to tell Steve. Bad news, I thought, almost crashing into the barefoot actor reciting Shakespeare.

Finally. There it was. The Berkeley Memories booth, or the Biz, as we called it. Steve was selling tickets to a bunch of tourists, and my stomach started dancing to the drumbeat at the sight of him.

"Hey," he said, handing me a roll of bills. "Busy day today. Count that, will you?"

I took the money but didn't say anything. Steve looked up and saw my face. "Jazz! What's wrong?" he asked.

"The orphanage won the grant," I said. "I'm spending the summer in India."

I heard a cough and turned to see an elderly lady tapping her watch. "Biz Rule Number Three: Customer Is King," I muttered to Steve. "Meet you at the coffeehouse. Gotta get a latte."

Not too many fifteen-year-olds are addicted to lattes, but Steve and I got hooked on them while we were planning the Biz last summer. Berkeley Memories belonged completely to the two of us-Steven Anthony Morales and Jasmine Carol Gardner.

But Steve was far