Chapter Two #2
“No,” I say in horror. The last thing I need is Aai as my teacher; I get a migraine whenever she sits behind the wheel. I give Baba a beseeching look. “She can barely drive herself,” I whisper.
Aai swats me. “I can hear you,” she says. “And I’m not volunteering myself.”
I frown. “I’m not following.”
“I was speaking to Noori at Ajoba’s birthday, telling her you want to learn driving and all that, she tells me Kush just taught his cousin Sameer to drive! She said to reach out if needed.”
Baba nods in appreciation. “How thoughtful.”
“Let me WhatsApp Noori right now.” Aai says, already clicking away on her phone.
“Great idea, Vandana,” Baba says.
“She couldn’t attend yoga today, or I could have asked then.”
Baba waves a hand. “Noori’s always on her phone, texting like a teenager, she’ll reply fast.”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, still bemused, “but what exactly are we asking Noori Aunty?”
“If Kush is available to teach you, of course.”
I blanch. “You can’t be serious.” My voice has gone dry. “You can’t mean Kush Khanna.”
“No, Rani, I mean Lord Rama’s son.” The sarcastic reference to Kush’s divine namesake makes Baba chortle, but I’m too stunned to be impressed by Aai’s wit. “Obviously I mean Kush Khanna. Such a lovely boy.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at this characterization.
There was a time when I would have agreed with Aai, back when I was ten and lovesick from my very first crush, but the years since have cleared my vision.
Maybe it’s petty of me, but I can’t stand the idea of my driver’s ed success being another item on Kush’s already-lengthy resume of accomplishments that’s long distinguished him as our community’s model son.
“No,” I say, voice firm if a little hoarse. “I changed my mind, I do want Aai as my instructor.”
“Don’t be silly, Rani. I can barely drive, remember?”
“I was joking,” I say. “And if you can’t teach me, I’ll just wait until October.”
My heart sinks as I say the words, but spending a summer taking lessons from Kush sounds unbearable.
The embarrassing reality is that Kush, with all his brilliance and popularity, has always been a guaranteed spark to insecurity for me, and that’s not the energy I want in a summer that’s meant to be about getting my life back on track.
It’s too vulnerable to belatedly learn driving from a boy who’s never been behind at anything in his life. Especially after the year I had.
“You’re not making any sense,” Baba says.
“At least wait for Noori to reply before you continue your bakwaas,” Aai says. “Now, tell me all about your day.”
There’s a note of finality in her voice, and I don’t feel like prolonging the argument, so I take a deep breath and try to push the worry from my mind. Baba resumes pruning his flower beds as he listens to my and Aai’s conversation.
Summer in Gilmore, Washington, is my favorite time of the year.
There’s something special, magical in the air—beyond warmth, though I am grateful for the PNW’s two-month slice of sundress season.
The hydrangeas are in bloom, weekday farmer’s markets are back on Main Street, and the county fair is busy and bustling a few blocks down the road. These are the days I always long for.
Most people fantasize about growing up and escaping their small hometowns, and for a while, that was me too. But the past year has made me value this cozy, familiar landscape so deeply.
Moving away for college in the immediate aftermath of Ajoba’s stroke was a recipe for the most restless, desperate variety of homesickness possible.
I became uncharacteristically antisocial, skipping the majority of the welcome events, spending my nights on the phone with family while my roommates went out to parties and dorm socials.
Even as Aai Baba assured me of his recovery, I felt antsy and wistful to be nearby, available for the man who’d given me the world and then some my entire life.
So I’m grateful to be home this summer, around and useful as Ajoba needs. Getting to do my dream internship program is just an added silver lining.
On Monday, I wake early and bike to Wanda’s, Simran’s and my go-to coffee shop all of high school.
We spent countless afternoons here debriefing about boys and friend-group drama under the guise of studying for AP tests.
I want a perfect start for my first day, which means one of Wanda’s salted caramel lattes.
It’s ten till nine when I arrive at Ms. Okonkwo’s desk in the children’s section of the library, beverage in hand.
When we had our virtual interview in the spring, I felt immediately at ease from her kind and inviting demeanor, and in person, my impression holds up.
She’s young, no older than early thirties, and she’s dressed in a yellow jumpsuit that suits her dark complexion.
The back of her desktop is cluttered with stickers of characters from beloved children’s books: Frog and Toad, Junie B. Jones, and Ella of Frell, among others.
“Rani,” she says warmly when she sees me. “You’re early.”
“If you’re on time you’re late,” I chirp, and immediately regret it. The last thing I want is to come off as an unbearable kiss-ass. Luckily, Ms. Okonkwo pretends not to hear.
“Welcome to GPL,” she says, clasping her hands together. “Your coworker should be here any moment, and then we can get the two of you trained and set up for a wonderful summer.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say. “It’s so good to finally meet you in person, Ms. Okonkwo.”
“Likewise,” she says. “And Patricia is just fine,” she adds, and I nod, though I know I’ll feel too embarrassed to ever be so informal.
I applied to work at the Gilmore Public Library the day I accepted my transfer to Washington.
I’m an English and education studies double major, and I’ve known I wanted to be an elementary school teacher since I was little.
As basically a third parent to my twin brothers, Sanju and Nabhi, I feel extremely equipped for the job, and this program is great additional experience.
Plus, I’m enrolled in summer study with an education policy professor at UW, through which I get major credit for my internship and conduct research in the field.
So this is the ideal setup for the coming academic year.
My coworker arrives just a few minutes before nine. His name is Michael Jeong, and he has bleached blond hair and a silver septum piercing. I usually struggle with meeting new people; Simran did most of the talking for me in high school, but Michael is chatty enough for us both.
“Do you go to UW too?” he asks first thing, nodding to my phone case, which has our school logo on it.
It was one of the acceptance goodies the admissions office sent over in the spring.
“I’ll be a third-year in English,” he adds before I can reply.
Then: “Oh my God, Wanda’s!” he says, noticing my half-empty coffee cup.
He raises his own to me. “I can’t live without their lavender latte. ”
“It’s amazing,” I agree, a smile pushing at my lips, my first-day nerves dissolving already. We talk about coffee and school until Ms. Okonkwo comes around to start our training.
Maybe making new friends won’t be so hard this time around.
After my shift, I attend Aai’s last yoga class of the day. It’s a restorative session, her most popular, and I have to squeeze into the back since I arrived close to the hour. Aai winks hello at me before leading the room into our first poses.
Aai has been a yogi all my life, and though she always encouraged us three kids to practice with her, I didn’t develop a regular routine until earlier this year. I was in the thick of my transfer applications, more anxious and dispirited than ever, and each of my calls home brought her worry.
“I want you to build a yoga habit,” she said. “It’ll help you. We’ll do this together.”
I fought the suggestion at first, thinking it was such stereotypical Indian mom advice: yoga as a cure for depression.
But she insisted, and so every day for a few weeks, we began each morning with sun salutations over WhatsApp video calls.
It wasn’t an immediate fix, but the practice really was soothing and peaceful. I’ve kept at it in the months since.
Today is no different. My mother’s voice is a gentle guide to follow, and over the hour, I feel any stress and tightness I’ve been holding on to slowly exit my body. My muscles feel relaxed and fluid by the session’s end.
I retain that feeling through the rest of the night. Until I’m getting ready for bed, sipping chai as I start my skincare routine, and my phone buzzes with a text that makes my whole body go rigid.
Hi Rani, Noori Aunty writes. Kush is free to teach you driving. Let’s talk on Sunday?