“Rani,” he says, half exasperation, half something else. He steps forward like he wants to reach for me, but decides against it, arms dropping to his sides.
Possibly my most embarrassing trait is how quick I am to cry. I’ve always been this way, to everyone’s eternal annoyance. As a child, it was common for me to succumb to sobs at a harsh word, a lost board game, a scraped knee. Though generally a good sport about it, Kush complained to our moms once:She’s always crying. We were on a family friend camping trip, and I retreated to the cabin in tears after Kush and the other boys didn’t let me join a handball game. I pressed my ear to the door to listen in as Noori Aunty scolded Kush, viciously eager to hear him disciplined.Anything happens, Rani cries.How is that my fault?
Naturally, I wept harder, my misery mixed with shame, shoving my face into pillows to muffle the sound.
Now, I press my sleeve to the corner of my eyes. I take a long, shaky breath in an attempt to compose myself. “I’m fine,” I insist. “Can we just go home?”
Kush drives back in silence, gaze sliding to me every so often, but I never meet his eyes. The sun is starting to set by the time we reach my garage, a low, dark orange on the horizon. We exit the car, and Kush pauses. He nods to his own car across the street.
“I’ll see you at our next practice?” he says.
Whenever that is. I nod, and he walks away and out of sight.
Chapter Six
After work the next day, I head into the city for my first meeting with Professor Valdivia, my research supervisor for the summer. Her office is on the second floor, and the bay windows behind her desk offer a glimmering view of campus. Books overflow from shelves and emerge from the floor in tall, teetering stacks. I do a quick scan of the spines: Jesmyn Ward, Jhumpa Lahiri, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, among other worthy authors.
“Say hi to Aristotle,” Professor Valdivia says after we’ve exchanged pleasantries, referring to the black cat perched on a carpeted tower in the corner. Named for the titular character fromAristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, not the Greek philosopher, as Valdivia was quick to inform me when we met through Zoom.
“Hi, Aristotle,” I coo. He sniffs disdainfully but doesn’t reject the neck scratch, so I take that as approval.
“Let’s talk about your project,” she says next, gesturing to the seat before her. She pushes her glasses up and folds her hands on the desk, all business. “I enjoyed your proposal. The George W. Bush snub was particularly appreciated.”
“Thank you,” I say, pleased. I feel rather proud of my paper title, too—“Children Left Behind: Failures of High-Stakes Testing on Second-Language Learners.” I’m analyzing the success of various strategies to improve reading skills among early readers, particularly where English is a second language, with my scholarly work to be supplemented by reflections on my personal experiences at the library this summer. Valdivia seemed enthusiastic about the work when we first spoke, and I can’t help but be excited to finally truly get started.
“Though I have concerns about your research methodology,” she continues. “Talk to me about the program you have planned at the Gilmore Public Library.”
In my brief interactions with Professor Valdivia so far, I’ve observed how direct and straightforward she is in her speech. Confident commands and assertions always; rarely any hesitation to be found. It’s likely an intentional skill she’s crafted to be taken seriously as a young brown woman in academia, but as someone who punctuates every sentence with anif that makes sense, it’s hard to not feel a bit flustered in her presence. Still, I try to hold my own.
“I want to start a book club for ESL early readers at GPL,” I say. “I’m planning to keep a very detailed log of each session, and at the end of the summer, I’ll report on what I found to be successful strategies in promoting engagement and comprehension. The program’s not intended to be a research study in the slightest, but I think anecdotes from the program would be valuable supplementsto my external research and readings.” I pause. “Um, if that makes sense.”
Valdivia gives a slow nod. “It’s creative,” she says. “And yes, your observations won’t be formal research, but it’s still useful, and I like that you’re taking so much initiative. You have approval for this book club from your supervisor, I’m assuming?”
“Yes!” I chirp. A total lie. I’ve yet to broach the subject with Ms. Okonkwo. She’s seemed super busy these last couple days, and yes, fine, I’m also just a coward. But I don’t want to give Valdivia any reason to doubt the plan. “We’re all good to go.”
“Very impressive, Rani,” she says. “I’m excited to see where this goes.”
“Thank you,” I say, ignoring the awkward stab of guilt.
“Let’s set a meeting schedule for check-ins and submission deadlines,” she says. “The start of the school year gets busy fast, so let’s aim for end of August as a final deadline for your project. Well before the quarter begins.”
I nod in agreement, jotting notes down in my planner. That’s around the time I plan to take my driver’s test, so it’s shaping up to be a packed summer. We spend the next hour discussing dates and reading recommendations. I leave her office with a laundry list of books to check out on my next shift at GPL, and Aristotle meows goodbye on my way out the door.
Simran and I have our first sleepover of the summer on Thursday night. Like usual, it’s at her place. Ever the overindulged only child, Simran’s house and general lifestyle is something out of a fantasy for me. Her moms allowed her to take ownership of theentire second story, and from the early days of our friendship, we’ve always set up camp in the Sinhas’ spacious den, complete with bay windows, a fully stocked mini-fridge, and a cozy sage-green pullout couch.
She supplies the setting, so I supply the goods: under-eye masks, dark chocolate brownies, and the hot-pink ceramic wineglasses from my evening with the twins. Simran, with her unregulated access to her moms’ wine cellar, supplies the rosé. Since senior year, the Sinhas have allowed us to indulge—with the stipulation that we only drink under their roof.
Tonight, her moms stop by the den to wish us goodbye before they head to a cocktail party at their Seattle art gallery. Saira and Sharmila’s relaxed, cosmopolitan parenting styles, exemplified by their insistence on my addressing them by their first names (both of which are aptly taken from beloved Bollywood stars of the sixties), never failed to spark envy as a child. Where Aai Baba supervised my every move, the Sinhas believed in Simran’s privacy, took her out on lunch dates, often behaved more like her friends than her moms.
But by virtue of my sisterlike friendship with Sim, they’re my friends too, and I’m grateful.
“Dinner’s on us tonight,” Saira says. “To celebrate the end of your freshman years.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We’re so proud of you girls! So grown-up, so fast.”
“We just placed a delivery order from Thai Emporium,” Sharmila adds.
Simran gasps, and my stomach growls at the thought. “Did you add chili wontons? And two Thai iced teas?”
“Obviously,” Saira says.
