Chapter 2 #2
“Rajan, Kat, this is Ms. Aujla,” Paul announces, oblivious. “Simran, this is Rajan, our newest volunteer, and his PO, Kat.”
Rajan didn’t read Hillway’s welcome brochure, but he’s pretty sure having history with your mentor would be frowned upon. He waits for Simran to say something.
But she doesn’t. “Hi, Rajan.”
Interesting. Well, two can play this game. “Hey, Ms. Aujla.”
“Call me Simran.” Her tone is completely neutral, and she greets Kat next before perching in the chair next to her. “Sorry I’m late, Paul.”
“No problem,” Paul says merrily, sorting through the files on his desk. “Let me find the papers to sign and we can get you out of here...”
Kat engages Simran in friendly, aimless conversation, while Rajan silently wills Simran to look his way. But she looks everywhere in the room but at him.
Maybe she saw his file. Maybe not. For him to even be here means he majorly screwed up. And the idea that she knows that, that that’s the reason she won’t look him in the eye...
“Here it is!” Paul slides a piece of paper in Rajan’s direction. “I need both your signatures on this mentor-mentee agreement. By signing, you’re agreeing to be kind and respect each other’s boundaries.”
Rajan hesitates. He could confess they know each other. Sure, the next mentor Paul pairs him with will probably be a pain in the ass, but at least Rajan won’t have the overwhelming sense he’s disappointed them before even starting.
He opens his mouth, and that’s when Simran finally looks at him.
Her expression gives nothing away. But, the same sixth sense that warned him off from an ice-cream truck whispers something now.
He shuts his mouth and signs.
Rajan wonders throughout the next ten minutes if she’ll ever mention it.
He wonders if she’ll hesitate when she signs the agreement (she doesn’t).
He wonders if she’ll break when they’re told their first volunteering day is Saturday at a breakfast kitchen.
Or when Kat jots down Simran’s number before bouncing across the street to see her next client.
But Simran appears fully committed to acting like they’ve never met.
So, he’s actually a little surprised when she follows him out to the bus stop afterward. He says nothing; she’ll talk when she’s ready, he figures. When the coast is clear. But they stand in silence so long he starts genuinely wondering if she’s just waiting for the bus.
Then, finally:
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Rajan scoffs. Of course that’s the first thing she says. “Why didn’t you?”
Simran doesn’t respond. He suspects she doesn’t have an answer to that. Good to know they’re on the same page.
“What happens if they figure it out?” he asks instead. “Do I get kicked out? Do you?”
That shakes her out of her funk. “There’s nothing to figure out. Hillway rules prohibit conflicts of interest. That would require us to have a significant relationship of some kind, which we don’t.”
Okay, that’s kind of fucking rude. “You don’t call four years of tutoring a significant relationship?”
She meets his gaze squarely. “It wasn’t if we decide it wasn’t.”
Her voice is firm. After a second, it clicks, and he finds he’s no longer offended. In fact, he has the urge to laugh.
“Okay, so,” he says, “what’s the story? You tutored half the school and don’t even remember me?”
“We never had classes together either,” Simran confirms. “You definitely never promised free edibles to people who donated to my fund-raisers.”
Damn, he’d forgotten about that. “Right,” he says, enjoying this game now, “and we never stayed late trying to connect the dots of teachers’ affairs with each other.”
“You never rehearsed my speeches with me before my debate tournaments.”
“And you never stole my earbuds to listen to my music. You never liked my music taste.”
“That’s right,” Simran says. “None of those things. So what kind of significant relationship was there, Rajan?”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Beats me, dude.” He should’ve known Simran would do this. Lie, and invite him to lie with her. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“You have.”
His amusement vanishes at her somber tone. Fine. She’s going to ask about it, then. About what happened to get him to the point of probation. There was never any way they really could’ve picked up where they—
Simran blurts, “Your hair’s different.”
His hand automatically comes up to run through his hair, now closer-cropped than it was in high school. Gone are the waves he once kept shoved under a hat. He’d had it buzzed in juvie.
It’s hilarious (and a relief) that this was her first thought. “You like it?” He flashes her a grin, loving the way she goes a little pink. Yeah, he’s still got it.
Simran dodges his question. “It’s just, I haven’t seen you in a long time. You...left.”
Now that sounds loaded. He dodges, too. “And you didn’t. Thought you’d be out of this town by now, Sahiba.”
She purses her lips, but before she can respond, a phone rings. Not his. Hers. She fishes it from her coat pocket. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
Rajan nods and that’s when a vehicle passes by, splashing slush onto the curb yet again. He jerks his head up to see the ice-cream truck driver looking at him once more before passing. This time, no music. No warning at all.
Rajan watches it disappear around the curb.
“What’s going on?” Simran asks, and he looks back to her, only to find she’s not talking to him. Her head is ducked, phone pressed to her ear. He realizes how close they’ve drifted, and he takes a large step back. Screw the bus. He’s getting out of here now.
Simran doesn’t call after him when he takes off down the street.
He turns a corner and cuts between two buildings.
The narrow alley is littered with trash and storage containers and, at the end, a chain-link fence between buildings.
He goes for it, jumping onto a storage container and scaling the fence.
The metal bites into his palms, but the pain barely registers.
He’s just crossing the next street when the truck screeches into his path. Shit. He barely halts in time to avoid being run over. Either someone really wants to sell him a Popsicle, or he’s completely screwed.
A few pedestrians look up at the sound of the tires squealing. Rajan feels slightly reassured by their presence. He won’t be killed in front of a bunch of witnesses. Right?
That becomes his last concern once the back doors fling open.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s back from kiddie jail,” says a familiar voice. “Get in. We have a lot to talk about.”