“Cross my heart.”
It’s been a running joke between the two of us forever that I might die not knowing how to drive. But I stopped by the DOL(Department of Licensing) the day I got back from college. I want this summer to be a true fresh start, a clean slate to set me up for a strong sophomore year, and this is the first step in that direction. Simran has been my chauffeur for years now, so I know this development is a dream come true for her.
“Rani Deshpande, passenger princess no more?” Simran says, all wonderment.
“I wouldn’t gothatfar,” I say. She laughs, and we talk through the rest of our summer plans until Aai calls me over to finish party prep.
An hour later, I take a break from greeting guests and help myself to a steaming mug of rose chai. I’ve hardly taken a sip before I’m accosted by Shilpa Aunty.
“Rani!” she beams, engulfing me in her arms. The silk of her sparkly magenta sari rustles with each movement. “It’s been far too long, beti.”
Not nearly long enough, but I squeeze her back. “So good to see you, Aunty.”
She pulls away to study me, gaze scraping over my salwar kameez and loosely curled hair. “You are looking healthy,” she announces with a broad smile. “But I worry pink washes you out. Jewel tones are much more flattering.” She gestures to herself here and laughs to soften the blow.
It’s an outrageous remark, but I expect nothing less from Shilpa Aunty, who is so predictably audacious it’s almost comical. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
Her smile deepens. “Now that you are moving back home, I am sure we’ll see much more of you, yes?”
I frown. “I’m not moving back home,” I say, but she’s not listening.
“I was telling your mom that I think it’s so brave of you to switch schools. It’s so important to find the right match. Second time’s the charm and all.”
My lips tighten. Coming into tonight, I knew the news of my university transfer had spread through the aunty grapevine, and while I truly am excited for a new beginning at UW this fall, it’s not the easiest topic for me. The singular benefit of being with Shilpa Aunty, at least, is that I’m not required to talk much at all. She’s droning on, unhindered.
“Now, my Shekar felt right at home the moment he stepped foot on Berkeley’s campus, but not all can be so lucky! I am sure you will blossom at Washington next year.” She pats my arm distractedly, and I try not to recoil at the touch. “Anyhow, I wished to speak to you as I believe there’s an error with the seating chart. Mukesh and I have been placed with the Satoors in the back, but surely performers are to have a front table? Mukesh will record my dance for Facebook.”
This is my ticket out, and I jump at the opportunity. “Let me go check on that for you,” I say, with absolutely no intention of doing so. I pull my chunni tighter around me as I walk away. “I can’twaitfor your routine,” I add before she can respond.
I decide to camp out on the back patio with my chai until the coast clears. Shilpa Aunty’s voice is still grating in my ears, and I want a moment of peace before having to return and mingle.
Frowning, I open up the camera app on my phone andexamine my reflection. My skin glows golden in the sun, and my cheeks are still flushed pink—the Charlotte Tilbury blush I invested in this spring is clearly worth the acclaim. Shilpa Aunty must be deluded; I look fabulous.
As if I conjured the compliment, a voice sounds behind me: “You look nice, Rani.”
I whirl around to see Kush Khanna leaning lazily in the doorframe. His words are affirming, but they’re laced with amusement, and I immediately feel self-conscious. Does he think I’m that vain? Sitting here alone just to stare at myself?
“I wasn’t—” I break off, unsure how exactly to clarify. I clear my throat. I should probably tell him thank-you, but what leaves my mouth instead is: “What are you doing out here?”
His brows rise slightly at my rudeness, and my face warms, in no small part from the realization that he looks nice too.Reallynice. He’s grown his hair out since I last saw him over winter break, so it curls softly over his ears and the nape of his neck. He’s wearing round frames instead of his usual contacts and a navy button-down—most male guests have opted for Western attire tonight. Kush has always been attractive, and now he knows it. There’s a quiet confidence in how he holds himself, how he speaks, how he smiles.
“Looking for you,” he says after a beat. “Your grandfather was asking,” he adds.
“Oh! I shouldn’t have left him alone for so long,” I say, already rising to my feet. “This party is really more of a punishment for him.”
“For all of us,” he quips.
“Careful,” I say. “My mom put a lot of effort into tonight.”
He looks genuinely alarmed for a moment, so I smile to let him know I’m joking. The corners of his mouth curve up too.
“Speaking of,” he says. “She mentioned you’re transferring to Washington.” He tilts his head at me, gaze thoughtful and curious. “Why?”
My smile vanishes almost instantly. How is it possible he has less subtlety than Shilpa Aunty? Kush is a rising junior at UW himself (in the Honors Program, obviously), and while congratulations might be too much, the rush to interrogate irks.
“I just thought it’d be a better fit,” I say. Before he can ask a follow-up, I quickly add, “I should go check on Ajoba. Thanks for getting me.”
I slip past him through the door, careful not to let our arms brush.
