Chapter 5
TEN MINUTES BEFORE his alarm, Rajan cracks his eyes open to the sounds of a scuffle in the hallway. He stares at the ceiling of his storage-closet-turned-bedroom. He could ignore it. His brothers aren’t actually going to kill each other, right?
“I’m gonna kill you!”
Rajan flings the covers off. His mattress takes up most of the floor, so he stands on it, wood creaking under him, and opens the door. At least, he tries. Damn thing’s hinges are stuck.
He hates this shitty house. It’s objectively not the worst; it may be one floor, cramped, falling apart, and shared with the city of rodents in the crawl space, but it’s way more livable than certain places he crashed in after his mom died.
It’s more about what it represents. Or rather, what it doesn’t represent: a home.
He shoulders the door open and is rewarded with a sharp pain down his arm. He makes a note to pick up some Tylenol. That freaky probation officer will be so smug if Rajan has to cut down on work.
In the hallway, two young boys are on the floor, locked in a very unfriendly wrestling match. Rajan strides forward to grab the back of the bigger one’s shirt, since he’s currently hitting the younger one. “Sukha, what the hell? You’re gonna be late for school.”
Sukha’s barely fourteen, but Rajan’s surprised by the force with which he shoves him away. “This asshole finished my last box of Oreos!”
“So? Let go of Yash right now.” This time Rajan hauls him away like he means it, catching a few elbows in the process.
Sukha staggers back, dark eyes flashing.
As usual, Rajan is startled each time they make eye contact; he came back home and suddenly his brother was the spitting image of him at that age.
Stockier, maybe, but the same straight nose, heavy brows, wavy hair, and sharply angled face.
Not to mention the constant anger in his eyes.
Sukha’s voice is just as venomous. “This is none of your fucking business.”
“Stop fucking swearing so much,” Rajan snaps. “You’re fighting your eleven-year-old brother in your pajamas. Go cool off and get ready for school.”
Sukha looks half ready to fight him, too.
Rajan braces himself. It wouldn’t be their first physical altercation recently.
But Sukha storms off, knocking into him as he goes.
Rajan watches him slam his bedroom door hard enough to make the frame rattle, before squatting next to his youngest brother, Yash.
Yash is also in his pajamas, breathing hard. Rajan studies him. The fringe of his hair is plastered to his forehead. He doesn’t look like Rajan much at all. More like their mother: softer features, wide eyes, a rounder chin. He’s pale, holding his arm awkwardly.
“What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”
“No,” Yash whispers. His lower lip is trembling, though. “I’m okay.”
“Then why do you look like you’re gonna cry?”
Yash blinks rapidly. “I’m not.”
Yash used to cry freely around him all the time. He used to say a lot in general. Sukha might be angry all the time now, but Yash is just quiet. Has a year changed that much?
Rajan flounders for words in the silence that stretches between them. He has a feeling Yash wouldn’t let him look at his arm, and he’s too much of a coward to find out. “Why’d you eat his cookies, anyway?”
That gets a reaction. “He doesn’t own them,” Yash says hotly. “Besides, I was hungry.”
And there wasn’t any food, is the unsaid part.
“I’ll make something. Get ready for school.
” With a last pat to Yash’s hair, Rajan ducks under the doorframe to the kitchen, kicking the crate of glass bottles in the corner as he goes.
Their father must still be asleep. A small mercy on mornings like these.
Rajan pops bread into the toaster, then leans against the grimy counter, staring out the window at the decrepit swing set next door.
It’s been five days since Nick’s visit. Five quiet days.
But he’s hyperaware he has forty-eight hours left.
Less, actually, because he’s spending the next couple with Hillway.
He’s gone over his options countless times.
None are good, although he knows what his probation officer would say.
That he should tell her. Or the cops. He laughs under his breath at that thought.
As if half the department hasn’t picked him up in a cruiser at some point.
They’d probably say he breached probation just getting in the truck with Nick.
And what’s Kat gonna do, anyway? Smile the Lions into submission?
Yeah, no. As always, he’s on his own.
Rajan cracks open the Hillway pamphlet on his bus over.
Hillway has apparently partnered with several local organizations in the last year to provide “more rewarding community service opportunities” for juvenile offenders.
It was, of course, Simran Kaur Aujla’s idea.
The only catch is the volunteers have to be on their best behaviour.
One strike, and he’ll be out with a garbage-picker-upper instead.
Today’s location is a breakfast kitchen downtown; it was founded by a local gurdwara, funded collectively by the Sikh community. Rajan feels odd taking off his cap and donning a rumal, tying it bandana-style over his hair. He hasn’t put one on since he was a kid.
When he enters the kitchen, an elderly Punjabi auntie in a white salwar kameez spots him and lights up.
She ushers him over to write name plates for the dining tables.
While Rajan helps her decorate the cards for their sponsors, she engages him in conversation about his parents’ ancestral villages.
Someone’s grandma clearly didn’t get the message about Rajan Randhawa, but he’s relieved to be spoken to normally for once.
And she’s clearly just happy to find a volunteer who speaks Punjabi.
Their conversation is interrupted by a young woman with curly hair under her chunni and an amused smile.
“Okay, Nani ji. I have to actually give him a task now. I’m Neetu,” she introduces herself.
“You must be...Rajan?” He nods, and Neetu checks something off on her clipboard, the big-ass rock on her finger catching the light and practically blinding him.
“You can help bring groceries from the truck.”
Ah, manual labour. His usual job. Rajan drops his Sharpie and turns to the exit door, just in time to see Simran emerge from the management office, a rumal tied over her head. And he can’t help himself—he veers in her direction instead.
