Chapter Nine
Before our next driving lesson, I examine the car’s damage as I wait for Kush.
In the dim garage light, the bruised bumper isn’t too noticeable, but my stomach still sinks at the realization that I’ll eventually have to tell Aai Baba the bad news.
I’ll need a repair prior to the test, and my GPL stipend barely covers my morning coffee, let alone exorbitant mechanic fees.
I kneel beside the bumper in mourning, running my hands along the dent like it’s possible to nurse the car back to health. Kush arrives just as I’m Googling DIY minor car accident repairs. I shove my phone in my back pocket and jump hastily to my feet, almost caught.
Kush assesses the sight too. “It’s not so bad,” he says, and when he notices my look, reevaluates. “Battle scars,” he suggests.
“Scar,” I correct. “Let’s keep it singular,” I say, and he ducks his head to hide a smile.
Kush reverses out of the garage, the gold of his signet ring glinting in the sun as he drives. It’s a long, winding driveway, so I have to admire the smooth maneuver. Aai often skids over Baba’s tulip patch on her way out; I must be in good hands.
“Where are we driving today?” I ask. “Fairgrounds again?” Returning to the scene of the crime feels daunting, but I’ll stomach it if it’s truly the best place to learn.
He pauses for a second too long. “How would you feel if we didn’t drive today?” he asks, eyes meeting mine at the stop.
“I would feel confused,” I say. “Since this is meant to be a driving lesson?”
“It is,” he agrees. “But given our rocky first day,” he starts with a drawl, “I’ve been thinking it could be productive to take a beat to sit and talk about our goals and expectations for the summer.”
My frown deepens. “My goals and expectations are to get my license,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “But I think your chances of passing on the first try are a lot higher if we set some intentions for our practices.” He sees my hesitation and adds, “It’s like drawing up a play before getting on the court.”
I ignore the implication that there’s a chance I won’t pass on the first try.
“Sports metaphors don’t really work for me,” I say instead, a bit of restlessness rising.
It’s already late June and all I have to show for it is a minor fender bender from the singular time I was permitted behind the wheel.
“Like going to office hours before a big exam, then,” he says.
“You’re hardly my professor.”
“For all intents and purposes,” he says. A red light, and he glances at me again. “Look, I think part of the reason Sameer and I worked so well when I taught him is because of exercises like this.”
“God,” I say. “Sameer and I need to unionize.”
He rolls his eyes. “I just mean that we spent time together outside of driving,” he says.
“So we were closer, and practice felt kind of fun, not like a chore.” He considers his next words carefully.
“You and I have never spent time together without our families, so maybe this could be good. Though I won’t force it, of course. ”
It’s not actually true; we have spent time together without our families. But it’s clear that he’s forgotten, and it’s not a memory I want to resurface regardless. Still, there’s an earnestness in his tone that sways me. Kush has always had a way of making you want to agree with him.
It was part of why I was so drawn to him as a child.
When he chose to, Kush made me feel noticed and special.
The quality was reserved for private moments; around the influence of other boys, Kush often adopted their careless manners, but when we were the only two kids at the function, he had a thoughtfulness so rare to his demographic.
Only Indian sons are usually overindulged to the point of complete emotional incompetence. Kush was, by all metrics, a unicorn.
And it works on me even now, despite the considerable prejudice I’ve since built against him. “Okay,” I say. “But next time, we need to get some actual driving practice in.”
“Agreed,” he says.
“You want to go to Wanda’s?” I offer. I saw on Instagram that they launched a s’mores latte for the summer, and nothing could be more of a need.
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Where do you think I’ve been driving to?”
Wanda’s is a beloved local institution, and for good reason.
Founded by Vietnamese immigrants in the early 1990s, the shop features an Asian-fusion menu supplemented with usual American diner offerings.
They’ve retained their turn-of-the-century aesthetic—checkered floors, cozy crimson booths, paper clippings tacked to walls—and perhaps most important, their turn-of-the-century prices.
An iced latte and delectable pastry runs me less than ten dollars with tip.
Today, I order some ube beignets to go along with my coffee. Kush sticks to an unsweetened matcha. When I wrinkle my nose at the choice, he insists, “Drinks shouldn’t taste like dessert.”
“They shouldn’t taste like grass, either,” I say.
We sit in a window booth, downtown Gilmore’s afternoon bustle as our view. I almost let out a moan at the first bite, sweet and gooey on my tongue. “The beignets alone were worth transferring back home for,” I say, dusting powdered sugar from my hands.
“Proximity to Wanda’s should always be a deciding factor,” he agrees. “I make the drive once a week even during the school year.” There’s a beat. “How are you feeling about starting up soon?”
I pull at my beignet, disliking the question. “I feel excited,” I say, hoping I sound like it. “My program’s exactly what I want to be doing, and I’ve missed Seattle a lot.” I sip at my latte. “Clearly,” I add, tapping the side of my already half-empty glass.
It’s not a lie. I am hopeful about this new start. But there’s a big dose of nerves and fear mixed in too, not that I need Kush to be clued in on that. He nods at the answer, lips pushing up.
“Well,” he says. “If you ever want a tour guide, or have questions about classes or professors, I’m around.”
“Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure what advice a premed student could have for an English and education studies major.
But it’s a nice offer, and I try to ignore the instinct to feel patronized, always so quick to arise around Kush.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I clear my throat, ready for a new subject.
“So,” I say. “I’ve been wondering. What made you agree to be my driving instructor? ”
He blinks, surprised by the inquiry. “My mom asked me to,” he says.
“And you do everything your mom says?”
I intend it as a playful quip, some harmless teasing, but his eyes glint a little. Then he shrugs, expression relaxing. “Increasingly,” he says.
