Chapter Twelve
There are a grand total of three attendees at my first book club meeting on Wednesday.
Four, if Michael counts. He got permission from Ms. Okonkwo to staff the session, operating as my helper for the next hour.
Check-in took all of thirty seconds, after which he moved to the refreshments table, indulging in Cheez-Its and Capri-Sun.
Someone should eat, anyways. I feel a pang at the pathetic thought of lugging leftover snacks back home in my bike basket. I overestimated turnout by a mile, feeling confident the shout-out in the GPL parents’ newsletter in addition to my homemade fliers would attract more visitors.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly fifteen minutes past. I lock eyes with Michael, and he pulls a sympathetic face, so I decide it’s best to get started.
I clap my hands together and clear my throat. “Welcome!” I chirp, trying my hardest not to sound demoralized by the poor showing. “My name is Rani, and I’m so excited to be kicking off our summer reading program with you all.”
Three pairs of bored, wary eyes find mine. The kids are all second and third graders, sitting crisscross on the carpet in front of me. I wish I’d had the foresight to book a study room rather than one of our largest meeting spaces. The vastness only emphasizes its emptiness.
“Let’s start by getting to know each other more,” I say.
“Could everyone share their name, the language they speak at home, and why they’re here today?
I’ll start off: Once again, I’m Rani, I speak Hindi and Marathi at home, and I’m here because I’m super excited to share my love for reading with you guys. ”
I give an expectant smile to the curly-haired girl closest to me. After a belated pause, she mumbles, “I’m Brianna, we speak Spanish, and my mom made me.” She looks to the boy beside her to signal she’s finished.
“Walter, Chinese, and same,” he says.
The third boy, drowning in an oversized hoodie, stays silent and plucks at his shoelaces.
I don’t want to force his participation, and my goal is for him to want to join in as the session continues, so I go on, undeterred. “Amazing, I’m so glad you’re all here. Let’s chat a bit about what we’ll be up to the next several weeks.”
I designed the program structure to have a degree of continuity but still be drop-in friendly.
I want participants to have the full experience even if they can only join once or twice in the summer.
To that end, I plan to spend each meeting reading a preselected story as a group, then send each kid home with a book more specialized to their specific interests, and I’ve set up activities to accompany each week’s chosen text.
When I end my spiel, I hand Brianna an unassuming cardboard box. “I want you to close your eyes and pick out an item,” I say. “Then pass the box down the row.”
Curiosity sparks in Brianna’s eyes, and the third kid even looks up from his shoes to watch.
Brianna pulls out a tiara. Walter selects a long white clip-on beard. The last boy, giving in to the mystery, picks a crystal ball.
“What does it mean?” Walter asks.
“Can I wear this?” Brianna asks.
“It was made for you,” I tell Brianna, and she happily sets the tiara on her head, careful not to muss her curls.
“These are all objects related to the story we’re about to read.
” I dump out the rest of the contents of the box on the carpet before us; I was planning for more kids to choose the remaining items. A talon, a fake dagger, and a vial of mysterious liquid are all in the mix. “What do we think this story’s about?”
Guesses abound. Brianna proposes a tale of a trapped princess, Rapunzel style, while Walter feels strongly about an alien invasion for no clear reason. The third boy utters his first word of the day as his theory, a simple: “Magic?”
Seeing their burgeoning interest sends me a rush of energy.
“Let’s find out!” I say, and I pass around copies of the selected story, an illustrated chapter book about a princess-turned-huntress on a prophesied mission to slay the monsters threatening her kingdom.
It won a few awards from library associations this last year, and it’s been on my Tbr for a while.
Over the course of the hour, we take turns reading aloud, assigning characters based on the objects selected.
I enlist Michael’s help to fill in the gaps, and we have a meaningful first session, such a turnaround from the worrisome start.
Walter puts on the beard to match with Brianna, and Michael turns out to be a gifted voice actor, sending the kids into fits of giggles at multiple points.
All in all, it’s a testament to one of the subsections from my research paper: the importance of play in engaging ESL early readers.
I can feel my confidence return as the meeting continues.
Working with kids is something I’m great at.
I know from my years helping Sanju and Nabhi with their schooling how to get children excited about subjects they find challenging, and I’m hoping to do the same here.
For the last fifteen minutes, we browse the children’s section together, and they each pick out a book to read before our next session. The last boy points to the title of his selection, a Cam Jansen mystery, as we move through checkout.
“That’s my name,” he says.
My eyes widen at this breakthrough. “Cam?” I confirm, and he nods. A smile starts on my lips. “Thanks for coming today, Cam.”
