Reasons We Break

Prologue Four Years Ago

WHEN RAJAN RANDHAWA failed eighth-grade math, the school forced him to get a tutor.

Northridge Secondary offered smart kids money to do one-on-one sessions with “struggling students.” Rajan wasn’t a fan.

His first tutor got frustrated with his slowness and quit.

His second tutor sat down on day one, turned Rajan’s homework toward herself, and did it for him.

His third commented Aren’t Indian people supposed to be good at math?

then reported Rajan to the admin when he cussed him out.

His fourth smelled weed on him and also reported him to admin.

His fifth tutor apparently wanted in on this trend because he reported him too, although to this day Rajan didn’t understand why.

He and the Northridge admin were pretty tight by then. And not in a good way.

So, when his sixth tutor came around in grade nine, Rajan wasn’t impressed. He’d already accepted that he sucked at math and wished Northridge would do the same. Instead, they seemed to be doubling down by sending him Simran Aujla.

Rajan had cringed automatically at her name. It was practically a Pavlovian response, since every kid in Kelowna’s Punjabi community grew up unwillingly hearing it. That Aujla girl has perfect grades and perfect manners, went the parental refrain. Why can’t you be more like her?

Since they were in the same grade and school, he had witnessed her perfection firsthand.

She collected awards like baseball cards—top student, volunteerism, debate, science fair, spelling bee, math contests—plus, she had extracurriculars coming out of her ass.

This tutoring gig was probably just another line item to beef up her résumé.

He hoped she expected it to go smoothly.

Because he had no intention of letting it go smoothly for any of these pretentious fuckers anymore.

Rajan sat in the library, his knee bouncing under the table as he waited for Simran.

The librarian hissed at him to take his hat off.

He blew her a kiss but obeyed. Once her back was turned, he put it on again.

The cycle would repeat the next time she looked his way. The inevitability of that was nice.

He waited ten, then fifteen minutes. He got told to remove his hat thrice in that time. His mind wandered. Maybe he should leave. Simran clearly didn’t give a shit about this tutoring thing, which made two of them. But the moment he stood, the library doors burst open.

A breathless, bushy-browed girl with wire-frame glasses and a long braid scanned the otherwise abandoned library and spotted him. Reluctantly, he sank back into his seat.

She sat in the chair next to his, tossing her gigantic backpack on the table. “Hi, I’m Simran.” Pause. “But I guess we’ve gone to school together for a while.”

“Really?” He popped a toothpick between his teeth. “Never noticed.”

She frowned slightly. Rajan wondered if she could tell he was screwing with her.

But she seemed to shake it off and opened her backpack, kara sliding down her wrist as she did so.

His eyes wandered to the collar of her baggy T-shirt, where a black kirpan strap peeked out.

So the rumours were true—she was Sikh Sikh.

“We’re doing...Math 8, right?” Simran asked. Rajan pulled his gaze back to her face. From the grapevine he knew this girl was in Math 10 this semester. Behind that innocent facade, she was probably judging him hard.

He winked. “Yup. Round three.”

“What’s your assignment today?” He slid it over, and she read it eagerly, like all the other tutors had before they realized how stupid he was. “‘Fractions, ratios, and percents.’ Do you have an approach?”

“Yeah, it’s usually”—he crumpled the assignment into a ball, and tossed it into the garbage several feet away—“that.”

Simran stared at the bin her hour’s wages had just disappeared into. When she looked back at him, her jaw was tight. He gave her a mocking grin. Just give up, he thought. Walk away.

Instead, she reached into her backpack and tugged a fresh piece of loose-leaf free from underneath the binders. She wrote a fraction problem on it, then pushed it his way. “Why don’t you try again.”

Her voice was soft, but this time her hand stayed on the corner, pinning it to the table.

He gazed at the paper and thought about how bored he already was.

“Are you thinking?” Simran asked eventually. “I can show you.”

He shrugged, pulling the strings of his oversize hoodie. He always wore a few sizes up. Having yet to hit a growth spurt, it made him look bigger than he was—which was a survival skill, in his life. “Nah, I’m trying.”

Time crawled by painfully slowly. Eventually, she picked up the pencil and showed him the steps. He nodded along and then, when she passed the pencil back, did nothing. She tried to show him again. Same thing. Give up.

