“That sounds perfect,” I say. “It’s so good to finally meet you in person, Ms. Okonkwo.”
“Likewise,” she says. “And Patricia is just fine,” she adds, and I nod, though I know I’ll feel too embarrassed to ever be so informal.
I applied to work at the Gilmore Public Library the day I accepted my transfer to Washington. I’m an English and education studies double major, and I’ve known I wanted to be anelementary school teacher since I was little. As basically a third parent to my twin brothers, Sanju and Nabhi, I feel extremely equipped for the job, and this program is great additional experience. Plus, I’m enrolled in summer study with an education policy professor at UW, through which I get major credit for my internship and conduct research in the field. So this is the ideal setup for the coming academic year.
My coworker arrives just a few minutes before nine. His name is Michael Jeong, and he has bleached blond hair and a silver septum piercing. I usually struggle with meeting new people; Simran did most of the talking for me in high school, but Michael is chatty enough for us both.
“Do you go to UW too?” he asks first thing, nodding to my phone case, which has our school logo on it. It was one of the acceptance goodies the admissions office sent over in the spring. “I’ll be a third-year in English,” he adds before I can reply. Then: “Oh my God, Wanda’s!” he says, noticing my half-empty coffee cup. He raises his own to me. “I can’t live without their lavender latte.”
“It’samazing,” I agree, a smile pushing at my lips, my first-day nerves dissolving already. We talk about coffee and school until Ms. Okonkwo comes around to start our training.
Maybe making new friends won’t be so hard this time around.
After my shift, I attend Aai’s last yoga class of the day. It’s a restorative session, her most popular, and I have to squeeze into the back since I arrived close to the hour. Aai winks hello at me before leading the room into our first poses.
Aai has been a yogi all my life, and though she always encouraged us three kids to practice with her, I didn’t develop a regular routine until earlier this year. I was in the thick of my transfer applications, more anxious and dispirited than ever, and each of my calls home brought her worry.
“I want you to build a yoga habit,” she said. “It’ll help you. We’ll do this together.”
I fought the suggestion at first, thinking it was such stereotypical Indian mom advice: yoga as a cure for depression. But she insisted, and so every day for a few weeks, we began each morning with sun salutations over WhatsApp video calls. It wasn’t an immediate fix, but the practice really was soothing and peaceful. I’ve kept at it in the months since.
Today is no different. My mother’s voice is a gentle guide to follow, and over the hour, I feel any stress and tightness I’ve been holding on to slowly exit my body. My muscles feel relaxed and fluid by the session’s end.
I retain that feeling through the rest of the night. Until I’m getting ready for bed, sipping chai as I start my skincare routine, and my phone buzzes with a text that makes my whole body go rigid.
Hi Rani,Noori Aunty writes.Kush is free to teach you driving. Let’s talk on Sunday?
Chapter Three
I spend my Friday night the best way I know how: bribing my little brothers to hang out with me.
They’re getting ready to start middle school in the fall, just approaching the age where they’ll be too cool for their big sister, so I want to savor the little time I have left. Today, that means deluxe admission to Paint Away, a self-design ceramic shop that Nabhi adores, followed by a Taco Bell feast at Sanju’s request. I’m already preparing to shit funny tomorrow.
While I often resent Aai Baba off-loading parenting duties on me, I cherish my quality time with the twins, even more so after leaving home for school. We haven’t had a sibling date since winter break, and that feels like far too long ago.
“Window table?” Nabhi says with a nudge when the hostess asks where we want to be seated.
“Duh,” I say. The window table offers a glittering view ofMain Street at sunset, as much of an artist’s muse as our hometown can offer. Nabhi beams.
I paint a wineglass hot pink for Simran. Sanju selects a cat bowl for our neighborhood strays. Nabhi meticulously shades in flower petals on a watering can for Baba.
“How are you boys feeling about starting sixth grade?” I ask after a period of silent focus. The boys shrug in sync. I press a little harder. “Rose, bud, thorn?” I ask, proposing the exercise that I stole from my Girl Scout meetings years ago to teach the twins healthier communication. It helped us dialogue out of many fights during my babysitting evenings.
Sanju heaves a sigh but goes first. “Rose: Aai Baba said we’re finally allowed to walk to school alone,” he says as his positive, eyes still trained on his painting. “Bud: Basketball tryouts are in August, and David Moscovitz just broke his ankle, so I think I have a chance at starting point guard.”
Expressing gratitude for a classmate’s injury isn’t really the behavior I’m trying to encourage, and Nabhi jumps in to add, voice heavy with skepticism, “His ankle is gonna heal by tryouts.”
Sanju makes a face. “But he’ll miss out on summer practice. It’s like youwantme to be on the bench.”
“I want us to win,” Nabhi says under his breath, and I jump in before Sanju can retort.
“Let’s all wish David a speedy recovery,” I say, putting a pin to it. “Do you have a thorn?” I ask Sanju. “Anything you’re worried about?”
Sanju muses. “The honors pre-algebra teacher is supposed to be hellish,” he says. “I don’t like pop quizzes, so I’m kinda nervous about that.” Done with his latest polka dot, Sanju sets down hispaintbrush. “Can I get an orange soda from the vending machine?” he asks, hand already outstretched for my card.
He’ll be wanting a Baja Blast in an hour, but I hand it over anyways. I understand this is my toll for the evening.
“You’re the best,” he beams before scampering off.
