Chapter Five
Tuesday afternoon, I meet Kush in the driveway, as discussed at Sunday dinner.
We’re practicing in Ajoba’s car, since that’s what I’ll test in, and Ajoba never drives now, so it’s all mine for the summer.
Kush parked his own car farther down the road, and I rise from the porch steps when I see him walk over. We halt in front of each other.
“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing contacts today, and his dark curls are unstyled, face clean-shaven.
I cross my arms across my stomach, covering an exposed strip of midriff above the waistband of my shorts. “Hi,” I say.
“Is this our ride?” He drums his fingertips on the hood of Ajoba’s silver Honda Civic, and I notice a gold signet ring on his index finger.
“Yes,” I confirm. “It was my grandfather’s,” I add, so he knows I didn’t select the model. I remember my manners; Aai’s and Ajoba’s words ringing in my ears. “Thanks so much for doing this. I know you’ve got a packed schedule and all, so I really appreciate it.”
“No worries,” he says. “Your mom made it sound pretty urgent. Couldn’t say no.”
I almost feel a pang of empathy for him. Maybe there is a downside to being the community’s golden kid. I would hate to be expected to do favors for, say, Shilpa Aunty’s son whenever requested. Perhaps it’s a good thing no one thinks quite so highly of me.
“Well, it’s definitely urgent,” I say. “It’s been urgent for about three years.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up, Cupid’s bow ever more prominent. “I’ve wondered,” he says. “Why the delay?”
“Something always got in the way,” I say, thinking of Ajoba’s health crisis last summer. “Plus Simran was always there to drive me around, and I think I got a little too comfortable.” I pause. “But that’s changing now.”
“You’re growing up,” he offers.
It’s something I’ve said about myself, but my eyes still narrow hearing it from Kush. “Exactly,” I say.
I hand him the keys. We drive off to the Gilmore fairgrounds.
I fiddle with the radio so we’re not sitting in stilted silence.
I can’t remember the last time I was alone with Kush, if ever, and the car feels too small for the both of us.
I find myself leaning against the passenger window, my fingers plucking at the buckle on my seat belt as he drives.
Even though the county fair is in full swing this time of year, the fairgrounds are still the best area around to practice driving.
They have expansive parking lots, and the eastern lots are mostly empty, even on weekends.
Kush learned to drive here, taught his cousin to drive here too, so this reputation is a comfort.
The radio cuts when Kush pulls into an empty spot on one end of the lot. We’re a good half mile from the fair’s entrance, but the smell of buttery popcorn, fresh funnel cake, and other park treats still hits my nose. Maybe I’ll reward myself for a successful first lesson with a fried pickle.
“Okay,” Kush says, turning to face me. He raises a brow. “Let’s get started?”
“Let’s,” I say. I hand him the printout I carefully tucked into my bag earlier this morning, and he gives me a funny look. I run a finger along the list of expected skills: traffic signals, vehicle control, parking, etc. “What first?”
He takes the stapled sheet from me and flips through the pages. “You printed out the driver’s test requirements?” For some reason, he seems to find this very silly.
“Of course,” I say. “Simran had to test twice because she didn’t realize she needed to know her arm signals for turns.” That, and she hit two curbs, but I keep that quiet out of loyalty. “I don’t want us to miss a single thing.”
His head is ducked, but I think he’s smiling. “I’ll be sure to teach you your arm signals,” Kush says. “We can put this aside for now.” He sets the list inside the glove compartment, and it closes with a click. “For today, we can just have you pay attention as I drive.”
There’s a pause. “What do you mean?”
“It’s day one,” he says. “You don’t need to sit behind the wheel on day one.”
My lips turn in a frown. “That doesn’t make any sense. How am I supposed to learn if I’m not driving?”
He cocks his head. “By watching me drive.”
“I watched you drive on the way over here.”
“But you can pay close attention this time.” Seeing me unconvinced, he adds, “I’ll narrate as I drive.
You can take mental notes.” He considers.
“Or literal notes. Seems like you might prefer that.” I want to object again, but he cuts me off.
“This is my lesson plan,” he says. “Tried and tested, all right? Sameer passed with flying colors.”
For the next half hour, Kush walks me through basic car functions before doing a few slow laps around the parking lot.
Some of the information is actually helpful—how I need to keep the brake pressed to shift gears, how to turn my indicators on—but other parts seem like a waste of time.
It feels very patronizing, for example, when he explains which pedals are for gas versus to brake.
“I know that much,” I grumble. After Baba’s reprimand in his garden last week, I’m not likely to forget.
“Nice,” he says.
After several lazy laps around the lot, I convince Kush to let me have a try. “The hour’s almost up,” I say. “I think I’ve earned a few turns of my own before we have to head back.”
