He shrugs, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “Nothing special,” he says. “Studying and hanging out with Aryan. Pretty peaceful,” he adds. He pauses. “My dad left for Jaipur last night.”
“Ah,” I say. Aai mentioned the trip earlier in the day, pre-meltdown. “How long is he visiting for?”
“Not sure,” he says. “He’s finishing up a long-term project with his company’s India branch, so whenever that wraps up.”
“Right,” I say. For the life of me, I can’t remember what Suresh Uncle’s company does, and it feels rude to ask since it’s information I should definitely already have. Though to be fair, he’s one of the adults in our circle I’ve spent the least amount of time with; Suresh Uncle shares Kush’s aversion to socializing.
“How was your weekend?” Kush asks.
“It was nice,” I say. “Went to a poetry reading with my coworker and his friends.” I choose my next words carefully, not wanting to pry but curious all the same. “I think you might know him, his name’s Michael Jeong?”
If I wasn’t looking for it, I never would have caught hisreaction, but Kush’s hands fidget ever so slightly against the steering wheel. But his voice is so level when he speaks that I wonder if I imagined the movement.
“Hey, yeah,” Kush says. “I haven’t spoken to him in a while, but he’s a fun guy. Always has the craziest stories.”
I can think ofonecrazy story I’m dying to get more intel on, but we’ve been having a pleasant car ride so far, and I’m not itching to spoil it. “Truly,” I say. “Makes desk duty a lot more interesting,”
Kush smiles. “I bet,” he says. I study him a moment longer, but his expression remains neutral. I turn my gaze back to the road.
I’ve been unable to parse out my thoughts about Kush and his ex-girlfriend since the reading. For all my misgivings about Kush, I can’t fully imagine him being so brazenly hurtful. And yet, there have been times in my own experiences with Kush, after my childhood, rosy-eyed view of him started to wane, that I caught glimpses of thoughtless behavior. Perhaps not deliberately cruel, but careless, nonetheless.
I remember so distinctly one such moment from the summer after middle school, when the Khannas had just moved back to Gilmore. My friend from Girl Scouts had a backyard with a pool, and Simran and I spent every possible hot afternoon at her place, lounging and swimming the day away. Her older brother happened to be friends with Kush, and on one occasion, our two hangouts overlapped. I was thrilled at the coincidence, not quite over my girlhood crush. I was still nursing some hurt from our lack of email correspondence in his absence, but now Kush was back, and I hoped this could be a fresh start. The beginning of a longer, sustained connection outside of our family obligations.
Those hopes were crushed when I stepped inside to use the bathroom and overheard Kush and my friend’s brother grabbing iced drinks in the kitchen.
“I didn’t know you were friends with Rani,” the brother was saying.
Immediately, Kush replied, “We’re not friends.” He spoke like the suggestion was an affront. “At all. Our moms are close, that’s it.”
I waited for their voices to fade before emerging from the hall, hurt and reeling. I couldn’t make sense of Kush’s words. We hadn’t spoken during his move, but the truth was that wehadbeen friends (or at least, friendly) before he left. But the Kush that had returned lacked the sensitivity and affection that first drew me to him. Par for the course in the development of adolescent boys, maybe, but it still stung. And Meera’s experience suggests he’s only gotten worse.
Kush rolls down the window, pulling me out of my thoughts. We’ve reached the Pujaris’ gated neighborhood without my notice. He reaches out to type in the code, and his sweater sleeve slides up, cords of golden skin peeking out above his wrist.
I can’t remember the last time I went to the Pujaris’ place, but there’s no doubt in my mind we’ve reached our destination thanks to the sight of their front lawn. Bundles of pink balloons bracket their sidewalk, and brightly lit block letters spell outIT’S A GIRL!in sparkly gold lettering on the grass.
Astounded silence fills the car. “My God,” Kush says finally.
“How is this not a homeowners’ association violation?” I ask, aghast.
“The party never ends with the Pujaris,” he says, and I nod in agreement.
“I guess we can’t be that mad about Indians celebrating the birth of a girl for once,” I say.
“Fair,” Kush says. “Can we be mad about the tastelessness of the decor, though?”
“You can always be mad about that,” I say. We unclip our seat belts in unison before walking up the lawn, mutually deciding on a doorbell-ditch instead of subjecting ourselves to their company.
Chapter Twelve
There are a grand total of three attendees at my first book club meeting on Wednesday. Four, if Michael counts. He got permission from Ms. Okonkwo to staff the session, operating as my helper for the next hour. Check-in took all of thirty seconds, after which he moved to the refreshments table, indulging in Cheez-Its and Capri-Sun.
Someone should eat, anyways. I feel a pang at the pathetic thought of lugging leftover snacks back home in my bike basket. I overestimated turnout by a mile, feeling confident the shout-out in the GPL parents’ newsletter in addition to my homemade fliers would attract more visitors.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly fifteen minutes past. I lock eyes with Michael, and he pulls a sympathetic face, so I decide it’s best to get started.
I clap my hands together and clear my throat. “Welcome!” Ichirp, trying my hardest not to sound demoralized by the poor showing. “My name is Rani, and I’m so excited to be kicking off our summer reading program with you all.”
Three pairs of bored, wary eyes find mine. The kids are all second and third graders, sitting crisscross on the carpet in front of me. I wish I’d had the foresight to book a study room rather than one of our largest meeting spaces. The vastness only emphasizes its emptiness.
