Chapter Sixteen
Michael hosts a bonfire night for the Fourth of July.
It’s at his parents’ place in Gilmore instead of the Seattle apartment, so I can easily bike over after yoga.
Accepting the invite means I have an out for taking the twins to the firework display at the fairgrounds, and while Aai Baba grumble, no one stops me.
“Not to be patriotic,” Michael says. “But this might be the greatest song ever made.”
“To think she did all that with just a dream and her cardigan,” I muse.
“Almost beats out her Hannah Montana collection,” Zara agrees.
Noelle leans up from her chair at this. “How’s that for a theme?” she says. She slides her hand in the air, picturing the concept. “Different eras of Miley?”
Michael and Zara audibly and simultaneously groan.
I sip my Shirley Temple to hide a smile.
All night, Noelle has been stressing about her and Zara’s upcoming “housewarming” party.
It’s been over a month since their sublease started, but they haven’t hosted yet, and Noelle is feeling the pressure of putting on a perfect night.
“Absolutely not,” Zara says.
“Way too niche,” Michael concurs.
Noelle deflates. “I really thought I had something,” she says.
“It’s workable if you broaden it,” I say. “Disney Channel alums, maybe? Or 2000s pop girls at-large?”
Her eyes brighten. “I like that,” she says. She considers for a second longer and beams. “Oh, I really like that. I would make an amazing Britney.”
“Great,” Michael says. “Now we can table the party discussion, perhaps.”
Noelle glares. “It’s the most important night of the summer, Michael, so maybe you can show some more understanding.”
“Noelle’s ex-girlfriend is back in town,” Zara explains to me, her mouth twitching.
“Ah,” I say. Everything is much clearer all of a sudden. “And she’s invited?” I ask.
Michael snorts. “Noelle’s basically throwing the party for Alexa,” he says.
“Very Gatsby,” I say. “I can appreciate that.”
“I’m being super subtle about it, though,” Noelle says. “She’ll get a last-minute invite but feel compelled to drop by because all her friends are going. By the time she arrives, everyone will be having such a blast, and I’ll look so amazing, that she’ll feel terrible about how she treated me.”
“She’s not going to feel terrible,” Zara says with a huff. “Terrible people never feel terrible for doing terrible things.”
Michael leans toward me to provide the intel. “Alexa asked Noelle to open their relationship before leaving for study abroad this summer.”
I gasp. “No!”
“We’d been dating for a year,” Noelle adds mournfully.
“God,” I say. “That is terrible.”
“It was devastating,” Noelle says. “But Meera’s doing the extended version of that same study-abroad program, and she told me Alexa had no luck in Lisbon.” A smile turns at her lips.
“That’s karma,” I say.
“You and Meera,” Zara says with a sigh. “Really going through it together.”
My ears catch on the allusion. I sip my drink to hide my interest. I’ve wanted more insight on the matter since I first learned but haven’t felt like it was appropriate to ask.
“Misery loves company,” Noelle says. “I miss that girl. August is way too long,” she adds, and Zara and Michael murmur their agreement. “But to be clear,” Noelle says, looking at each of us in turn. “I don’t want Alexa back, I want revenge. That’s all this is about.”
It’s a speech that sounds all too familiar from my recent conversations with Simran, and from Zara and Michael’s faces, they’re just as exhausted with Alexa as I am with Steve. But Noelle seems sincere in her declaration, so I give her the affirmation.
“A revenge party is very respectable,” I say, and she smiles, satisfied.
“While we’re on the subject,” Michael says with a glance at me. “Just as a heads-up, Frank might be at the party.”
“Oh,” I say, something funny settling in my stomach. I’d told Michael at work this week about my run-in with Frank, and judging by Noelle and Zara’s sympathetic expressions, he’s passed on the information. “How so?”
“I mentioned it to him before I knew,” Zara says. “He coaches my sister’s basketball team, and we write for the school paper together, so I didn’t think much of it, but I can always retract.”
