Chapter Twenty-Three
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Next to me, Nabhi mimes banging his head on the table, a mechanical pencil clutched in his hand like a hammer. Another prolonged silence, and the woman on the phone says, “One moment, please, let me transfer you to my colleague.”
My eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t want to be—”
Her voice is far too cheerful for such an insufferable, prolonged exchange. “One moment, please!”
Elevator music fills my ears. I groan and put my phone down. The call time is pushing thirty minutes.
“All this for a swing,” I mutter, and Nabhi scrunches his face.
Aai fell in love with the floral jhoolas at the Mehra reception, and she’s determined to secure a few of her own for her and Baba’s upcoming anniversary party.
They’re celebrating twenty years in August, so we’re going all out.
We’ve even graduated from our typical venue at Taj Mahal Express to the Gilmore Botanical Gardens, Baba’s favorite spot in town.
I’m sure the final result will be lovely, but unfortunately, much of the work to bring about the final result has once again fallen to me.
Aai sent me a WhatsApp with various vendors to reach out to, from caterers to decor to her beloved jhoolas, so I have my work cut out for me the next few weeks.
Just like Ajoba’s birthday, which I organized from school in the spring, I’m the de facto event planner for Aai Baba’s anniversary.
“Can we please get back to this?” Nabhi asks, nodding to the pre-algebra worksheet before him.
“From one crisis to another,” I say with a sigh, and Nabhi shoots me a glare.
Math has always been Nabhi’s most challenging subject, and as the school year approaches, Aai Baba enrolled Nabhi in summer classes to get him better prepared.
But yesterday’s phone call from his instructor informed us that Nabhi hasn’t turned in a single homework assignment so far.
If grades were given for these tutorials, Nabhi would be failing.
I’m an English major, hardly qualified to assist with even middle school level math, but I felt such sympathy overload at Aai’s angry outburst last night. I hardly minded when Aai Baba tasked me with supervising Nabhi’s future submissions. Better Nabhi deals with me than them.
For the next ten minutes, I consult Khan Academy and Nabhi’s textbook to help guide him through his problem set.
It becomes clear that Nabhi has less of a comprehension issue and more of an attention issue.
With focus, Nabhi can puzzle out most questions for himself, but he benefits from having me monitor his progress.
Over and again, Nabhi’s eyes shift mournfully to the window to watch Sanju, who’s playing basketball with a neighborhood friend in the driveway. I give Nabhi a gentle nudge the next time I catch the glance.
“Almost there,” I say. And because I’m not above bribing the twins, I add, “If you finish this set, you can take a break and play for a bit.”
This gets Nabhi back to his work. Right then, a voice sounds on the phone: “Hello?”
I jump to pick it up. “Hi,” I say, jumping straight to business. “I’m looking for a quote on the floral swings?”
“Got it,” the vendor says. “One moment, let me connect you with the right department.”
I’m placed on hold again before I can get an objection out. I shove my head in my hands.
“I think I’ll catch up on the whole summer’s work by the time they get back to you, Tai,” my brother remarks, and I groan, because I think he’s probably right.
Friday night, I’m still anxious over all my unfinished work.
I bring my laptop and readings over to the Sinha art gallery, much to Simran’s chagrin.
Saira and Sharmila are hosting a small reception for an exhibition opening tonight, and like usual, Simran and I have been given the privilege of running the check-in table.
It’s an easy, lucrative gig, one that we’ve eagerly accepted since early high school.
All we have to do is hand guests their name cards and programs for an hour, then we’re free to enjoy the art ourselves.
Simran and I love any excuse to dress up and act older than our age, and the open wine bar certainly doesn’t hurt.
Since our eighteenths, Simran’s moms have generously looked the other way as we indulge.
“Will you put the books down,” Simran hisses from the chair beside me. Her arms are folded, mouth set in a line. Check-in ended a while ago, so we’ve been sitting at an empty table for twenty minutes, and Simran could not be more displeased.
I shoot her an apologetic glance. “Almost done,” I say. It’s a lie; I have several chapters left to get through tonight, but I’ll allow a break once I finish my current one.
“Five minutes, and then I’m walking through without you,” she warns.
I gasp, wounded. “You wouldn’t.” Tonight’s exhibition theme, on women in migration, is one I’ve been looking forward to all summer.
“Watch me,” she says, and her tone is so firm that I relent. With a groan, I slide my book shut. Simran claps her hands in glee.
“A quick stroll,” I say. “And then I need to be back at it.”
She ignores this, already standing tall and smoothing down the skirt of her dress. It’s lacy and long, skimming the floor when she walks. “Do you want red or white?”
