Chapter Ten
Smoke is rising from the oven. Panicked, I clamber to open the kitchen windows before the fire alarm sets off. I toss Simran a dish towel, the smell of burnt chocolate pinching my nose.
“Fan the oven!” I exclaim. When she stands still, amused and lacking any urgency, I whine, “Sim!”
This gets me a couple haphazard flaps of the towel through the smoke. I give her a dirty look, and she accelerates the movements with a huff. “We should have known this would happen.”
She’s not wrong. There’s hardly been a successful baking experiment between the two of us in the last fifteen years of our friendship, and not for lack of trying.
Burnt mug cakes and mushy cookies were staples of our childhood playdates.
We did manage to assemble a partial gingerbread house one Christmas, though not without Ajoba’s assistance.
“I was so hopeful,” I say, still in mourning. I saved this s’mores brownie recipe weeks ago, with the goal of breaking our curse. “And what now? We said we’d feed the boys a snack.”
Sanju and Nabhi are playing basketball in the backyard with a few neighborhood friends. My parents and Ajoba are over at a family friend’s place for afternoon chai, and I only escaped the invite under the guise of supervising the boys.
“Slice ’n’ bake it is,” Simran says, already extracting a package of premade cookie dough from the fridge. Not even Simran and I could fumble these instructions.
We work in silent unison for the next fifteen minutes.
After scraping the burnt, unsalvageable brownies into the compost, I set the pan to soak in the sink while Simran slides the cookie sheet into the oven.
After, we rest on the couch with our Diet Cokes as the sweet smell of snickerdoodles begins to replace the smoke.
“I’m exhausted,” she says with a yawn. “Good reminder not to try new things.” I roll my eyes, and she laughs. “Anyways,” she continues. “I’m not sure if I mentioned, but Steve is visiting Seattle in a week.”
She slurps her drink to avoid my disbelieving gaze. “Steve Steve?” I say. She gives a reluctant nod. “I thought we decided you weren’t going to speak to him anymore.”
It should’ve come as no surprise that the world’s worst college DJ was also the world’s worst boyfriend, but despite all his misbehavior, Steve somehow managed to retain a hold on Simran throughout second semester.
“We haven’t been speaking! This is the first I’ve heard from him in weeks,” she insists. “He’s in Seattle for a gig.” She pauses. “The gig is his childhood friend’s birthday.”
I tilt my head. “So a house party,” I say.
“I think it’s at an apartment,” she says. “But he gets paid and everything.” She pauses again. “In free drinks.”
Silence ensues. We make eye contact and burst into giggles. Sim allows it for a second before reaching over to swat me.
“I know, I know, he’s a loser!”
My stomach hurts from laughter. “Such a loser,” I wheeze out.
She hits me again. “But it doesn’t matter, because we aren’t getting back together.” I shoot her a look. “We aren’t,” she says. “Cross my heart.”
I let it slide, even though she hasn’t offered to pinky swear, which is the only surefire way to trust her promise.
“I just wanted to disclose,” she says. “But no need to dwell. Seeing as we won’t be getting back together and all.” She clears her throat and twists at her hair, done with the matter. “And what’s going on with you?” she asks, brisk with the subject change.
“Nothing quite so juicy,” I say. I think for a moment. “I’m going to the English department’s open mic tomorrow,” I announce.
Simran raises a brow. “Exciting,” she drawls.
“It is,” I say, challenging the sarcasm. “It’s with my coworker and some of his friends, who are all in English at UW. It’ll be a nice way to meet people before classes start.”
We’re meeting at Michael’s apartment before heading over to campus.
It’s warm this weekend, so the open mic will be on the outdoor patio of a campus coffeehouse.
Michael wants a wine night pregame, and I’ve volunteered to bring some merlot.
Purchasing the bottle will be the most action my fake ID has seen in weeks.
I’d joined in on my roommates’ fake ID order early in the fall, when it seemed like we’d all get along, though I almost never went out with them in practice.
“That’s cute,” Simran says. “About time you had some friends other than me.”
It’s an obvious joke, but the comment still stings. “I have friends other than you,” I say, defensive.
“Your grandfather, maybe,” Sim teases, and the surprised hurt in my stomach grows sharper. She’s not entirely wrong though, which is the worst part. My first year was much lonelier than hers, and I’m not removed enough to laugh about it just yet.
I’m about to retort, when the back door slides open. The twins and two of their friends enter, sweaty and red-faced from basketball.
The curly-haired boy beside Sanju wrinkles his nose. “Is something burning?” he asks.
