I’m not sure I agree with that assessment; the dog-slaughter comment felt pretty critical. But I know when not to push it. “Right,” I say. “I’m sensitive to that too, I guess.”
He tilts his head. “Why?” he asks.
It’s a fair question, and I’m trying to be as earnest as possible in this conversation, so I say, “I don’t like being bad at things. Or struggling to get something right. Especially not in front of you.” The last part slips out, accidental, and Kush rears back, surprised and bemused. My cheeks flush, and I carry on. “Though I’ve accepted I’ll be bad at driving for a while. Progress is slow and all that.”
“Slow progress is still progress,” Kush says, generous. “Your brakes have gotten a lot less jerky, for one thing.”
I smile, pleased. “They have, haven’t they?” The corners of his lips turn up too. Unable to resist confirmation, I ask, “So we’re all good?”
“We’re all good,” he says.
“Good!” I say, relief washing over me. “Another crisis would have been unfortunate. This week has already been a lot.”
“For me too,” he says. “Between work and exam prep, I’ve been totally swamped.”
“I’m sure you’ll crush the MCAT,” I say. “Tests are kind of a hobby for you, no?” Throughout childhood, the Khanna fridge was always tacked up with Kush’s flawless quizzes and assignments.
His face scrunches. “It’s a retake,” he says after a moment. “I already failed the first time.” His voice is very matter-of-fact for such a big admission.
“Huh,” I say. It’s awful of me, but there’s something almost gratifying about the idea of Kush failing at anything, a disruption to the golden child image I’ve always carried of him. I try to discard the uncharitable feeling. “Well, second time’s the charm.”
A loud crash disrupts our conversation. Our heads swivelin unison. A rogue toss of Arjun’s baseball has shattered Sonal Aunty’s coffee-table centerpiece.
Neena Aunty and the others rush in at the sound, mouths agape at the scene. Shards of glass and smushed orchid petals litter the ground, thankfully far from the cradle. Ishika tilts her head at the commotion, curious but otherwise undisturbed.
“I didn’t mean to—” Arjun says weakly, but his mother is already rushing toward him, lips twisted in anger.
“Bewakoof,” she cries, and Arjun’s face crumples. “So thoughtless, so careless. Maafi maango from Sonal Aunty right now.”
Arjun rushes to apologize, and Sonal Aunty waves it away, sipping her chai with all the grace and superiority of a mother whose child is not responsible for the evening’s fuss.
“Not to worry,” she says, as Prashant Uncle hurries to find a broom, Noori Aunty scrambling after him to be helpful.
“Rani, you should have been watching,” Aai says, shooting a chastising look my way before joining Neena Aunty on the floor to pluck the largest pieces of glass from the carpet.
I hardly have time to be irked by the comment because Neena Aunty’s voice cuts through. “Useless, useless boy,” she says, swatting her son lightly with the back of her hand. Arjun looks like he might cry, and I can’t help but cringe at the scene. Kush winces simultaneously beside me.
Prashant Uncle returns with a vacuum. I slip to the side with Kush; the adults seem to have it all sorted.
“Tough watch,” Kush says, and I nod my agreement. For all my many disagreements with Aai Baba’s parenting, they’ve at least always stood firmly in the no-spanking camp. Sympathy rises in my chest for Arjun; I would voice my objection if it wasn’tguaranteed to do more damage. Parents never respond well to public critique.
“And it’s only going to backfire,” Kush continues. “Disciplinarian parenting just makes for an angry, resentful kid. They’d be much better off hearing Arjun out. Especially since itwasan accident.”
I agree wholeheartedly; my observations at the library and as a babysitter have taught me as much. But I’m still surprised by the conviction in Kush’s voice. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
Kush shrugs. “I am,” he says. “I was a bit of a troubled kid.”
A laugh escapes. Kush raises a brow, and I realize he means it. “In what world wereyoua troubled kid?”
“In New Jersey,” he says. “I had a tough time with the move.”
I frown. “Didn’t you win the county spelling bee as soon as you got there?” Just three months post departure, I remember Aai crooning over the accolade, pronouncing Kush a child prodigy. The victory grated because I came fourth in Gilmore, and unlike Kush, who preferred sciences even then, I’d actually cared deeply about language arts.
“State spelling bee, actually,” he corrects, lips twitching when I roll my eyes. “But I mean behaviorally, not academically.”
I find myself leaning forward, interest swelling. “How so?”
“I really missed Gilmore,” he says. “So I had a tough time making friends at first, and my dad thought I wasn’t trying hard enough to adjust.” He twists at the signet ring on his index finger. “We fought a lot.” Kush tilts his head down to me, like the next part is a secret. “I’d act out.”