Two glasses of merlot later, I’m starting to relax about everything. Simran eggs me on.
“You need to take it easy,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.
“I’ve been taking it easy,” I say. “I’m in this predicament because I’ve been taking it easy.”
Simran shrugs. “It’s summer,” she offers.
Her logic is sound, but I can’t help from remarking, “It’s different for you.
You’re already set up at Dartmouth.” And it’s true—of the two of us, Simran did her freshman year right.
She’s found her people, and she has her roots in all the academic and professional activities she wants.
She even landed her current labor rights internship through a favorite professor.
I’m feeling the pressure this summer because I lack what she’s got.
Simran’s expression twists, part sympathy, part something else. “I mean, I have my shit too, Rani,” she says.
My lips quirk. “Like what, Steve?”
Her expression sours for a second, but she rolls her eyes, and I think I must have imagined it. “Like all of it,” she says. “I mean, I stuck it through, I didn’t jump ship, but yeah, it took a beat for me to feel settled too.”
I don’t love her framing my transfer as jumping ship, but I feel more struck by the last part of her words. “I didn’t know that,” I say, and it’s true. My impression of Simran’s first year has always been that it was smooth and exciting, nothing heavy to weigh her down.
She shrugs. “It didn’t feel relevant to say, given the context of what you were going through, especially with your grandfather.
But natural enough, I think. I was so far from home and didn’t know anyone at all.
It took lots of trial and error to find my place.
” She tilts her head. “Darshan being one of the errors, of course.”
I smile at the reminder of Simran’s first campus crush, a stoner and unsuccessful SoundCloud rapper.
“Of course,” I agree, but something remains unsettled in my chest. I don’t like feeling like I’ve missed out on anything in Simran’s life, like I was too caught up in my problems to be a good friend to her.
Or worse, that my envy of her interfered with that.
“I wish you’d told me,” I say next. “I always want to know what’s going on. ”
She locks gazes with me, expression warm. “Okay,” Simran says. “Good to know.”
We continue our stroll, and I pause for a refill on wine.
It’s a mixed-media exhibition, so some of the art pieces have audios to accompany them.
I linger at an Alina Joshi portrait, on loan from San Francisco, that makes my breath catch.
Two Desi sisters adorn themselves in traditional finery and jewelry as a woman, perhaps a mother, watches in the distance.
Old Bollywood music plays on the headphones to match, and the full effect is lovely and melancholy.
I’m so struck by the piece, still thinking of it as we walk, that I almost miss Simran’s address the first time. She repeats herself.
“How are you feeling about K-word now?” she asks.
I swat her, and she giggles. “No need to censor,” I say. “Since I’m feeling fine.” We completed two successful and highly professional driving practices this week. I mastered lane switching and only hit the curb twice. We did not discuss the party.
“Really?” she says, surprised.
“Really,” I say. “You were right about barreling through and moving forward. I think driving is going to be totally fine. Just another month to go.”
“Good,” Simran says warmly. “You can totally do it.”
“In fact,” I say, pulling my phone from my purse. I pull up Hinge to show her my profile is unpaused at last. “You’re going to be so proud.”
Simran gives a happy shriek, drawing stares from surrounding attendees that she ignores. “Give,” she orders, and amused, I pass my phone over. She spends a pleased several minutes swiping through my likes on my behalf, and then her lips form an O.
“Rani,” she says, voice odd.
My brow furrows. “What?” She holds up my phone to show me a familiar face, and my mouth drops. “What?”
Because Frank, from Simon’s party, has liked my profile. Simran squints at the screen. “This can’t be Frank Frank,” she says.
“It is Frank Frank,” I say, just as bewildered.
“Maybe he’s being catfished,” she says.
“He’s not hot enough for that,” I say, and she gives a shrug, point taken.
“Does he know he has your number?” she asks.
“He should,” I say. “Since I typed it into his phone, as requested.”
“Men are so bizarre,” Simran says, shaking her head. She muses. “But what the hell,” she says, and then she’s tapping the screen to match with him.
“Simran!” I exclaim, reaching for my phone, but it’s too late. Simran cackles as she returns it to me. Passersby are watching; Saira and Sharmila are sure to give us a talking-to later, but I still send her a glare. “Why?”
“For the bit,” she says. “Come on, you liked him at first, you can’t say you’re not curious.”
She’s right—I can’t. Still, I shake my head. “You’re terrible,” I say, and she laughs. We continue our walk-through, chatting as we admire the art, readings and research long forgotten.