"Check it out!" Sarah called. "What's a taxi doing here?"

Mrs. Jasper had stepped out, so we all raced to the window. I blinked. Take One: Bobby's Parents. No, this wasn't a scene from a movie based on my worst nightmare. My father's taxi was actually parking outside Carver school.

"Maybe there's a film star in that cab," Toby said hopefully.

Sarah giggled. "In a battered old taxi? In America, movie stars ride limos, Toby."

"We have movie stars in England, too, you know."

Toby and I were both new. Ever since I'd arrived, I'd made sure that the Punjabi-speaking, eating-curry-with-my-hands Bobby Singh at home had nothing to do with the smartest-kid-in-the-class, basketball-playing Bobby Singh at school. I'd thrown Mrs. Jasper's Parent/Teacher conference requests away and mumbled excuses when she asked about them. I'd never invited other kids home, not even Toby -- the only kid I'd ever met who wanted to make movies as much as I did.

Toby and I agreed that the old Star Wars movies were better than the new ones. We fumed about having to wait till we were older to watch the Matrix. We decided to make an action-adventure movie ourselves (I'd direct while Toby played the lead). Now we were trying to decide on a plot.

Dad stepped out of the taxi; I could see the top of his turban.

"Call the cops!" yelled Clyde Colbert. "It's a terrorist."

"No, it's not," Sarah said. "He's wearing a turban, like —" She stopped, and I could tell everybody was trying not to look at me.

At my old school, a couple of other Sikh kids wore turbans. But after a week of being the only turban-headed kid at Carver, I'd decided to stash mine in my locker. My long hair was okay; a boy wearing a ponytail wasn't anything new at Carver. I always put the turban on again before heading home.

Mom stepped out of the taxi, wearing a blue salwar kameez. A couple of kids giggled.

"Children! Take your seats!" Mrs. Jasper was back.

"Are those your parents, Bobby?" Toby whispered.

I hesitated, and then nodded.

"Cool," he said, but I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

BUZZZZZ! The intercom lady's nasal voice whined into our classroom: "Bobby Singh to the office, please."

I stopped by the boys' room to put on my turban and dashed to the office. "Our assembly speaker came down with the flu," Mr. Williams said. "Since we haven't seen much of your parents, I called and asked if they could substitute."

"We are delighted to oblige," Dad said.

I winced at Dad's accent. His "Vs" sounded like "Ws," and vice-a-versa. His "Ts" came out sounding like his tongue was flicking the roof of his mouth. Mom's accent was even heavier than his; the grumpy grocer gave us a blank look when she asked about the "we-je-tubles." Mom would nudge me, and I'd have to repeat the question. Now my parents were going to speak in front of the whole school.

Toby's parents had shared in assembly once, but British accents were different. Every super-cool good guy or mega-evil smart dude in Hollywood movies had them. Obi-Wan and the Emperor in Star Wars. Professor Xavier and Magneto in X-Men. Gandalf and Saruman in the Lord of the Rings. An Indian accent only showed up if the director wanted an easy laugh.

For the second time that day, I blinked. Take two: Bobby's Parents. Who were these people? The pillow-fighting, video-gaming Dad I loved at home had morphed into a bearded foreigner. The soft-voiced, sweet-smelling Mom who captivated me with her stories had turned into an alien wearing silk pajamas.

Mr. Williams escorted me and the two strangers to the auditorium. "Want to sit with your parents on stage, Bobby?" he asked.

I gulped. "Er … no thanks." I headed for the back row.

Toby slipped into the chair beside me. "Cool turban," he said. He'd moved here after my turban-take-off decision.

"Thanks."

Dad took the mike first, and I held my breath. Maybe I'd been imagining how heavy his accent was. "We are Sikhs from Punjab," Dad began. "The land of five rivers." I sank lower in my seat; his "Vs" and "Ws" sounded even worse over the microphone.

Dad explained how Sikhs weren't Muslims, even though a lot of Americans thought we were. He talked about our Holy Book. Finally, he pulled out his curved Kirpan from its' sheath. The audience gasped as the blade flashed in the light. Mr. Williams looked shocked, but he didn't say anything.

Dad lifted his Kirpan. "Sikhs are called by God to defend the weak," he said. "We stand for equality and justice." I fingered the smaller kirpan on the string under my shirt.

Mom stepped forward. "Long ago, a pair of Bobby's ancestors lived in a marble palace," she started. Her storytelling voice lilted much more slowly than her speaking voice. "Slaves from lower castes carried them everywhere and draped them in golden cloth and rubies. Servants tamed tigers to roam their terraced gardens. The royal couple told the people what to eat, what to wear, which gods to worship. What a powerful, easy life they had! But do I want to go back in time and be a queen of Punjab?"

The kids were silent, waiting for her answer. "No," she said. "I want to be a Sikh woman living in America. Where I am free to practice my faith."

For the third time that day, I blinked. Take Three: Bobby's Parents. Was that an ancient queen draped in silk that shimmered like the sky? Was that a noble warrior-king from the olden days, standing beside her, proud and tall?

Suddenly, I was glad they weren't anything but my Mom and Dad. Here and now.

"Wow," Toby said, as the kids started clapping. "We should put a couple of Sikhs in our movie."