Chapter 8 #2
Jassa blinks. Once. Twice. His hesitation lasts maybe a second, but in that time Simran has eons to regret every word she said. “Never mind—”
Then he looks into her eyes. “No, it’s just, I’ve got an errand to run after this.”
“I understand.” What was she thinking? She doesn’t even drink coffee. Desperate to change the topic, she says, “So—” at the same time he says, “Hey, wait.”
She does.
“You didn’t let me finish.” His voice is light as he shreds the last stolen votes. “I’m free later. How about six?”
She really regrets it now. Based on his hesitation, he definitely caught the...flavour...of her question. There’s no backing out. “Six sounds great.”
And then they go back to their task like nothing happened.
By five o’clock, though, Simran is in full panic mode.
Is this a date? She can’t decide. On one hand, this could be an olive branch after a year of passive-aggressive rivalry.
And maybe it would’ve felt casual if they got coffee after they finished filing, but to come back specifically for that feels.
..definitely something extra. But he’s the one who asked her to come back. So was he the one who made it a date?
This is so confusing.
Simran opens her closet. An avalanche of clothes falls from the top shelf—she didn’t fold her laundry last night—but once the coast is clear, she pushes aside her T-shirts to reveal the part of her closet TJ has stocked.
It’s the only neat section of her closet, mainly because Simran hardly touches it.
These clothes are nice. Intimidatingly so.
Simran’s always too groggy in the mornings to bother with such clothing decisions.
She generally regrets wearing a baggy shirt and jeans by midafternoon, resolves by evening to wear something cute the next day, stays up too late, and.
..the cycle renews each morning. But right now, she feels the compulsion to try them.
No particular reason, of course.
After agonizing for several minutes, Simran selects a blue paisley-patterned shirtdress.
The silky material cuts closer to her body than usual, flaring at the waist and ending mid-thigh.
After tugging on some leggings, she digs through her drawers, looking for the “makeup essentials” TJ stocked her with.
After ten minutes she finally spots the bag behind a backpack in the corner.
She sets it on her dresser. There’s no time to watch tutorials on all the various products, so she selects a tube of lipstick and turns to the dresser mirror. This, at least, should be simple.
She realizes she’s wrong in approximately sixty seconds. In the past, she’s only used tinted lip gloss. This is too bold. It’s garishly striking and makes her look like a clown. She immediately heads to the washroom across the hall to scrub it off.
Except, as soon as she leaves her room, she collides with someone.
“Watch where you’re—” Kiran’s eyes fall to her mouth and then bug out. “What is that?”
Simran immediately backs away into her bedroom. “Just—trying something out.”
But Kiran follows her in, her expression a mix of curiosity and glee. She grabs Simran’s chin. “Pretty colour, but you’re using too much, Miss ‘Trying It Out.’ Nice outfit, too. What’re you dressing up for?” Her voice becomes sly. “Or who?”
Simran wrenches herself out of Kiran’s grasp and sits at her dresser again. Kiran’s grin widens.
“I’m impressed. You’re actually putting it on for someone, aren’t you?”
“Leave,” Simran says evenly.
Kiran picks through the clutter on her bedroom floor to come closer. “You’re going to stab yourself in the eye with that.”
Simran looks down at the eyeliner pen she’s holding. This is probably true. She doesn’t have any artistic skill. But Kiran’s watching, so she removes her glasses and attempts it. Her hand trembles. The line emerges uneven, above the edge of her eyelid by a hair.
Kiran says, “You look stupid.”
Simran immediately sets the eyeliner down. Kiran’s right. She should just focus on her strengths, which have never included looking pretty. She fumbles for a Kleenex, but can’t find the box.
Kiran sighs and brings the box over from the other side of the room. Simran takes it wordlessly and dabs at her eye. The makeup smears and makes her look like she’s been punched in the face. Jassa will be swooning, she’s sure.
Kiran picks up the makeup bag and starts taking products out to examine them. “TJ got you these? They’re nice brands, you know.”
Simran had no idea. Which reminds her she should probably return her cousin’s calls. Maybe by tonight she’ll feel normal enough.
Then Kiran comes at her with a brush. Simran jerks away.
“What’re you doing?”
“Do you want your makeup done or not?” Kiran grips her chin. “I’m not as good as TJ, but I can make it halfway decent. Better than you, anyway.”
“If you’re going to insult me the whole time—”
Kiran rolls her eyes and lifts the brush again. “Okay, Simmi. I’ll shut up. Now close your eyes.”
And true to her word, when Simran’s eyes slide shut, it’s a ceasefire. At least until Kiran knocks something over. Simran squints to see her Hillway schedule on the floor.
“You need to stop being such a slob, I can hardly work—” Kiran scoops it up. Her eyes go big. “You’re paired up with the Randhawa kid? Didn’t he do some screwed-up stuff? I heard about him.”
Who hasn’t, apparently? Simran snatches the schedule and tosses it behind the dresser. “The program is full of people who’ve done stuff like that. That’s the point.”
“Well, you should be careful.” Kiran lightly dabs lipstick on her mouth. “Who’re you going to see tonight, anyway?”
“Jassa.”
A pause. Kiran stares at her.
“Wait, the guy Mom bit my head off about this morning?” Kiran sighs. “Simran. What. The. Hell.”
In those words, Simran can tell her older sister has seen right through her.
“Do you even like him?” Kiran tosses the lipstick back into the bag. “Or are you going out with him because Mom does?”
“I’m not going out with him,” Simran snaps, sliding her glasses on. “And of course I like him. That has nothing to do with Mom.”
“But the reason you’re doing this now is...” Kiran half laughs, shaking her head. “This is so screwed up I don’t even know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
“You’ve never been on a date before, Simmi.” It’s a statement, not a question, even though Kiran hasn’t lived at home for nearly ten years. “You’re too inexperienced to be going in like...this. You should be doing the whole thing. Play the field. For yourself, not them.”
Kiran is making Simran feel about five years old, and she doesn’t like it. “Just because that’s the way you do it doesn’t mean I have to. Breaking Mom and Dad’s hearts isn’t my hobby like it is yours.”
A silence. So long, it’s more than enough time to remember the reason for Kiran’s long absence from the household.
Kiran announced last year she wasn’t ever planning to get married.
Her parents wanted to see her settled. Kiran shouted back that she was ace.
Their parents didn’t know what that meant, and Kiran refused to explain. That was what led to The Fight.
Simran draws breath to apologize. But then Kiran stands to leave with a soft, condescending laugh.
“Stop worrying about our parents’ hearts. If you’re going to start dating boys, you need to start worrying about yours.”