Chapter Ten #2
“He’s an actor,” she explains, lip curling. “In Seattle. So also known as unemployed.” She takes a long sip of merlot. “My mom is a physicist. What could they possibly have in common?”
“Love,” Michael suggests.
Noelle ignores this. “She’s clearly going through a midlife crisis. I refuse to watch.”
“Didn’t you agree to be her maid of honor?” Zara says, mouth twitching.
“I mean, I’m not going to boycott her wedding,” Noelle says, defensive. “But I’m allowed to be mad about it.” There’s a pause. “Plus, my dress is way too gorgeous not to wear.”
Zara shakes her head, exasperated and amused. Noelle claps her hands, ready to move on from the subject. “So, Rani, how are you feeling about starting at UW? Hope Michael hasn’t turned you off from us yet.”
Michael pulls a wounded look. I laugh. “I’m really looking forward to it,” I say. “I missed Seattle a lot this past year. And the English department sounds super lovely.”
“It is lovely,” Zara agrees. “And it’ll be so nice to have another Indian girl in the program. That brings our number up to three!”
Noelle frowns. “Don’t you mean four?”
Zara’s lips thin. “I don’t claim Priya.”
“Priya beat Zara for the creative writing prize last year,” Michael explains to me in a whisper.
“Is it beating if she cheated?”
“It’s her name on the website, no?”
Zara swats Michael, and I can’t help but smile at the sibling-like bickering.
They have a type of friendship I’ve only ever shared with Simran, the kind I longed for all of freshman year.
I feel a rush of gratitude that I reached out to Michael about today, and that he in turn invited me into their orbit.
“She stole my idea, structure, narration style, everything. So we no longer associate.” We’ve reached the entrance of the coffeehouse patio, and Zara’s voice drops in accordance. “Let’s grab a seat, yeah?”
“In the back,” Michael says. “I don’t have a poker face.”
Noelle slips away to prepare for the opening, and we take a table toward the exit.
There are still ten minutes until the start, and attendees slowly mill to fill the space.
All in all, Noelle and her team have done a great job curating a lively, vibrant atmosphere.
String lights illuminate the seating area, and music hums in the background while we wait.
As Noelle ascends the makeshift stage, Zara gives a gasp.
“Ten o’clock,” she mumbles to Michael. “Don’t look.”
Of course, we both whirl around to look. Michael locks eyes with a curly-haired Indian boy with gold hoops lining his ears, just entering the patio. The boy blinks, surprised, and gives a belated wave that Michael and Zara are obliged to return.
“Sorry,” Michael mutters to Zara, ears going red, sinking low in his seat.
“My fault, really,” she says, rolling her eyes. She turns to me as if about to clue me in, but Noelle starts to speak into the microphone, and Zara falls quiet.
“Welcome to the writing society’s monthly open mic night,” she says warmly. “This is the first of our summer series, and as always, we are so excited to showcase some incredible student talent for you. On behalf of all our writers, thank you so much for joining us to celebrate emerging artists.”
She continues on to elaborate on the mission and origin story of the program, and I settle in my seat, sipping more of my water-bottle wine.
The first poet is a true star, expert delivery that brings both me and Zara near tears with her reflections on beauty and motherhood.
But by the third act, I’m beginning to appreciate Michael’s foresight to sit in the back.
It takes all my willpower not to erupt in giggles when one speaker earnestly performs a spoken-word readthrough of a recent breakup, and the wine doesn’t help matters.
The boy Zara pointed out earlier somehow maintains a straight face, and I have to admire the composure.
Noelle joins us at intermission, sliding into the seat next to mine. “So?” she says, face flushed from wine and excitement. “How are you enjoying?”
“Oh, I’m enjoying all right,” Zara says.
“Positively entranced,” Michael says.
“Looks like we’ve got some characters in the department,” I say.
Noelle gives a dark look but takes it, good-natured. “I won’t lie, I love this stuff, eccentricities and all.” She nods to me. “And Rani’s right, it’s a nice way to get to know the program.”
I take another sip of wine, warmth starting in my belly. Tonight has been really nice. Perhaps the first time I’ve felt like a real student here. I can picture myself in this world—though far from the microphone, myself.