Michael had mentioned the connection, and the last thing I want is to interfere with anyone’s plans. “No, don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine.”
“Only if you’re sure,” Noelle says. “Honestly, I’m so surprised at him. I don’t know Frank that well, but he really didn’t seem like a ghoster.”
I shrug, not wanting to push the subject more. “Who knows,” I say. I brush any lingering crumbs from my hands and grab for a new topic. “S’mores time, maybe?” Everyone’s long been finished with their chili dogs, and I’m hungry for a sweet treat.
Michael jumps to action. “Well past time,” he says, reaching for the marshmallows beside him. We spend the rest of the evening stuffing ourselves with gooey, chocolatey goodness and deliberating over which pop icons best fit our styles. The fairgrounds’ fireworks show plays on in the background.
The next morning, Aai and I head to the Seattle location of Maharani Bridal, the only Indian clothing chain in the States that Aai holds any confidence in.
Most Desi retailers here stock cheap fabrics with outdated styles and shoddy workmanship, but Maharani is a rare exception.
Their items are all handcrafted in Jaipur with exquisite detail and only the finest material.
Many of my favorite lehengas are Maharani’s, both customs and off-the-rack.
Today, we’re shopping for the twins. The Mehra wedding is coming up soon, and the boys’ recent growth spurts mean they have nothing to wear.
I do my best to stay focused on the task at hand, though my eyes keep darting over to the glimmering new arrivals in the women’s section.
My closet is overflowing with unworn Indian fits, but one can never have too many beautiful clothes.
“How’s this?” Aai asks, holding up a sparkly yellow kurta. The cut is nice, and flamboyance is in, but the boys would never wear that.
I wrinkle my nose. “A little too neon,” I say, and Aai hums, returning it to the rack.
This outing feels like the first real evidence of our make-up.
I did my part by ignoring her dig to me at the Pujaris, and she’s responded with similar softness.
It’s always this way with Aai: Time brings about reconciliation, never honest conversation.
I’d be frustrated if it weren’t so expected.
This has been her routine since I was little.
And today has been a good day, so I try not to dwell. Fresh chai was waiting for me when I came downstairs this morning, and Aai let me pick the music for our drive into the city, which meant none of her usual self-help podcasts. If this keeps up, I might suggest manicures before we head home.
“He kasa aahe?” Aai asks, holding up a dark green ensemble next. Gold embroidery threads the chest of the kurta, and a peacock design lines the edges of the corresponding dupatta. It’s both classic and modern.
I nod, admiring the selection. “I think we have our winner,” I say. We assign the dark green to Sanju and get the same style in navy blue for Nabhi. Gone are the days where we could get away with dressing the twins in identical sets. I miss it dearly, but they would riot at the very suggestion.
Aai heads to the register, and finally, I indulge my desire to browse. The sheer variety in the women’s section is overwhelming in the best way. I feel like a child playing dress-up; I could spend an entire day in the Maharani fitting rooms.
I skip over the heavier anarkalis and swipe through the more lightweight lehengas.
I fall for a sparkling lavender set with a cape-style chunni drape, but my breath catches when I see its neighbor.
It’s a sunset-orange piece, not a color I’d usually gravitate toward, but the beadwork is stunning.
The sleeves are trimmed with delicate golden lotuses, and the skirt shimmers with every movement.
I glance up to see Aai has arrived beside me, kurtas boxed up and ready to go. My mouth scrunches, caught. “It’s my size,” I say, unable to keep the longing from my voice.
Affection colors Aai’s features. “Try it on,” she says, and she doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I’m in mourning when I emerge from the dressing room. It’s too glorious to leave without and far too pricey to leave with. But Aai’s breath catches at the sight of me. She steps forward to stroke the dangling end of my chunni.
“My maharani,” she coos. Ajoba’s nickname for me is warm in her voice, a double meaning in this store. “We must get this.”
I’m still smiling at the nail salon an hour later. I wouldn’t mind fighting with Aai anymore if it always resolved with such a happy ending.