He doesn’t reply to this, back to staring at his shoes, but I take the win. As Cam hurries off to greet his dad, Michael squeezes my shoulder in congratulations.
“A Capri-Sun to celebrate?” he asks. He glances at the still-overflowing refreshments table. “Or three?”
“That case of Tropical Punch isn’t gonna drink itself,” I agree, and we slurp on our juice boxes for the rest of our shifts.
In the morning, Ajoba and I partake in our favorite Gilmore summer ritual: making a meal off of the free samples offered at the Main Street farmer’s market.
Our first stop, as usual, is the cheese stall at the end of the row.
We’re early enough that we have a vast variety of options to choose from: garlic Brie, smoked Gouda, and lemon-honey goat cheese, among others.
Ajoba’s sweet tooth keeps drawing him back to the goat cheese. My unexpected winner is the dill Havarti, mild and buttery smooth on my tongue.
“Too delicious,” I tell Ajoba through my third mouthful.
“Can’t beat this one,” he says, scooping more goat cheese onto a complimentary cracker.
“Hm,” I say. “Let me try again.” A tart and sweet combo is pretty irresistible.
The teenage cashier’s voice cuts through as I reach for another sample. “Shall I help you get checked out?”
It’s a pointed, bad-faith question; we obviously have no intention of purchasing anything. But I give a cheery smile regardless.
“Still deciding!” I say, and he all but rolls his eyes.
“They can’t be paying him enough for that,” I whisper to Ajoba in Marathi, and his eyes crinkle in a smile.
“Well, we are mooching,” Ajoba acknowledges graciously. “And they are a small business.”
Horror sinks in my stomach. “You’re right,” I say. “We’re so going to hell.”
“But who has fourteen dollars for cheese?”
The number eases my conscience. “Bill Gates, maybe,” I say. In my periphery, I see the cashier shoot us another glance, and I brush my hands of any crumbs. “Smoothie time?” I suggest. The berry blasts have been calling my name, always made from the ripest, juiciest strawberries in the county.
He nods, and we slip away before we can get accosted again.
We sip and stroll, pausing to taste test whenever a stall looks appealing.
The bolani stand is back after a brief hiatus, and they’re far more generous than the cheese vendor, insisting we don’t leave before sampling both the potato and pumpkin fillings.
The dumpling place has outdone itself; I have to drag myself away from the chicken xiaolongbao.
I’m feeling full before we’re halfway through the market—which is when Ajoba chooses to disrupt the peace.
“Have you spoken to your aai today?” he asks in between bites of crème br?lée from the local bakery’s booth.
My eyes narrow. His voice is innocent, like it’s a passing question, but I know my grandfather too well. “No,” I say. “She left for yoga before I woke up.”
Ajoba nods and takes another spoonful of the decadent dessert. “I was thinking we could both go to her class this afternoon,” he says.
My brows fly up. “You want to go to yoga?” I ask.
“It’s time for me to start being more thoughtful about my health,” Ajoba says with a sigh.
“This is your second sweet treat of the day,” I say. “And it’s not even noon.”
“Mental health matters too,” he says, and I snort. He meets my gaze, eyes warm but firm. “My maharani, you can’t avoid your mom forever.”
“I haven’t been avoiding her,” I say, but it’s an empty insistence. I’ve been doing my best to minimize time at home since Sunday. Work has ramped up, sure, but my persistent irritation with Aai is the real factor.
“Might it be time to move on?” he asks.
“I’ll move on when she apologizes,” I say, and Ajoba’s expression turns knowing.
“The word ‘sorry’ is not in your mother’s vocabulary,” Ajoba says, and I’m well aware.
Aai’s version of reconciliation has always been to pretend nothing happened in the first place.
She’s already begun the process in the wake of our fight.
Fresh flowers from Baba’s garden were on my nightstand when I got home yesterday, Aai’s go-to make-up gift.
“Which is really bad!” I say, and Ajoba puts his hands up.
“I’m not defending it,” he says. “But for your own peace of mind at home, it might be best to let this spat go.”
I understand where Ajoba’s coming from, but I hate that the burden of repair has once again fallen to me.
And I’m still upset with Aai’s hostile reaction.
The suggestion that I don’t do enough for the twins grates, when the reality is that I’ve functioned as one of their primary caretakers since I was a child myself.
The sun rose higher as we walked, and now the light pierces my eyes. I put a hand up as a barrier while I consider Ajoba’s proposal. “I’ll go to yoga,” I say finally. He starts to smile, and I continue in a hurry. “So long as I get the last bite of crème br?lée.”
He deflates but passes it over, nonetheless. “The sacrifices I make for this family,” he murmurs.