Chapter Eighteen
Michael is a mess all through our shift on Wednesday. Every ten minutes, he rises from his desk to do a lap around the children’s section, sinking back into his spot when he fails to reach his destination. After his third try, he rolls over to me in his swivel chair.
“I give up,” he says, expression long and defeated. “I’m tapping out.”
“You never tapped in,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Chin up, be an adult, and go ask her.”
He groans, sliding in his seat. “This feels like a humiliation ritual,” he says, scrubbing his eyes, and then he rolls back to his computer.
I know the feeling all too well. Michael is applying for a competitive English seminar this fall, and he needs a recommendation from Ms. Okonkwo in order to finalize his submission.
I read over his statement last night, and it’s a strong application.
The recommendation is his final missing piece, if he can conquer the unpleasantness of asking for it.
I dreaded this step throughout my transferring process too, so I don’t envy Michael one bit.
At a quarter till two, I begin packing up my desk to head to this week’s book club meeting, and Michael’s face falls.
“Leaving me in my time of need is the most unforgivable betrayal!” he calls as I exit.
“You better have a reference by the time my session ends,” I say, and he groans again.
I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week.
There are five attendees today, a major level up from our first session, and the chosen text is sure to be a favorite: the latest release in a kid detective series.
This story involves a dognapping, and I’ve simulated the scene of the crime in our event space, complete with fake fur tracings, a lost leash, and a dropped diary.
The students can try to puzzle out the mystery for themselves in real time, alongside the book’s investigators.
Just like last week, Walter is our resident conspiracy theorist, convinced spies and aliens must be in the mix somehow. I try to direct his attention to the source material and have him substantiate his hypothesis, but he’s not having it.
“But a UFO would explain everything, Ms. Rani,” he says. He speaks slow, like I’m the one not comprehending.
I take the win of his participation and enthusiasm and keep it moving.
More theories abound. One of the new girls almost catches the culprit, raising concerns about the dog’s owner himself.
But she’s quickly talked down by the others, and in the end, Cam puzzles it out before the big reveal.
He identifies the reward money as a motive and nabs the neighbor, crediting Marissa for her initial guess.
“I thought she was onto something,” he says, and my heart feels warm. It makes me so glad to see the returning kids include newcomers. And also just to see Cam use his words at all.
I take some notes during the session to compile into a summary report later to pass along to Professor Valdivia.
After a few days of ghosting her, I finally sat down to review her notes on my early pages.
They were critical but apt, and I feel more equipped to revise now that I’ve had some space.
As anxious as I get, the reality is that I asked Valdivia to be my advisor because of her known reputation for challenging students.
So I want to try not to interpret being challenged as an offense.
It’s a successful second meeting, and the kids all seem to enjoy themselves.
We browse for a bit at the end of the hour, and the students leave with new books to read over the next week.
I get some hugs goodbye and a chorus of “Thank you, Ms. Rani!” There’s a smile on my lips when I make my way back to Michael at three.
“Any updates?” I ask, relaxing into my chair.
“I asked her to have a quick conversation after my shift ends,” he says, and his voice is faint at the very thought of said conversation.
I give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Baby steps.”
Afternoons are my favorite time of day for driving practice.
In true suburbia fashion, Gilmore is quiet and barren, no more than a few stray cars in the neighboring lane.
It helps relieve the pressure I feel behind the wheel.
I’m far more nervous about driving when forced to react to other drivers.
I also like knowing I’m unwatched, apart from Kush in the passenger seat, of course.
Today is a particularly lovely driving day.
We’ve been gifted with a cloudless sky, and the trees leave the street sun-dappled and golden.
I drive with the windows down so a warm, delicate breeze keeps the space ventilated.
It’s such pleasant weather that I roll past a stop sign, lost in appreciation.
I release a thankful breath when the error escapes Kush’s notice.
Then my nose wrinkles, because the error escaped Kush’s notice. I sneak a glance at him and see he’s gazing out the window, busy in his thoughts. In fact, he’s been uncharacteristically quiet all of today’s session.
“Is everything all right?” I ask as I near the end of the route. There’s an available parking space right in front of me, so I manage to squeeze between the white lines for once and feel a rush of pride.
He starts at the direct address. He shakes his head, returning to himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, yeah, everything’s fine.”
I stare, disbelieving. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s even weaker this time. He rubs a hand over his neck.
“Okay,” I say. I change tack. “How’d I do today?”
“Great,” he says. “Really great.”
“I ran a stop sign,” I announce.
His brows rise. “Oh,” he says. “Not great, then.” He glances outside. “Perfect parking, though.”
“I know,” I beam. My eyes narrow. “But don’t flattery-evade. What’s going on?”
He sighs, sinking lower in his seat. His fingers pluck at a fraying edge of his seat belt. “I missed my haircut appointment today,” he says finally.
I pause, underwhelmed by the big reveal. “Ah,” I say, hoping I sound sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”
His mouth quirks. “I missed my haircut appointment,” he says again, “because my dad called.” There’s a beat. “For the first time since he left for Jaipur.”
My eyes widen. We’ve already had two Sunday dinners without Suresh Uncle, which means at least a couple weeks have elapsed since he left on his trip. While I’ve had my fair share of dry spells when it comes to chatting with Aai Baba, I can’t imagine not being in contact for this long.
