Chapter 6
AS THE DOOR swings shut behind Rajan, Simran makes her way to the admin office, still shaken.
What happened back there? How did Rajan notice she was acting off?
For the last few days, she’s been going to class and her volunteer shifts and everywhere else pretending she’s fine, and it’s worked.
Just because she thinks about her mom’s diagnosis twenty-four seven—researching it when she’s supposed to be studying, scheduling her mom’s scans, constantly ruminating over the conversation she overheard—doesn’t mean it’s written on her face.
Which feels surreal. How is it, really, that Simran can walk around carrying all this heaviness and nobody sees it?
But Rajan did.
Although he seemed different, too. More vigilant, somehow. He scanned the street every time he went out for groceries. She’s not sure he even realized he was doing it.
She glances back at the food line, only to find the guy who provoked Rajan studying her. Before she can react, he turns to leave.
She shakes her head and enters the admin office. Inside, she’s surprised to find the whole team crowded around the desk. “What is it? Did something happen?”
Kamaljot Uncle waves this away. “We’re concerned about you.”
Her hackles immediately go up. Did they notice she’s been off, too?
“You shouldn’t go anywhere with that boy alone,” Kamaljot Uncle adds. “What were you thinking, grabbing his arm? He might’ve hurt you.”
Oh. They’re talking about Rajan. She relaxes slightly. “It’s fine. There was just someone in here antagonizing him.” She doesn’t know that for sure, of course, but the man who was grinning as Rajan got kicked out likely didn’t have the best intentions. “There’s no need to inform Hillway.”
Rupi Auntie snorts, already filling out the paperwork. “Of course there is. Don’t fall for his charm, Simran. Have you not heard? What that boy did?”
Simran pauses. She doesn’t know, and it hasn’t occurred to her until right now that she almost...doesn’t want to.
She’s heard the rumours about his incarceration. But the thing about Rajan is that it’s very difficult to reconcile those rumours with the boy who gossiped with her in school and pretends to bow at her feet when she walks by. “It’s not my business.”
Rupi Auntie scoffs. “It is, because he told me.”
“I don’t know anything about this boy,” another auntie complains. “Who is he?”
And then it’s a flurry of voices.
“Arshdeep’s eldest son.”
“Arshdeep Gill?”
“Randhawa. She died last year.”
Everyone makes sympathetic tut-tut-tut sounds.
“She moved to Surrey last summer with her eldest,” Rupi Auntie explains. “To be closer to her family and the specialist doctors. They said it was her kidneys, but in the end it was her heart.”
“Those poor boys of hers,” says Kamaljot Uncle. “Her sons were so sweet, so cute.”
“Not the oldest,” Rupi Auntie says with a huff. “I taught in his school. He was involved in the gang stuff. Always doing drugs or in detention. And the other day! I saw him in the government building. He told me—no shame—that he went to jail for killing someone. Like he was proud.”
All eyes swivel to Simran for her reaction.
She forces stillness into her expression. “Everyone at Hillway has made mistakes.”
“Putting your shirt on backward is a mistake,” Kamaljot Uncle says. “This is murder. Don’t you know what men in gangs do?”
“My in-law’s friend’s son went that way in Surrey,” adds another. “Apparently, he always carried a gun. Beat people for money. Now he’s in prison. Simran, you’re a sweet girl, but you can’t give everyone the benefit of the doubt.”
Neetu’s grandma, who’s been sitting quietly on the couch in the corner, speaks up. “Are we sure about all this? I spoke to him this morning. He was very well-mannered. And he added some beautiful designs to the table plates. Far better at it than that fool you brought me to help later.”
“Look, he’s even charmed you,” Kamaljot Uncle scoffs, and turns back to Simran. “Simran, you must request a new mentee. We’ll worry about you otherwise.”
Everyone makes noises of agreement. Simran bites her lip, overwhelmed at their concern for her. She wonders if something’s wrong with her that she’s not concerned herself.
Just then, Neetu pokes her head inside. “Simran, I need a hand.”
Relieved, Simran follows her out with an abashed shrug at the others.
“They were absolutely going in on you in there,” Neetu comments once they’re out of earshot. “Was it about Rajan?”
From the way she says his name, Simran can tell Neetu shares the admin team’s opinion. “He wasn’t being violent. Someone came in trying to get a rise out of him.”