She didn’t. She glanced at the clock and said, “We’ll keep at it next week.”

“Got it, Auntie.” He swiped his textbook off the table and left without looking back.

The following week, the same thing happened.

And then the week after. The next time, he deliberately smoked right before, but she didn’t report him even though he smelled like a fucking grow op.

She just kept explaining fractions, and although he was too stoned to pay attention, he liked listening to her voice.

It was soothing, like some kind of ASMR.

When he told her that (he didn’t have much of a filter right then), she looked surprised for a split second.

Then she giggled. Slightly. She tamped down on it real quick, but he heard it.

Until that point, Rajan hadn’t known she was even capable of giggling.

He was sort of pleased he’d made her do it.

That freaked him out. He decided not to get high before tutoring anymore.

The next day, Friday, he was summoned to the office.

He’d just been caught dealing to some dude in his class.

It was Jake’s fault for being so obvious with the baggie when the teacher walked by.

Of course, that white kid was on the soccer team, so he got off with a slap on the wrist. Meanwhile, Rajan had already been threatened with suspension.

A school counsellor, Ms. Fernandez, was now here playing good cop.

Somewhere between the lectures about how he needed to stop whatever dangerous things you’re involved in outside of school, how he still had a chance not to become a statistic, blah blah, she finally said something interesting. “How’s math tutoring going?”

“It’s fucked,” he said.

“Language, Rajan.”

“Golly gee, it’s fucked.”

Ms. Fernandez pursed her lips. “Simran’s the best junior tutor we’ve ever had. She’s helped many students. Never failed, actually.”

“First time for everyone.”

She sighed. “You’re never going to convince me you’re a lost cause, Rajan. Why don’t you tell me how I can help you, instead?”

He winked. “Give me my weed back.”

She sighed again, clearly not getting that he’d answered honestly. Thanks to his stash being confiscated, he was going to fall short with the cash handover tonight. And he was short last time, too.

The office released him after sentencing him to a week’s worth of detentions. By that time, he’d missed art class, which sucked since he actually liked that one, and it was lunch hour. Restless, he wandered to his usual hangout—the smoke pit, on the corner of the school property facing the woods.

His mood soured further when he saw Zach Singer among the people there, smoking a cigarette and flicking his pretentious brand-name lighter.

Zach was one year older and kind of a dick.

He was also a business competitor of Rajan’s, in a manner of speaking.

But the smoke pit was neutral turf, so they tolerated each other here. Mostly.

As Rajan passed him, Zach punched his shoulder slightly harder than could be considered friendly. “Where’ve you been?”

“The circus.” That was the common name for the admin office in his social circle. Rajan leaned against the chain-link fence and wished he had a joint.

Zach wasn’t done. “What about yesterday after school?”

“Math tutoring.” He considered asking Zach for a drag off his cigarette. But he wasn’t about to stoop that low just to soothe his nerves.

“Oh, right. What’s that bitch’s name again? Susan?”

“Simran,” Rajan said shortly. Zach noticed.

“What’s the matter? You hot for teacher?”

Rajan rolled his eyes. Zach was always trying to get a rise out of him. “Dude, come on.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Zach chuckled, blowing a smoke ring at him. “She’s the last teacher anyone would be hot for.”

Rajan said nothing.

“You think she could be hot if she tried? If she got rid of that moustache, or something?” Zach looked around at the group. He seemed to mull it over, cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Nah. Not even a hot librarian type. She’s ugly as f—”

Rajan ripped the cigarette out of Zach’s mouth with one hand and punched him in the face with the other.

Zach staggered back several steps, then looked up, eyes screaming bloody murder. He was bigger than Rajan, but most people were. That never stopped Rajan when his blood ran hot.

Zach lunged. Rajan took a drag of the cigarette, then waited until Zach crashed into him to press the smoking point into his arm.

Zach swore, momentarily distracted enough for Rajan to get another hit in. Blood spurted from Zach’s nose. That was the last satisfying punch he threw, because then Zach tackled him to the ground. Things sort of devolved after that.

Later, Rajan was back in the office for the second time that day. This time, the principal’s office.