“To know who to avoid, maybe,” Zara says. She tilts her head at me. “Speaking of, do you know many people at UW?”
“Oh, God,” I say. “Really just you guys. And a few obscure people from high school, I think.” I pause. “Plus, um, my driving instructor.”
“Your what?” Noelle says.
At the same time, Michael says, “Aren’t you nineteen?”
“I am!” I say. “Just a late bloomer.”
Zara gives me a sympathetic look. “They don’t get it. Being unlicensed is basically a universal brown girl experience. I’m a rare exception.”
“Is that why you bike to work?” Michael says. He shakes his head, awestruck. “I just thought you cared about the environment.”
“It’s kind of impressive,” Noelle says. “To survive suburbia without a car.”
“Embarrassing, more like,” I say, and her mouth quirks.
“I was being generous,” she admits.
“Well, who’s this driving instructor?” Zara asks.
“He’s a family friend,” I say. “Our parents arranged it. Kush Khanna? He’s a junior premed.”
Their shock at my driving admission is nothing compared to this name-drop. Silence swells as the trio exchange glances.
“Not Kush Khanna,” Noelle says at last, voice strangled and weak.
“You’re joking,” Zara says, similarly aghast.
“Tall, beautiful, brown-McDreamy Kush Khanna?” Michael gasps.
“Um, if you say so,” I say, surprised by the reaction. “You guys know him?”
“Intimately,” Michael says. “By transitive property.”
“Gross,” Zara says, wrinkling her nose. “But, yeah. He dated our friend.” She does a quick scan to check the coast then nods to her left, voice dropping. “That was Kush’s best friend earlier, Aryan. We’re kind of all in an odd spot, at the moment.”
Noelle frowns. “I saw him,” she says. “What’s he doing here, anyways?”
“Friends with Priya,” Zara says with a huff. “Anyways,” she continues, returning to me. She squints, assessing. “Are you close with Kush?”
“No,” I blurt. My mind spins, processing this information, but it’s clear they have a negative opinion of Kush, and the last thing I want is for that to extend to me.
“Our moms are really close, so our families spend a lot of time together, but driving is the most we’ve interacted in years.
” I pause, nosiness overwhelming me. “What’s the story? ”
Michael whistles. “How much time do we have?”
“Like, five, till intermission ends,” Zara says.
“Okay, so SparkNotes,” Michael says.
“Kush was my neighbor freshman year,” Noelle explains. “His apartment and my apartment got pretty close, and at the end of the year, he started dating my roommate, Meera Singh.”
“We all went on a ski trip last winter break,” Michael continues.
“He and Meera had been having some problems by that point, and then abruptly one night, in the middle of the trip, Kush ups and leaves.” Michael pauses for dramatic effect.
“No note, no explanation. I genuinely thought he was abducted.”
“He proceeded to ghost Meera for a week,” Zara says. “When we got back to school, he at last had the decency to perform an official breakup speech.”
“Woah,” I say, tracking this intel alongside my own memories. I saw Kush at a couple family functions over break, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He must have a killer poker face.
“Can you believe?” Noelle says. “Friends for a year, dating for six months, and this is how he ends things?” She shudders. “Gave me trust issues on Meera’s behalf.”
“That’s awful,” I say, feeling a sincere pang of empathy. Kamran’s carelessness had cut me deep, and we were never even in a real relationship. I can’t fathom the hurt of this situation.
“Meera bounced back, of course, she’s a queen, but Kush is still pretty much excommunicated from our lives. You don’t get to act like that,” Zara says.
“No,” I agree. “That’s unforgivable.” I shake my head, absorbing it all. “Well, if you want me to bump him with my car or anything, say the word. Happy to help out with the revenge scheme.”
Noelle laughs. “Meera might just take you up on that.”
The mic squeaks as one of the other organizers takes the stage. Noelle jumps to her feet. “My cue,” she says, hurrying away.
We return to an agenda of novice poetry performances.
Silent tears escape Michael’s eyes at a particularly dramatic recitation.
Zara shoves her face in her hands to cover her own reaction.
Though the night’s revelations still linger in the back of my mind, I push down the curiosity, allowing myself to settle into the warmth of their company—so new but already so welcoming.