I can sense his reluctance. “A few turns,” he finally agrees.
He pulls the car into park, and we both exit the car to exchange seats. The sun is hot on my neck as I slide into the driver’s seat, and I feel almost giddy with anticipation. I roll my shoulders back and move the gear into drive. In my periphery, Kush shifts in his seat to better observe me.
“Let’s go around five miles an hour to start,” Kush says. “Super light on the accelerator. And brake slightly when you make your first turn.”
I nod, following, eyes on the road. I press gently on the gas and the car jerks forward.
“Even lighter,” Kush says.
We trudge forward at a snail’s pace. I remember to switch my blinker on as I make my first turn, and Kush gives a nod of approval.
“Good pace,” he says. “Keep at this, but let’s adjust your lane positioning.”
I frown. “There aren’t any lanes.”
“If there were, you’d be driving into traffic,” he says. “As a general rule, you should stick to the right, even in a parking lot.”
I tilt the steering wheel right, and the car lurches to the side, crossing a few white parking space lines as it does.
“Okay,” he says. “Well, now you’d be hitting the bike lane.”
My frown deepens. “There is no bike lane,” I say.
“If there was,” he says, a mirthful note to his voice, “every biker would be dead.”
I don’t find this nearly as amusing. I’m about to reply when suddenly a large, furry form dashes by in front of us. It takes me a second to hit the brakes, and we both pitch forward against the dashboard. I let out a sharp yelp as the steering wheel scrapes uncomfortably against my ribs.
“Jesus,” I breathe, heart pounding.
The goldendoodle runs on, oblivious, and a visored white lady follows behind, palms raised in apology. I put a hand to my chest, foot still pressed hard on the brake.
“Woah,” Kush says, leaning back in his seat and unwinding his seat belt where it got tangled in the fuss. “Maybe we should take a pause.”
“It’s fine,” I say, dazed but returning to myself. “That dog should have been on a leash.”
“Even so,” Kush says, voice uneasy. “A pause can’t hurt.”
“It’s fine,” I repeat. Behind me, a car honks, and I realize that I’m once again in the center of the road. A few fair-going cars have accumulated behind us.
“Rani, pull over,” he says, and his voice is firm.
It’s a command, not a request. Mouth tightening, I pull into an empty spot, hating the severity in his tone. Lost in my thoughts, I accidentally press the gas instead of the brake. The car jerks against a parking block. I hastily slam on the brake, but the damage is done.
Silence fills the air.
“Oh no,” I whisper. I move the gear into park and quickly unclip my seat belt to jump out of the vehicle to see for myself. The front bumper is badly dented. “Oh no,” I repeat.
Kush has come outside too. He surveys the scene, mouth agape, then blinks at me, meeting my horrified face. “Hey,” he says, collecting himself. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right!” I say. For some reason, his calmness is intolerable. I fix him with a glare. “Why aren’t you upset?”
He furrows his brow, bemused. “Why would I be upset?” He lifts a shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s your car.”
“It’s Ajoba’s car,” I say weakly. “Oh no oh no oh no,” I repeat, very much a broken record. My hand goes to my mouth.
“Maybe the next time I want to review which pedal is the accelerator, you allow it,” he says.
“That’s not helping,” I whisper.
How did I mess up so badly my first five minutes behind the wheel? I feel heat poke behind my eyes. I try to wipe the tears away before they fall, but Kush notices. Of course he notices.
“Rani,” he says, half exasperation, half something else. He steps forward like he wants to reach for me, but decides against it, arms dropping to his sides.
Possibly my most embarrassing trait is how quick I am to cry.
I’ve always been this way, to everyone’s eternal annoyance.
As a child, it was common for me to succumb to sobs at a harsh word, a lost board game, a scraped knee.
Though generally a good sport about it, Kush complained to our moms once: She’s always crying.
We were on a family friend camping trip, and I retreated to the cabin in tears after Kush and the other boys didn’t let me join a handball game.
I pressed my ear to the door to listen in as Noori Aunty scolded Kush, viciously eager to hear him disciplined.
Anything happens, Rani cries. How is that my fault?
Naturally, I wept harder, my misery mixed with shame, shoving my face into pillows to muffle the sound.
Now, I press my sleeve to the corner of my eyes. I take a long, shaky breath in an attempt to compose myself. “I’m fine,” I insist. “Can we just go home?”
Kush drives back in silence, gaze sliding to me every so often, but I never meet his eyes. The sun is starting to set by the time we reach my garage, a low, dark orange on the horizon. We exit the car, and Kush pauses. He nods to his own car across the street.
“I’ll see you at our next practice?” he says.
Whenever that is. I nod, and he walks away and out of sight.