Chapter Six
After work the next day, I head into the city for my first meeting with Professor Valdivia, my research supervisor for the summer.
Her office is on the second floor, and the bay windows behind her desk offer a glimmering view of campus.
Books overflow from shelves and emerge from the floor in tall, teetering stacks.
I do a quick scan of the spines: Jesmyn Ward, Jhumpa Lahiri, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, among other worthy authors.
“Say hi to Aristotle,” Professor Valdivia says after we’ve exchanged pleasantries, referring to the black cat perched on a carpeted tower in the corner.
Named for the titular character from Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, not the Greek philosopher, as Valdivia was quick to inform me when we met through Zoom.
“Hi, Aristotle,” I coo. He sniffs disdainfully but doesn’t reject the neck scratch, so I take that as approval.
“Let’s talk about your project,” she says next, gesturing to the seat before her. She pushes her glasses up and folds her hands on the desk, all business. “I enjoyed your proposal. The George W. Bush snub was particularly appreciated.”
“Thank you,” I say, pleased. I feel rather proud of my paper title, too—“Children Left Behind: Failures of High-Stakes Testing on Second-Language Learners.” I’m analyzing the success of various strategies to improve reading skills among early readers, particularly where English is a second language, with my scholarly work to be supplemented by reflections on my personal experiences at the library this summer.
Valdivia seemed enthusiastic about the work when we first spoke, and I can’t help but be excited to finally truly get started.
“Though I have concerns about your research methodology,” she continues. “Talk to me about the program you have planned at the Gilmore Public Library.”
In my brief interactions with Professor Valdivia so far, I’ve observed how direct and straightforward she is in her speech.
Confident commands and assertions always; rarely any hesitation to be found.
It’s likely an intentional skill she’s crafted to be taken seriously as a young brown woman in academia, but as someone who punctuates every sentence with an if that makes sense, it’s hard to not feel a bit flustered in her presence. Still, I try to hold my own.
“I want to start a book club for ESL early readers at GPL,” I say.
“I’m planning to keep a very detailed log of each session, and at the end of the summer, I’ll report on what I found to be successful strategies in promoting engagement and comprehension.
The program’s not intended to be a research study in the slightest, but I think anecdotes from the program would be valuable supplements to my external research and readings. ” I pause. “Um, if that makes sense.”
Valdivia gives a slow nod. “It’s creative,” she says. “And yes, your observations won’t be formal research, but it’s still useful, and I like that you’re taking so much initiative. You have approval for this book club from your supervisor, I’m assuming?”
“Yes!” I chirp. A total lie. I’ve yet to broach the subject with Ms. Okonkwo. She’s seemed super busy these last couple days, and yes, fine, I’m also just a coward. But I don’t want to give Valdivia any reason to doubt the plan. “We’re all good to go.”
“Very impressive, Rani,” she says. “I’m excited to see where this goes.”
“Thank you,” I say, ignoring the awkward stab of guilt.
“Let’s set a meeting schedule for check-ins and submission deadlines,” she says. “The start of the school year gets busy fast, so let’s aim for end of August as a final deadline for your project. Well before the quarter begins.”
I nod in agreement, jotting notes down in my planner.
That’s around the time I plan to take my driver’s test, so it’s shaping up to be a packed summer.
We spend the next hour discussing dates and reading recommendations.
I leave her office with a laundry list of books to check out on my next shift at GPL, and Aristotle meows goodbye on my way out the door.
Simran and I have our first sleepover of the summer on Thursday night.
Like usual, it’s at her place. Ever the overindulged only child, Simran’s house and general lifestyle is something out of a fantasy for me.
Her moms allowed her to take ownership of the entire second story, and from the early days of our friendship, we’ve always set up camp in the Sinhas’ spacious den, complete with bay windows, a fully stocked mini-fridge, and a cozy sage-green pullout couch.
She supplies the setting, so I supply the goods: under-eye masks, dark chocolate brownies, and the hot-pink ceramic wineglasses from my evening with the twins.
Simran, with her unregulated access to her moms’ wine cellar, supplies the rosé.
Since senior year, the Sinhas have allowed us to indulge—with the stipulation that we only drink under their roof.
Tonight, her moms stop by the den to wish us goodbye before they head to a cocktail party at their Seattle art gallery.
Saira and Sharmila’s relaxed, cosmopolitan parenting styles, exemplified by their insistence on my addressing them by their first names (both of which are aptly taken from beloved Bollywood stars of the sixties), never failed to spark envy as a child.