“If they succeeded, that means he hasn’t gotten ahold of his anger,” Neetu says matter-of-factly. “So he’s not well suited to working here. Hey, you’re still coming for the catering testing for the engagement party, right? It’s in two weeks.”
Simran’s relieved for the change in topic.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Neetu, who’s seven years Simran’s senior, is getting married this summer in Abbotsford.
But they’re throwing an engagement party in Kelowna first, in early July, before she moves away with her soon-to-be husband.
Simran tries not to dwell on that part. Neetu’s the one who taught Simran the harmonium growing up; Simran can’t imagine the gurdwara without her.
Ever since high school ended, it feels like all her friends are slowly leaving Kelowna. Eventually she’ll be the only one left.
Unless, of course, she accepts that UBC transfer offer. The deadline is today. Not that she’s thinking about it or anything.
Good, because you aren’t taking it, she reminds herself firmly, and busies herself filling Rajan’s position in the serving line.
Two hours later, when breakfast’s done, the dishes washed, floors swept, and volunteers filtering out, Kamaljot Uncle shoos her out despite her protests, insisting he’ll lock up.
Simran finally relents and gets in her truck.
She does, after all, have a student association meeting at the university to get to. But she doesn’t leave just yet.
Instead, she studies the sponsor card she plucked off one of the tables.
It is beautifully decorated—neat cursive, with detailed, geometric designs around the edges one might think were printed professionally.
At least until she flips it over, to see that ink has bled through the cardstock. She runs her thumb over the stain.
When Kamaljot Uncle finally exits the building, Simran pretends to be texting. It’s only when he drives away that she hops out and lets herself back in using her own spare key.
She goes to the management office, where the Hillway reports are in the outbox, ready to be sent off tomorrow morning. She plucks out the complaint against Rajan.
On her drive to the university, she glances at it in the passenger seat and feels the first seeds of doubt.
She doesn’t actually know what happened.
Why is it so hard for her to accept Rajan might be in the wrong?
Because of his card-decorating skills? She needs to get it together.
Nine months could’ve changed him. After all, Simran feels like a different person now than she was a week ago.
Maybe she’s the cliché she’s been warned against becoming: the inexperienced good girl getting played by a guy who knows his exact effect on her.
She shakes her head and crumples the paper in her fist. Next time, she tells herself. Next time, she won’t interfere.
As she speed-walks into the meeting half an hour late, the long table of undergraduate society members give her looks.
Jassa Singh, who’s vice president, doesn’t even pause his spiel about leftover council tasks to be done before summer.
Simran takes her seat and scans the agenda.
As treasurer, all she cares about is the budget, which is the next item.
She opens her laptop to retrieve her spreadsheet, but instead, her screen wakes to the email from Dr. Maxfield.
Okay, so maybe she’s been thinking about it more than she should. But it won’t matter after today. There’s no harm in imagining.
“Simran.”
Simran jolts to find Jassa staring at her. “I—What?”
“The budget. That’s the next item.”
Although he’s clearly repeated this several times, he doesn’t sound annoyed. He never does; he’s just trying to run the meeting efficiently, as he always does when the president is absent. The least Simran can do is match it.
Quickly, she closes the tab and ends up on the last Google search she made: endometrial cancer.
She switches it again to find an assignment due tonight that she completely forgot about.
She switches the tab several more times, fully aware of Jassa’s eyebrows rising with every passing second, until she finds the spreadsheet. Clears her throat. “We’re in—”
“A deficit, I know. I saw the numbers, too. I just don’t understand why.”
A prickle of irritation goes through her. Here Jassa is again, violating her area of expertise. She feels the strong urge to one-up him. “It’s because we’re still missing a significant portion of member fees.”
A quiet. Jassa twiddles his pen casually, then speaks to the room. “If I remember correctly, we delegated who would collect those months ago. Anyone remember who that was?”
Everyone remembers, given it’s the student services representative’s job, but before any of them can speak up, the offender shrugs. “Me.”
Simran sighs inwardly. Chandani Sharma lounges in her seat a few chairs away.
Simran went to high school with her, but she was TJ’s friend.
Now Chandani has glommed onto Simran. Mostly for help with classes.
And, apparently, to apply for vacant student council positions only to do none of the tasks she’s assigned.
“It’ll get done,” Chandani says now. “Stop riding my dick about it.”