Chapter Twenty-Five
Michael is in a cheerful mood throughout our shift on Monday.
Shockingly cheerful, considering that a day care field trip is ongoing today, and sticky-handed children have been scurrying around the space all afternoon.
The checkout line is never ending, and we’ve had to break up more than a few heated disputes over our Dragon Witch selection.
I’m wiped within the hour, but Michael takes it all in stride, patience unhindered.
After comforting another crying first grader, Michael takes his seat by me. My eyes narrow when he begins to hum to himself, lips tilted up as he clicks back onto the computer.
“What is going on with you?” I ask, unable to take it anymore.
He meets my eyes, nonplussed. “What do you mean?”
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re just so … happy.”
He raises a brow. “My bad,” he says, voice dry.
I roll my eyes. “Something’s up,” I say. “Spill.”
His composed exterior cracks at the nudge. He swivels in his seat to face me, eyes bright and joyful. “It’s just,” he starts. “Things have been really good,” he says. He shakes his head, intoxicated off the happy news. “Like, really, really good.”
His energy is so infectious that I laugh too. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says with a dreamy sigh. He pauses and gives a bashful smile. “I got into the poetry seminar I was applying for,” he says.
I gasp. “Michael!” I exclaim, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “That’s amazing, I’m so proud.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his expression is pleased. “It’s mostly seniors and grads, so it’ll be a challenge, but I’m feeling really up to it.”
My smile deepens. “Beyond impressive,” I say. It’s clear his fear of asking Ms. Okonkwo for a recommendation a few weeks back was totally ungrounded. “We’ve got to celebrate.”
He beams, but I can tell something’s left unspoken. I tilt my head at him. “What else?”
Michael chews on the words, debating how much to say, and his voice is hushed when he finally speaks. “I’ve kind of been talking to someone,” he says.
My mouth drops, and Michael hurries to continue. “The last thing I want to do is jinx it,” he says. “And I hate getting all excited about a person only to feel foolish later,” he adds. “But.” He picks at his jeans. “I think I really like him.”
I knock on the wooden table to show I take his apprehension seriously. “Tell me everything,” I say. “Who’s the guy?”
He hesitates. “Aryan,” he says finally, voice hushed.
My eyes widen at the admission, and Michael goes on.
“We hit it off at the housewarming. I hadn’t seen him in months, and we’ve never been friends, just have lots of mutuals, so it was the first time we actually chatted, just us.
” A smile starts on his lips. “We’ve been texting since, and it’s been so sweet. Our first date is this week.”
I lift a hand to my chest. “That’s lovely,” I say. “It’s so exciting.” His eyes flash, and I knock on wood again for good measure.
Michael continues. “It’s not without complications though,” he says.
“Given how close Aryan and Kush are. I haven’t mentioned much to Zara and Noelle because of that.
” I blink back at this, hopeful I am maintaining a poker face.
“But I think Zara caught a vibe when we were playing rage cage.” He frowns, as if trying to remember something. “You weren’t there for that, were you?”
I shake my head, busying my hands at my desk. “Don’t think so, no.”
His frown deepens. “Yeah, you disappeared for a sec,” he says. “I remember, I was looking for you before pinata time.”
I can feel my cheeks growing warmer. “Huh,” I manage.
He tilts his head, contemplative. “I was so caught up about Aryan that I forgot to check in,” he says. “And now I’m realizing we never debriefed. Where’d you get off to?”
I don’t respond right away, unsure whether it’s best to be honest or quiet. But my expression must give away some panic, because Michael squints at me. “Rani?”
I’ve never been a successful liar, and I also don’t like the idea of lying to Michael, who has been such a welcoming friend to me.
So I settle on the truth. “I was with Kush,” I admit slowly.
“On the terrace.” In as swift and mechanical a manner as possible, I summarize the events of the evening, emphasizing my drunken state and clear lapse in thinking.
Michael’s eyes widen in horror as I speak.
I close with: “But none of it matters, since it’ll never happen again. ”
He’s quiet as he takes it in. “Oh, God,” he says at last. “And I thought I had a big night.”
“Your big night is the only one that counts,” I rush to say. “Since it’ll never happen again.”
He nods, still processing. “Well, good.”