Where Aai Baba supervised my every move, the Sinhas believed in Simran’s privacy, took her out on lunch dates, often behaved more like her friends than her moms.
But by virtue of my sisterlike friendship with Sim, they’re my friends too, and I’m grateful.
“Dinner’s on us tonight,” Saira says. “To celebrate the end of your freshman years.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We’re so proud of you girls! So grown-up, so fast.”
“We just placed a delivery order from Thai Emporium,” Sharmila adds.
Simran gasps, and my stomach growls at the thought. “Did you add chili wontons? And two Thai iced teas?”
“Obviously,” Saira says.
“You spoil us,” I say.
“That’s the goal,” Sharmila says. They blow kisses, and then they’re out the door.
“Can I move in?” I say to Simran when it’s just us, and she giggles.
An hour later, we’re nestled in comforters on the couch, takeout boxes strewn about us, done with our teas and on to wine, already half a bottle deep. The brownies are baking in the oven downstairs, and the rich aroma makes my mouth water.
“We have to do something about your crying,” Simran says, smoothing down a crease in her eye mask. I’ve finished telling her about my disastrous first lesson with Kush, who I’ve yet to message or hear from in the last couple days, and Simran is very unimpressed.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“Work harder,” she says. “You’ve been working on it for a decade.”
My singular visit to the principal’s office in grade school was because I forgot my homework and wouldn’t stop crying as a result, so she’s not far off. Still, I feel the need to go on the defensive.
“My sensitivity is a gift,” I say. “And when you think about it, being emotional in public is like a feminist act of rebellion. Because women are constantly shamed for their feelings.”
“Yeah, okay, Gloria Steinem,” she says. I swat her, and her lips quirk.
“Time to pick a movie?” she asks, very wise with the subject change.
She clicks through some suggested options on the screen, musing.
“Gone Girl? Or Princess and the Frog?” I’m about to quip about the dramatically different choices when she gives a satisfied sigh.
“Clueless,” she decides with a glance to me for approval.
“I do love Paul Rudd,” I say.
“It’s been a minute since we’ve seen it,” she says. “And it’s so fitting for you.” She pokes my ribs, her smile turning wicked. “You’re my favorite virgin who can’t drive,” she coos.
It’s a perfect, brutal reference. “Sim!” I exclaim, outraged. She cackles, and I kick her shins. “You’re terrible.”
She’s still doubled over, way too pleased with herself, so I shake my head, crossing my arms tight around me. “Once again, I’m working on it.” I sit up straight. “I’m going to text Kush tomorrow,” I say. “That statement will no longer apply by the end of the summer.”
“Which part is he helping you with?” she says, eyes teary with laughter. I fix her with a glare, and she relents. “Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.” She squeezes my knee with affection. “You’re doing so good on your list, and I see it,” she says. “Totaled car aside. Have you been swiping away?”
I’m quiet, and her eyes narrow. “You haven’t?” Another pause, and her eyes widen when she realizes. “You haven’t made an account?” I give a guilty nod, and she throws me a furious look. “Hand me your phone,” she orders.
We’re halfway through Clueless and on to our second bottle of wine by the time Simran wraps up my profile.
She holds my phone up so I can scroll while it remains in her possession.
“Only looking, no touching,” she says, and I obey.
She’s primarily used pictures from my Instagram, and she’s described me as a passenger princess whose love language is bookshop browsing and who thinks not knowing the sidewalk rule is a major red flag.
I have no real notes, until I reach the last picture.
My mouth drops. “Absolutely not,” I say, and Simran scowls. She’s included a bikini mirror selfie I sent her as a fit check from our family San Diego trip last summer. It’s a small cerulean piece, and I look incredible, but it’s not something I want strangers to have access to.
“I knew you’d say that,” she says, clucking her tongue. “It’s risqué!” she adds when she sees my expression.
“It’s revealing,” I say.
“It’s sexy,” she insists.
“It’s slutty!”
She raises a brow. “And what’s wrong with that?”
I roll my eyes and grab my phone back from her. “Thank you for the starter profile,” I say. I immediately put my Hinge account on pause. I’ll return to it in due time. “Can we finish the movie now?”
She huffs, but she reaches for a gooey brownie and settles into the sheets behind me anyways. “Your lack of gratitude seriously stings,” she says. “That was some of my best work.”
“I literally said thank you,” I remind her.
She has the nerve to shush me, and we fall into silence just as Cher fails her driving test.