“We’ve never been close,” Kush continues.
“Always fought a lot, as I’ve mentioned.
” An image of a bald young Kush as a spelling bee champion rises to my mind, and I shake it away.
“But we’ve drifted apart even more lately, and…
” He breaks off, mulling on the words. “It was a really bad call, that’s all,” he says at last.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, but with much more feeling and sincerity this time. “That sucks, Kush, I’m so sorry.”
I’ve never spent much time with Suresh Uncle; his presence at functions has always felt more perfunctory than truly immersed.
Whereas Baba regularly inserts himself in Aai and Noori Aunty’s conversations, Suresh Uncle is generally content to remain on the sidelines, save for an occasional critical remark.
But I didn’t realize this attitude extended to his parenting style, too.
Kush shrugs, and it’s halfhearted. “Not the point, though,” he says. “Let’s do this route again and make sure you remember your stops. I promise I’ll be much more attentive this time.”
“Or we can take a break,” I blurt, taken aback by my own suggestion.
Typically, I’m irked by any attempt to interfere with my practice.
But it feels necessary given Kush’s information.
“Stop signs will still be there in an hour. I know a place we can rest at for a bit.” He meets my eyes, surprise and something else reflected in his gaze. He nods.
“All right,” he says. “Lead the way.”
It’s a short walk to my beloved meadow at the edge of our neighborhood.
I keep a brisk pace, and he matches it, dark curls lifting in the light breeze.
The pond is as serene as ever, not another soul in sight, just as I like it.
We sit at the grassy bank of the water, postures mirrored, arms wrapped around tucked knees.
Kush explains why the haircut cancellation cut so deep. “I was going to get a mullet,” he tells me.
I can’t help it; I gasp. “You should never be allowed to make hairstyle decisions,” I say, and he gives me a sharp look. “Shaved head, and now a mullet? What’s next, frosted tips?”
“Mullets are in,” Kush says.
“On a different planet, surely,” I say. I consider telling him he doesn’t need a haircut at all, that his overgrown curls suit him well, but think better of it. I raise my hands. “Your body, your choice, but maybe it’s good your dad called. One crisis to avert another.”
He clucks his tongue. “My roommate Aryan got a mullet, and I’m telling you, it works.”
I think back to my sighting of Aryan at the poetry reading, and grudgingly, I have to admit it does work—on Aryan anyways. I bite back a smile at the thought of their twinning styles. “I’m guessing Aryan is the Simran in your life.”
“Something like that.”
I might be pushing my luck, but my curiosity is too vast not to probe.
“Did you talk to your mom?” I ask. “About the phone call, I mean.” I don’t know the specifics of Kush’s situation, but I’ve always thought of Noori Aunty as a worthy mediator.
She’s helped melt the ice between me and Aai many times over the years.
His mouth twists at the corners. “They’re kind of going through a rough patch,” he says. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “More of a perpetual rough patch, really.”
My brows rise at the admission. They hide it well, for the most part. The mild tension at our first Sunday dinner of the summer was the most conflict I’ve ever witnessed between them. They tend to appear warm enough in company. Not quite affectionate, but to be fair, few older Desi couples are.
“I don’t want to involve her, anyways,” he says. “It’s my thing with my dad. No reason to make it her headache. This latest episode with him has been dragging on for far too long, as it is.” His words are loose today, inhibitions low, like he’s itching to get it out.
And I’m taking advantage. Rarely, if ever, have I seen Kush so open, unguarded. “How long?” I ask.
“December,” he says.
“December!” I cry.
He laughs at my reaction. “We got into it at my cousin’s wedding in Boston over break.
And after that, I guess it just festered.
” My expression must be too concerned, because he hastens to add, “It really wasn’t too rough while I was away at school.
Being home thrust me back into the thick of it.
My dad has a presence there even when he’s away. ”
“Makes sense,” I say.
“My MCAT date was for right after the wedding,” he adds. “I’m not sure what I was thinking by taking it so early, I definitely wasn’t prepared anyhow, but all the stuff with my dad is part of why I did as badly as I did.”
“Naturally,” I say. “Poor test performance should always be chalked up to external factors, in any case. Like, I struggled on my geology final this spring because I was so swamped planning Ajoba’s birthday, not because I don’t understand rocks.”
My mind catches on his timeline as I quip, mapping it alongside what I’ve learned about his relationship. Exam and family stress, while not excusing the behavior whatsoever, certainly seem like important context.
“Naturally,” Kush echoes, lips curving up.
“And I’m sure the distance you have now will be helpful,” I say. “Provided no more traumatic phone calls.”
“Fingers crossed,” he says.
I pull on a blade of grass, feeling compelled to offer something in return given how open Kush has been.
“I had a pretty rough year too,” I say. “For pretty different reasons, of course. But that’s why this summer is so important.
I want to use this time to make good things happen for myself. You can think of it that way, as well.”
He nods, affirming. “Yeah,” he says. “I agree.” He tilts his head at me. “And getting your license will be a good thing.”
“A great thing,” I confirm.
“I like this pond,” he says next.
It’s beautiful today, the sunlight rippling across the clear water. “Me too.”
“Are you here often?” he asks.
“When I need to be,” I say. We sit in comfortable silence until the sun begins to dip, and we hurry back to the road to maximize what’s left of daylight.