“Kiddan, Simran Sahiba?” He jokingly reaches to touch her feet like she’s a respected elder.
However, Simran doesn’t do her usual funny dance-away-from-his-hands routine. In fact, she doesn’t even look at him, but rather off behind him. “Did Neetu assign you yet?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry, I’ll still do whatever you tell me to.”
He grins at her, but she doesn’t return it. “No, that’s fine.”
And she brushes by him to the kitchen.
Rajan stares after her. What was that? Was she irritated by him acting familiar? But she seemed so normal during that conversation at the bus stop a few days ago.
Confused, he joins the chain of people hauling supplies into the building. During one of his many trips back and forth, he notices someone in the management office watching him from the doorway.
Not just anybody. It’s that auntie he spoke to in the elevator a few days ago. The one he told about his arrest.
He winks at her, and she instantly turns away.
By the time he’s set his last bag of flour down, cooking is well underway and patrons are lining up at the door. He spots Simran wiping down tables in the seating area, stiff-backed. Wait. Wasn’t she in the management office earlier, too?
It all clicks. That auntie told her.
Of course she did; really, he’d counted on her to tell people.
It was satisfying at the time, but now, with Simran ignoring him.
..his stomach sinks. The same way it did when he was fourteen and his best friends admitted their parents told them to stop hanging out with him.
Or when he was sixteen and his mom stopped reading Northridge’s shit-talking letters.
Or when he was seventeen, at her funeral, and his dad suggested it would be better for his brothers if he didn’t come back home.
He should be used to it by now, but he’s not. He swallows and turns away, to join the serving line.
His task is easy—just slapping a ladleful of oatmeal into each bowl that slides by. It’s uneventful for several minutes. He’s starting to think this whole volunteering thing might be a breeze when a familiar hand puts a pristine bowl on the counter. A vintage watch on the wrist. Leather jacket.
Rajan looks up.
At Nick’s smirking face.
“I want some food,” Nick says loudly.
A couple other volunteers glance his way. Fantastic. Rajan matches Nick’s grin and speaks through gritted teeth.
“I still have two days.”
“Not even. I’m here to remind you not to...procrastinate.” Nick raises his voice. “I just want some help. That’s what you do here, right? Selfless service?” He points to the slogan on the wall.
Rajan pours steaming-hot oatmeal onto Nick’s hand. “Whoops.”
Nick’s only sign of discomfort is a twitch of his jaw. His hand slides off the counter. “You’re not safe, Rajan. Not if you keep doing shit like this.”
“That a threat?”
“Of course it’s a threat.” Nick glares, apparently done with games now that he’s got a first-degree burn developing. “And not from me. This is serious. The godfathers—”
That’s the last word Rajan wants said here. Next thing he knows Nick will be mentioning the LS by name. “Shut the fuck up.”
Unfortunately, there’s a lull in the surrounding conversation at the exact time he says that. His words echo, and instantly, someone calls from behind him. “Step away from the counter!”
Rajan turns. One of the admin people is approaching with an accusatory finger pointed at him. And everyone’s watching, that elderly Punjabi auntie included.
Rajan holds his hands up. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You spoke rudely to our guest. I think it’s time for you to go.”
“What?” That seems a slight overreaction.
“You heard me. We have a zero-tolerance policy toward misbehaviour.”
Damn, he’s actually serious. The other volunteers’ expressions mirror his shock. It dawns on Rajan that he’s being made into an example.
Which is fucking unfair. His desperation pushes him to look back at Nick, who’s smirking again. “I’m sorry, okay? Want me to grovel?”
The admin person is unmoved. “You can leave, or you can be escorted.”
Rajan eyes the security guys now pushing off the wall. He backs away from the counter. “Is this—Is this going to mess with my probation?”
“That’s between you and your probation officer when they get the report.”
Great. He’s already on thin ice, due to the many times he failed to follow restrictions for community sentences in high school. The judge had warned him this meant that now, even one breach would land his ass in hot water.
And Nick—Nick stands there grinning, like this was his intention all along. To show Rajan just how pointless this whole going-straight thing was.
And once he realized that, of course, he’d come crawling back.
Severely pissed off, Rajan heads for the exit. He’s hurling his rumal into the used basket when someone catches his arm.
“Wait,” Simran says.
Startled, he looks at her. For the first time today, she’s showing emotion. Her eyes are wide. God, those big brown doe eyes should be registered as a weapon.
“Who was he?” she asks quietly.
Does she want to ban Nick from the kitchen? If so, he’ll gladly help. He puts his cap on. “I know him from before. He’s a filthy-rich prick. You should definitely not let him come back.”
Her brow furrows, clearly with more questions. But then someone from the admin office calls, “Simran! Come here!”
Simran looks over her shoulder. Rajan reaches for his shoes. “You should go.”
She turns back to him instead. “Is everything okay?”
Why does she care suddenly? “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” He looks down at her sharply, because it occurs to him that he could call her out on it. “And what about you?”
She blinks. “What about me?”
He stares her down. “Everything cool with you? Because you’re acting fucking weird today.”
“I’m acting—weird?”
“Did you not notice? Because I did. A lot. If you have something to say, say it.” He nearly spits this last part out. He wants her to bring it out in the open.
And yet...he’s terrified in the silence that follows.
Eventually, Simran’s gaze slides away from his. “I don’t. Everything’s fine.”
He stares at her another moment, then laughs. Because of course Simran is avoiding the elephant in the room. If she addressed it, she’d have to give him a chance to explain. And clearly she doesn’t want to. Clearly, she’s heard enough.
That sinking feeling comes back, times a hundred. He pushes out the door. The last thing he hears is people calling Simran’s name.