“I didn’t mean to keep this from you,” I say, a twinge of guilt creeping in. “But it felt delicate, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”
“Hey, I’m not upset,” he promises, and the tightness in my stomach eases. “But,” he continues, voice careful, “the others might be, and you know, it just isn’t a good idea.” He gives me a look. “For your sake, I mean. Kush doesn’t have a good track record here.”
I’m surprised by my urge to defend Kush.
Just weeks ago, I would have doubled down on the criticism, even relished in it.
But I’ve softened from spending more time with him.
It’s not my place to excuse his behavior with Meera, but his family crises at the time make clear things weren’t so black-and-white.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I say instead. “I swear it was a one-time thing.” He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but I rush to push the topic aside. “Let’s not get sidetracked, though,” I say. “Tell me more about Aryan.”
Michael accepts the olive branch, eyes brightening again as he tells me bits from their chats in between helping the day care students get checked out.
Friday’s driving session is a victory lap.
Earlier in the week, Kush started taking me through potential test drives: We’d begin at the Gilmore DOL, and he’d invent a route to follow, instructing me when to turn, when to lane change, or when to demonstrate a particular skill.
Our first few tries were bumpy; after weeks of driving on the same streets, an unfamiliar path posed a challenge. But Friday, I am on fire.
I can’t help but let out a little squeal when I seamlessly slide into park after another great go. It’s our last route for the day, and apart from a couple missed indicators, I’ve hit most of my marks. If the test was today, I would pass with ease.
“Did I kill it or what,” I say, unclipping my seat belt and stretching out. My whole body tensed up in my focus on the road.
“You killed it,” Kush confirms.
“To think you used to freak out at the thought of me behind the wheel,” I say with a sigh. “I’m basically ready for F1 at this point.”
“That’s the exact kind of driving we want to avoid, actually,” he says. “But take your moment.”
I take it, relishing in my success. I think of how panicked I’d felt in June at the prospect of one more unlicensed year and feel a rush of pride. It feels nice to remind myself that I’m capable of follow-through, of making good things happen for myself.
“How should we celebrate?” Kush asks. “With some more Wanda’s Pink Passion?”
I wrinkle my nose, already tasting the beetroot and sea moss concoction on my tongue at the mere mention.
“That’s gonna be a passionate no from me,” I say.
I glance at the clock and see that it’s nearly five.
“I’m actually supposed to meet Simran at the fair in a few,” I say.
Steve is back in town, and Simran decided a county fair evening was the perfect setting for our next group hang.
The invite leaves my lips before I can think it over: “Would you want to join?”
His brows rise. I realize that I’m proposing new territory—though we’ve grown closer over the last few weeks, we’ve still never hung out outside of driving and family functions, with the exception of our party run-in. But the question’s out there now, so I double down.
“I have to hang out with the guy she’s seeing,” I say. “He’s an out-of-work DJ. No reason I should suffer alone.”
A half smile starts on Kush’s lips. “This I have to see,” he says, and then we’re off to the fair.
It turns out that Kush and Steve have incredible chemistry. In that they are both equally terrible at all carnival games.
After suffering devastating losses at Skee-Ball, ring toss, and arcade basketball, the boys decide a food break is called for.
“These games are all rigged, anyways,” Steve says.
“Of course,” Simran says, mouth twitching, arms full of candy and stuffed animals from her winnings. All water-gun games hate to see Sim coming. Her hand-eye coordination is unmatched.
Kush accepts his failures with a little more dignity. “I’m out of practice,” he admits. “I haven’t been to the fair all summer.”
We head to the funnel cake booth, the smell of sweet fried dough making my mouth water. The line wraps around twice, and for good reason. I dream of their berries and cream option long after the summer ends.
“When’s the last time you came to the fair?” I ask. It’s Gilmore’s pride and joy, drawing people from all over the county.
He considers. “Last year, I think,” he says. He hesitates. “I brought Meera when she visited.”
“Ah,” I say, something unexpected and unpleasant twisting in my stomach at the name-drop.
It’s invasive to question him, but I can’t help but ask, “Are the two of you still in touch?” All my information about this relationship is through the gossip grapevine, and I’d rather hear it from the source himself.
He shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about reaching out, though,” he says. “I know everything that happened is my fault, I messed up badly at the end, but it makes me sad that things are so hostile between us now. We were close friends for so long, even before anything happened.”