Chapter Eight
Less than an hour into my shift, and I already feel a migraine coming on. Running the front desk is by far my least favorite part of the job. I didn’t realize when I signed up to work in the children’s library just how much time I would be spending with parents.
“I don’t understand,” the mom in front of me says. There’s a yoga mat over her shoulder, and her hair is frizzy from a workout, dark roots starting to peek through the blond. “How is it possible you don’t carry the latest Dragon Witch? They’re a massively popular series.”
“That’s the whole issue,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and apologetic. “All our copies are checked out at the moment. But I’d be happy to help you place a hold.” I don’t mention that she’d be looking at about a thirty-week wait.
“I don’t want to place a hold,” she says, lips thinning. “I want to check the book out today.”
There’s a beat. Does she expect me to hunt down readers and demand a return? “Sorry about that,” I say. “You can always try the Claremont Library?” I say, referring to our sister location the next town over.
“That’s a twenty-minute drive, and I’m late for a nail appointment,” she snaps. “Well, Annalise is going to be devastated. The bookstore is already sold out.” She heaves a sigh and crosses her arms. “I also have some documents that need to be scanned, if you can take care of that for me?”
I push down the prickle of hot irritation rising. “So, our printers are actually self-service—”
A voice cuts through our conversation. “Hey, Rani?” Michael calls from the desk behind me. “Need your help with something if you got a sec.”
I jump at the out. “Coming,” I call back. “Printers are behind the DVD section,” I tell the mom before slipping away.
I sink into the seat beside Michael, and he sends me a sympathetic glance. “I don’t really need your help,” he whispers. “Just thought you could use a break.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I whisper back. “Poor Annalise,” I add. “Rude mom and no Dragon Witch.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. “Does that lady know preorders exist?”
“Does she know we’re not Xerox?”
“Evidently not,” he says. He scans to ensure the coast is clear, then returns to his novel.
I pull out my laptop, skimming through the book club pitch I plan to share with Ms. Okonkwo when she gets in today.
The one perk of our front desk shift is the amount of independence built in.
When free from condescending visitors, as well as Ms. Okonkwo’s supervision, I can do as I please.
Michael echoes my thoughts after being pulled away from his reading. “I hate when patrons disrupt my personal time,” he quips upon his return.
“For real,” I say. Then I notice the cover of his book. “Twilight?” I ask with a laugh.
He nods, eyes serious. “My comfort read,” he says. “Plus it’s our book club pick this month,” he adds.
“I love your book club,” I say.
“This month was my turn to pick,” he says. “Clearly.”
“Well,” I say. “It’s no Twilight, but I saw that the UW writing society has an open mic event this weekend.
” I want to do my best to immerse myself on campus this fall, so I’ve been keeping up with the English department’s newsletters, and this program caught my eye.
“Would you want to go? To watch, not perform, of course.”
One of my larger goals for the summer and the upcoming year is to take a lot more initiative in building community.
I struggled with that as a freshman, having gotten started on the wrong foot and never quite digging myself out.
Michael and I get along so well as coworkers, bonding over miserable front desk experiences and our latest binged TV shows, so this seems like a great place to start.
And I like the thought of shifting to true friends, especially since we’re in the same major at university.
His eyes are brightening as I speak. “Hey, my friend actually organizes the open mics!” he exclaims. “We’re planning to have a pregame at mine before heading over on Saturday, you should totally join.
” He leans forward, voice dropping just so.
“You kind of need to be a bit drunk to make it through some of the readings.”
A laugh escapes. “I’d love to,” I say. “Count me in.”
He beams. “Mark your calendar for eight,” he says, then turns to help the middle schooler who has just come up. I return to my pitch, a smile pushing at my lips.
At the end of my shift, I swing by Ms. Okonkwo’s office in the back.
“Hi,” I say, pausing at the open door. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” she says. She pushes her glasses up and waves me forward. “Come on in. So sorry for the mess.”
Aside from a few picture books scattered on her desk, the space is immaculate. “If this is messy—” I start, taking a seat in the armchair across from her. My dorm room this past year would send her into shock.
She laughs. “How can I help you, Rani?”
I cross my legs. “I was hoping to chat about a project idea I have for GPL this summer,” I say, and then I launch into an explanation about my book club proposal for second-language early readers.
