Chapter Fifteen #2
“For me too,” he says. “Between work and exam prep, I’ve been totally swamped.”
“I’m sure you’ll crush the MCAT,” I say. “Tests are kind of a hobby for you, no?” Throughout childhood, the Khanna fridge was always tacked up with Kush’s flawless quizzes and assignments.
His face scrunches. “It’s a retake,” he says after a moment. “I already failed the first time.” His voice is very matter-of-fact for such a big admission.
“Huh,” I say. It’s awful of me, but there’s something almost gratifying about the idea of Kush failing at anything, a disruption to the golden child image I’ve always carried of him. I try to discard the uncharitable feeling. “Well, second time’s the charm.”
A loud crash disrupts our conversation. Our heads swivel in unison. A rogue toss of Arjun’s baseball has shattered Sonal Aunty’s coffee-table centerpiece.
Neena Aunty and the others rush in at the sound, mouths agape at the scene. Shards of glass and smushed orchid petals litter the ground, thankfully far from the cradle. Ishika tilts her head at the commotion, curious but otherwise undisturbed.
“I didn’t mean to—” Arjun says weakly, but his mother is already rushing toward him, lips twisted in anger.
“Bewakoof,” she cries, and Arjun’s face crumples. “So thoughtless, so careless. Maafi maango from Sonal Aunty right now.”
Arjun rushes to apologize, and Sonal Aunty waves it away, sipping her chai with all the grace and superiority of a mother whose child is not responsible for the evening’s fuss.
“Not to worry,” she says, as Prashant Uncle hurries to find a broom, Noori Aunty scrambling after him to be helpful.
“Rani, you should have been watching,” Aai says, shooting a chastising look my way before joining Neena Aunty on the floor to pluck the largest pieces of glass from the carpet.
I hardly have time to be irked by the comment because Neena Aunty’s voice cuts through. “Useless, useless boy,” she says, swatting her son lightly with the back of her hand. Arjun looks like he might cry, and I can’t help but cringe at the scene. Kush winces simultaneously beside me.
Prashant Uncle returns with a vacuum. I slip to the side with Kush; the adults seem to have it all sorted.
“Tough watch,” Kush says, and I nod my agreement.
For all my many disagreements with Aai Baba’s parenting, they’ve at least always stood firmly in the no-spanking camp.
Sympathy rises in my chest for Arjun; I would voice my objection if it wasn’t guaranteed to do more damage.
Parents never respond well to public critique.
“And it’s only going to backfire,” Kush continues. “Disciplinarian parenting just makes for an angry, resentful kid. They’d be much better off hearing Arjun out. Especially since it was an accident.”
I agree wholeheartedly; my observations at the library and as a babysitter have taught me as much. But I’m still surprised by the conviction in Kush’s voice. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Kush shrugs. “I am,” he says. “I was a bit of a troubled kid.”
A laugh escapes. Kush raises a brow, and I realize he means it. “In what world were you a troubled kid?”
“In New Jersey,” he says. “I had a tough time with the move.”
I frown. “Didn’t you win the county spelling bee as soon as you got there?
” Just three months post departure, I remember Aai crooning over the accolade, pronouncing Kush a child prodigy.
The victory grated because I came fourth in Gilmore, and unlike Kush, who preferred sciences even then, I’d actually cared deeply about language arts.
“State spelling bee, actually,” he corrects, lips twitching when I roll my eyes. “But I mean behaviorally, not academically.”
I find myself leaning forward, interest swelling. “How so?”
“I really missed Gilmore,” he says. “So I had a tough time making friends at first, and my dad thought I wasn’t trying hard enough to adjust.” He twists at the signet ring on his index finger. “We fought a lot.” Kush tilts his head down to me, like the next part is a secret. “I’d act out.”
A hint of a smile starts on my lips at the thought of a moody thirteen-year-old Kush, up to no good. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Kush says. “Anything to make him mad.”
I feel a shiver at the thought of Suresh Uncle angry. He’s domineering enough in his natural state. “What’s the worst thing you did?”
Kush meets my gaze, eyes sparking at the memory. “I shaved my head,” he admits seriously.
My mouth drops. I bring a hand up to cover it. “No,” I say.
He nods, enjoying my shock. “He was livid.”
“Naturally,” I say.
“Said I was making a spectacle of myself.”
“To be fair,” I say, “I don’t think bald is your look.”
“I’ve come to agree,” he says. “But at the time, I relished his reaction.” He clucks his tongue. “I want to spare Arjun from that path.”
An image comes to me—Kush, at the first Sunday dinner following the Khannas’ return to Gilmore, hair buzzed alarmingly short. I didn’t approve of the cosmetic choice even then, but I never would have imagined this backstory.
“Damn,” I say. “You really were as troubled as it gets.” Kush lifts a shoulder, like I told you so. I go on. “It’s a shame,” I say. “If you’d been more stabilized, we could have been pen pals.”
He frowns at this, and I immediately want to retract my words. I’m not sure what compelled me to raise the subject I’ve so carefully avoided for the last five years. “What do you mean?”
Of course he’s forgotten. My face warms. “Oh,” I say. “It’s a small thing, but before you moved, we said we’d try to stay in touch.”
He tilts his head. “I remember,” he says. “You never emailed.”
I jerk back, thrown by this. “Yes, I did,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
“I definitely did,” I insist, utterly bemused at this response, but he’s still shaking his head.
“I’ll show you,” I say, and then I’m pulling up the email application on my phone.
Though it’s been half a decade, it doesn’t take long to find the message.
I type Kush’s name into the search bar and it appears: the singular email I ever sent him, a bit long and overeager—and forever unanswered. “See?”
He shifts his head closer to mine to view the screen. Our foreheads nearly bump. His thumb hovers over each line as he reads, brows creased. I feel stupidly nervous at grown-up Kush reading my preteen prose.
“Ah,” he says, pulling away. “You sent it to my school email. I lost access to that after the move.”
A funny feeling lurches in my chest. “Oh,” I say. “Pretty sure I got the address from my mom, so I didn’t think anything of it.”
Our eyes lock, each of us considering the other. My head spins at the new information; much of my ill will toward Kush upon his return was built on the initial slight of his ignoring me. I’m not sure what to do with this discovery.
“I guess I could have emailed you first,” he says at last. “But troubled kid, and all that.”
My lips twist. “Right,” I say.
He starts to continue, but his eyes catch on the cradle behind me, and his expression alters, transfixed. “Rani,” he says, voice soft and full of wonderment. “She’s smiling.”
My gaze drops. “Oh,” I breathe. Ishika’s eyes are bright, her cheeks dimpled in a captivating, lovely beam. My own smile mirrors hers. “I think she likes us.”
We marvel at Ishika, rocking the cradle gently to keep her content, past conversation mostly forgotten. In moments, mess all cleaned up, the parents and a weary Arjun join at our side.