Instead of trying to fit in with Amber and Victoria, my sorority sister roommates, I spent time with the rest of my floor, organizing communal dinners and shopping trips. I went to more events hosted by the South Asian Society, from Bollywood movie nights to dance competitions, even though I quickly found the competitive, gossipy energy of those spaces wasn’t really my vibe either. I even joined the campus feminist poetry magazine as an editor, offering notes on pieces that would’ve put Noelle’s reading participants to shame.
All in all, I spent that month playing the part of an overzealousfreshman and playing it well. Not to no avail, either. People were friendly and welcoming, for the most part. But I still felt largely like an add-on, invited but not vital, someone whose absence wouldn’t be missed.
Maybe that could have changed with time and effort, and eventually, I could have found my people there. But I felt restless and antsy, craving familiarity. Why work so hard to make a new place lovely when I had such a good thing going back in Gilmore?
At home, I was missed and needed.We are all falling apart without you, Ajoba would quip in his messages to me, and maybe it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but relish the sentiment. I enjoyed my own importance.
By February, I decided a return to the PNW was necessary. Some people might thrive in the unknown of new environments, but maybe I was the type of person who felt best in her own community, confident she belonged.
And Ihavefelt more grounded since I’ve been home, by and large. Though some old patterns like my role with the twins have grown weary, I’ve appreciated a return to a routine I know so well. At the same time, I can’t shake the pressure to prove I made the right decision by returning. I feel a need to maximize this summer to the fullest, which means no more screwups, with work or otherwise.
So I hit Wanda’s as soon as I get back from meeting with Valdivia. A couple orders of the new crème brûlée latte fuel me as I work through some initial readings.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Next to me, Nabhi mimes banging his head on the table, a mechanical pencil clutched in his hand like a hammer. Another prolonged silence, and the woman on the phone says, “One moment, please, let me transfer you to my colleague.”
My eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t want to be—”
Her voice is far too cheerful for such an insufferable, prolonged exchange. “One moment, please!”
Elevator music fills my ears. I groan and put my phone down. The call time is pushing thirty minutes.
“All this for aswing,” I mutter, and Nabhi scrunches his face.
Aai fell in love with the floral jhoolas at the Mehra reception, and she’s determined to secure a few of her own for her and Baba’s upcoming anniversary party. They’re celebrating twenty years inAugust, so we’re going all out. We’ve even graduated from our typical venue at Taj Mahal Express to the Gilmore Botanical Gardens, Baba’s favorite spot in town.
I’m sure the final result will be lovely, but unfortunately, much of the work to bring about the final result has once again fallen to me. Aai sent me a WhatsApp with various vendors to reach out to, from caterers to decor to her beloved jhoolas, so I have my work cut out for me the next few weeks. Just like Ajoba’s birthday, which I organized from school in the spring, I’m the de facto event planner for Aai Baba’s anniversary.
“Can we please get back to this?” Nabhi asks, nodding to the pre-algebra worksheet before him.
“From one crisis to another,” I say with a sigh, and Nabhi shoots me a glare.
Math has always been Nabhi’s most challenging subject, and as the school year approaches, Aai Baba enrolled Nabhi in summer classes to get him better prepared. But yesterday’s phone call from his instructor informed us that Nabhi hasn’t turned in a single homework assignment so far. If grades were given for these tutorials, Nabhi would be failing.
I’m an English major, hardly qualified to assist with even middle school level math, but I felt such sympathy overload at Aai’s angry outburst last night. I hardly minded when Aai Baba tasked me with supervising Nabhi’s future submissions. Better Nabhi deals with me than them.
For the next ten minutes, I consult Khan Academy and Nabhi’s textbook to help guide him through his problem set. It becomes clear that Nabhi has less of a comprehension issue and more of an attention issue. With focus, Nabhi can puzzleout most questions for himself, but he benefits from having me monitor his progress.
Over and again, Nabhi’s eyes shift mournfully to the window to watch Sanju, who’s playing basketball with a neighborhood friend in the driveway. I give Nabhi a gentle nudge the next time I catch the glance.
“Almost there,” I say. And because I’m not above bribing the twins, I add, “If you finish this set, you can take a break and play for a bit.”
This gets Nabhi back to his work. Right then, a voice sounds on the phone: “Hello?”
I jump to pick it up. “Hi,” I say, jumping straight to business. “I’m looking for a quote on the floral swings?”
“Got it,” the vendor says. “One moment, let me connect you with the right department.”
I’m placed on hold again before I can get an objection out. I shove my head in my hands.
“I think I’ll catch up on the whole summer’s work by the time they get back to you, Tai,” my brother remarks, and I groan, because I think he’s probably right.
Friday night, I’m still anxious over all my unfinished work. I bring my laptop and readings over to the Sinha art gallery, much to Simran’s chagrin. Saira and Sharmila are hosting a small reception for an exhibition opening tonight, and like usual, Simran and I have been given the privilege of running the check-in table.
It’s an easy, lucrative gig, one that we’ve eagerly accepted since early high school. All we have to do is hand guests their namecards and programs for an hour, then we’re free to enjoy the art ourselves. Simran and I love any excuse to dress up and act older than our age, and the open wine bar certainly doesn’t hurt. Since our eighteenths, Simran’s moms have generously looked the other way as we indulge.
“Will you put the books down,” Simran hisses from the chair beside me. Her arms are folded, mouth set in a line. Check-in ended a while ago, so we’ve been sitting at an empty table for twenty minutes, and Simran could not be more displeased.