In practice, it’ll be more of a read-along series; I don’t mean to assign struggling children homework so much as spark excitement for their reading journeys.
“I think it’ll fit neatly into our existing programming,” I add at the end, thinking of our afternoon storytime sessions.
“I’d love to get started as early as next week. ”
Ms. Okonkwo purses her lips, thoughtful. “This sounds lovely, Rani,” she says. “But I’m afraid we just don’t have the capacity for more events. We’re so short-staffed as it is.”
She’s not wrong; aside from me and Michael, Ms. Okonkwo’s only support is a librarian from the poetry section who sometimes fills in during scheduling gaps. But I’m not ready to jump ship yet.
“I totally understand that,” I say. “But I would be happy to run this project independently. We can schedule book club meetings according to my work schedule. That way it wouldn’t interfere with my usual tasks, and no additional work falls to you, either.”
She mulls it over. “You know I can’t pay you extra for this, right?”
“Oh, I know,” I say. Nothing about my meager stipend rate convinced me GPL pays overtime. “I’m still super excited about it.”
The corners of Ms. Okonkwo’s lips lift up. “Why don’t you send me an email with the details for this book club?” she says. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Relief warms my chest. “Amazing,” I say. My independent study with Professor Valdivia might just pull together, after all. “I’ll do that.”
“See you tomorrow, Rani,” she says, and I close the door gently on my way out.
In the evening, I take my dinner up to my room—a double serving of Ajoba’s famous dadpe pohe, a beloved Marathi breakfast consisting of flattened rice, fresh herbs and veggies, and shaved coconut.
Aai Baba are working late tonight, so I’m spared from our usual chaotic family meals, and breakfast for dinner isn’t considered the outrage it otherwise would be.
I play an episode of Gossip Girl as I eat, my go-to background noise choice since Simran and I discovered the show in grade school.
The first bite is the perfect combination of tangy and sweet on my tongue.
I make a mental note to give Ajoba his flowers; I’ve missed his cooking this past year. And him, of course.
My first semester of college hung heavy with his absence.
Or my absence, more accurately. I left for school only a few weeks after Ajoba’s release from the hospital, and I spent those early days in a constant state of panic and guilt, struck with the most horrid brand of FOMO, afraid I was missing precious last moments with him.
As a girl who lived her entire adolescence dreaming of distance and independence, the sheer intensity of my homesickness was beyond dysregulating.
It certainly didn’t help that I lacked any sort of support system at university.
I was assigned to a triple with two random roommates who were friendly enough, at least at first, but clicked with each other far more than me.
Once they rushed the same sorority, it became ever more apparent that I was an outsider to their sisterhood.
Our dorm room quickly became the spot for pregames to date parties and other functions I wasn’t invited to.
The point of no return came after winter break, when Victoria had a hometown friend visiting and asked me in earnest if I planned on “using my bed” that night.
She seemed comically affronted when I said yes.
I did my best to make friends outside the dorms, in classes and clubs, but I always felt like a floater, welcome but maybe not all too wanted, someone it would be easy to do without.
That isolation is part of why my relationship (or lack thereof) with Kamran became so all-consuming.
After months of feeling lonely, his attention was a gift.
I loved that he liked me. A little bit, anyways.
Not enough to actually date me. And even though we had nothing in common but our attraction for each other, and I didn’t really admire him as a person at all, his answer of haha idk vibing?
to my what are we? text still hit like a true devastation.
Reinforcement of all of my prior insecurities.
I felt a humiliating desperation to convince him to want me, and it ultimately required an intervention from Sim to gather the courage to call it quits.
I know that bad roommates and thoughtless boys are a common cornerstone of the freshman experience, but in the context of Ajoba’s crisis, it all felt so overwhelming.
And it’s not like all my first-year disappointments were just a cosmic case of bad luck—the harsher reality is that I probably could have been more proactive about making things better for myself.
But I was left drained, immobilized, and longing for a do-over.
A new college environment in my familiar Seattle landscape, close to loved ones, where I’d be wanted and needed, felt like the right solution.
I remain hopeful that it will be. I finally feel ready to build a more joyful life, and this summer is my time to put that plan into motion.
I scrape the bottom of my bowl as Gossip Girl unveils yet another illicit affair on the Upper East Side. Downstairs, Ajoba is already waiting to serve me seconds.