My eyes snap to the oven. “Shit,” I say, forgetting to censor myself before the eleven-year-olds in front of me.
There’s a bloated pause. “I forgot to set a timer,” Simran whispers weakly.
Twice in a day has got to be a new record, even for us. My shoulders slump in defeat. I scramble for a third option, thinking through the contents of our pantry. “Do you guys like Oreos?”
A pout twists on Nabhi’s lips. “I like brownies,” he says. “That’s what you said we’d be having.”
My stomach drops. “I know, chotu,” I say. I’d shown the boys the recipe earlier today, excited to give them an afternoon treat. “Change of plans.”
“Whatever,” Sanju says, rolling his eyes. “We can just eat at Tyler’s,” he adds, nodding to his friend, and I reel back, wounded at the reaction. I’m not happy about the botched baking attempts either, but I wish the twins were a little better at hiding their disappointment.
“Hey,” Simran exclaims, craning her neck to lock eyes with the boys. “Eat the Oreos and show your sister some gratitude. She’s not your private chef.”
“Yeah, thank God,” Nabhi grumbles under his breath, but one sharp look from Sim sends them scurrying to the kitchen. Simran has always wielded an intimidating air of authority over the twins.
I try not to feel too bothered; it’s the eldest sister’s lot in life to go unappreciated.
But some tension lingers, as it often does in the rare moments that I feel slighted by Sanju and Nabhi.
My brothers are good kids, but they’re still young boys, prone to thoughtless slips.
Simran scrunches her nose at me in sympathy.
“I love being an only child,” she says, and I laugh.
Michael’s apartment is too good to be true.
He’s on the tenth floor of a high-rise in University District, a glimmering shot of Lake Union visible from the living room bay windows.
It’s modern but cozy and full of character: a dark green couch, brick backsplash in the kitchen, and warm string lights looping through the space.
Still, the bar cart full of Pink Whitney and the Nicki Minaj flag hung across the television makes clear that this is very much college housing.
“Do you have generational wealth I didn’t know about?” I ask once I’ve finished gaping.
“Nah,” he says. “There was a murder in this unit,” he explains cheerfully. He sees my face and rushes to clarify. “It’s been almost two years, but I guess people are still weirded out, since rent’s dropped like crazy.”
“Huh,” I say. I don’t know if I could stomach that history, but Michael seems unfazed.
“They replaced the flooring and everything, so it’s not like there’s any, um, residue.” He gives a shrug. “Anything beats the dorms, and who could complain with that view?”
He’s not wrong about the dorms; I’m paying an arm and a leg for an off-campus single just to escape communal showers. “It is a glorious view,” I agree. It’s approaching sunset, so the water looks especially vast and expansive.
“Thank you!” says a pleasant voice behind me. I turn to see a petite Black girl with impeccable winged liner join Michael’s side. “Seeing as it’s actually my apartment.”
Michael gives a dramatic huff, but his arm slides around her to hug hello regardless. “Rani, meet Noelle. She’s subleasing from me since I’m living at home for the summer.”
“To give all this up for Gilmore,” Noelle says, voice full of wonderment. “Astonishing, truly.”
“Sorry that I like my family,” Michael returns.
She gasps, mock hurt. “My mommy issues are not a joking matter.”
Another voice sounds from down the hall. “Not even one drink in, and we’re already talking Noelle’s mommy issues?”
The voice belongs to a curly-haired Desi girl wearing dangling gold jhumkas. I make a mental note to ask for the brand later and can’t help but think that it feels very true to English-major culture that everyone in this apartment has great style.
“Michael’s being cruel,” Noelle explains to her.
“What else is new?” she says. She notices me and gives a warm smile. “You must be Michael’s coworker! I’m Zara.”
“My roommate,” Michael elaborates.
“My roommate,” Noelle corrects.
“I’m Rani!” I say, my voice adopting the nervous chirp it often does around new people. I clear my throat. “All three of you have a beautiful apartment.”
Zara giggles. “Diplomatic,” she says. She points at the wine bottle still in my hand. “Should we open that?”
But it turns out that we’re running late for the event, and since Noelle needs to get there in time to provide opening remarks, we pour wine into our water bottles and make the fifteen-minute walk to campus.
It’s perfect weather; a warm breeze flutters through my loose hair as we stroll.
Noelle provides a brief explainer on her aforementioned family troubles as we drink—her mother’s getting remarried soon, and Noelle couldn’t be more displeased with the groom.