My brows knit, curious now, but I don’t feel like I have the license to ask a follow-up. And the last thing I want is to sound insulting to Noori Aunty, who remains by and large my favorite of Aai Baba’s friends—not that she has much competition. I backtrack instead.
“I just meant that I’m sure you have better things to do with your time, that’s all,” I say.
He stirs his matcha, and the ice clatters. “Figured I could write this off on my taxes,” he says.
“Good one, Kush.”
“Bystander intervention, really,” he continues. “I’d feel complicit in your developmental delay if I didn’t help you out.”
“How generous.”
He smiles, any prior trace of touchiness gone, his usual polished and polite presence returned. “How about you?” he says. “What’s taken you so long to get your license?”
“I never saw it as a big priority in high school,” I say.
“Especially since I wouldn’t have had my own car.
Once Simran got her license and started chauffeuring me around, driving completely fell off my radar.
Ajoba wanted to teach me last summer, but then…
” I trail off; we both know the next part.
My lips twist. “It feels urgent now, though. I never meant to get this far behind.”
That seems to be the theme of this summer. It’s like I woke up a few months ago with clearer vision and consequential panic, noticing all the ways my life had veered off course. I have my work cut out for me these next several weeks to get back on track.
“Makes sense,” Kush says. “I’m glad your grandfather’s doing so much better now. I know it was rough there for a second. My mom had me bringing dishes over throughout the fall.”
I remember Ajoba sending me pictures of the meals all last year.
Nothing like a medical crisis to turn the house into a food bank, he joked, but he loved Noori Aunty’s deliveries.
She started her catering business during the two years the Khannas lived in New Jersey, and Ajoba was the first to encourage her to keep it up following their return to Seattle.
And now she has a flourishing enterprise on her hands, a well-loved Instagram page, and a popular cooking blog to boot.
“A silver lining,” I say. “Having a stroke isn’t a bad price to pay for free Khanna catering.”
There’s silence. “My grandma passed away from a stroke in April,” he says then, voice funny.
I want to eat my words. “I am so sorry,” I blurt.
I can’t fathom my own foolishness and horrid memory.
Aai had mentioned the news to me, and I even commented condolences on Suresh Uncle’s Facebook eulogy in the spring, feeling extra sympathetic given Ajoba’s similar diagnosis.
“I remember hearing—I didn’t mean—” I break off. “I’m so sorry.”
Kush’s lips quirk, and I realize he’s just giving me a hard time. “We weren’t close,” he says. “Dad’s side.”
I swallow. “Ah,” I say. “Right.”
He laughs, dark eyes mirthful. “Anyways,” he says. “Should we discuss our lesson plan?”
We spend the next half hour outlining how we want to divide up our time this summer, if I’m aiming for a late August test date. Kush is as organized as me, jotting down notes in his planner as we discuss, handwriting boyish and loopy in the margins.
“I think rewards systems are very effective,” he says. “So every time you master a new skill, we can celebrate with some Wanda’s.”
I slurp what’s left of my latte, watered down but still icy sweet. “A perfect motivation,” I say, and we clink our empty glasses.
In the evening, I slip out of the house before Aai Baba get home and bike to our neighborhood meadow.
There’s a grassy pond on the edge of the clearing.
It’s serene and secluded and was my quiet space throughout childhood.
On warm weekends, families sometimes picnic here, but on workdays, it’s mine alone.
I discovered the spot in elementary school, after I “ran away” from home one night in a fit of dramatics.
Sanju and Nabhi were infants then, and having spent eight years as the coddled center of my family’s universe, the sudden shift of attention was shocking.
In the fifteen minutes before Ajoba discovered me, I imagined making the meadow my new home.
Everything could be all about me once more.
Ajoba arrived just as my exhilaration started to give way to fear. The meadow was lovely, but chilly at nighttime, with near-total darkness apart from the distant streetlamps.
I waited for his anger, but it didn’t come. “You forgot your jacket,” he said instead, holding up my favorite pink zip-up.
Somehow, his lack of reaction made my big, bad move seem meaningless. “I’m running away,” I told him, though my voice was weak, like I was convincing myself.
“Ah,” he said after a pause. “So you definitely need your jacket.”
I couldn’t argue with this logic. He helped my arms into the sleeves, then wrapped me in a hug, triggering my tears and hiccupping explanation.
I felt ashamed for being jealous of the boys, because I loved them so dearly, and it wasn’t their fault everyone was so caught up with them that I’d been forgotten.
Ajoba listened, as he always did. “They’re not more special than you,” he said, identifying the fear at the heart of my hurt.
“They just require more time right now.” He wiped my snotty face with a handkerchief.
“And regardless, you’ll always be my maharani.
” I giggled at the line in spite of myself, and I allowed him to walk me home.
Ajoba must have prepped Aai Baba in advance, because they also tempered their reactions.
In the coming weeks, they made an effort to include me more in the child raising.
I adopted the role of extra parent, which perhaps hasn’t been the healthiest thing in the long run, but it calmed my envy as a child, made me feel needed and important.
A lifetime later, the meadow remains a treasured spot.
Perhaps not quite in the way eight-year-old Rani imagined, but it is still a place that’s all about me.
I come to be alone, escape responsibilities for a moment, process messy feelings in private.
I’ve journaled through fights with Simran here, cried about boys too—from Kush in the sixth grade when I learned he was moving away, and more recently, to Kamran over winter break when he would take twenty-four hours to reply to a text. The meadow has seen it all.
Today, all that’s on the agenda is an outdoor nap, much needed after my exhausting shift. I set a timer on my phone for a half hour, then sprawl out on my picnic blanket, the setting sun still warm on my face.