I know I’m probably being oversensitive, but her sharp criticism stings. “I don’t know when you got so judgmental,” I say. “I thought I could come to you for support.”
She reels at this. “You can,” she says. “And it’s not judgment, it’scare.”
I cross my arms tighter around me, shaking my head. “Never mind,” I say. “Forget I told you.”
Her expression goes cool. The waiter comes out with our entrees, and we pick at our food in stilted silence.
I’m still obsessing over my rift with Simran during Rakhi the next evening. In our decade and a half of friendship, fights have always been few and far between. Outside of playground squabbles in early elementary school, we’ve had only a handful of icy spats over the years, always resolving with time more so than discussion. Neither of us are big on confrontation, preferring instead to wait it out, and we always find our way back to each other in the end.
But while I know the routine, I can’t help the restlessness building over the next day. With so much going on, the last thing I want is an additional stressor, especially one I created for myself—I’ve played our conversation back in my head enough times to know I took her words in the worst possible light. The rest of our meal passed in passive-aggressive small talk, neither of us willing to extend an olive branch.
I keep refreshing my phone for texts during Rakhi prayer and coming up empty. Aai throws a vicious glance at me the second time she catches me not paying attention, but I don’t have the energy to care. When aarti ends, I tie a customary red-and-gold thread around both Sanju’s and Nabhi’s wrists. It’s a traditional talisman meant to protect the boys from harm, and in return, they’re meant to offer a token of their affection.
But the boys go squeamish and apologetic when I finish tying their rakhis.
“Your gift isn’t ready yet,” Nabhi says.
There’s a bloated pause. “It’s really good,” Sanju adds. “But it won’t be ready for a little bit.”
I take this to mean they placed a last-minute order, likely for some cheap silver jewelry once more, and the package hasn’t arrived. Irritation rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. “Whatever,” I say. “That’s fine.”
Baba fills the unpleasant silence that follows. “Rakhi is not about gifts, anyways,” he offers.
“Of course not,” I say. The next words blurt out before I can reconsider; the week’s events have taken away my filter. “It’s another reminder how unappreciated I am in this family.”
I feel instant regret when I see the twins’ faces fall, but that’s overridden with vexation when Aai fixes me with a glare.
“How can you say such a thing, Rani?” Aai says. She shakes her head, brows knitted. “This is such a bad attitude to have.”
A scoff escapes me. “I have a bad attitude?” I repeat, incredulous.
“You have for some time now,” she says, doubling down. “You complain, you don’t do your responsibilities.” She grasps for an example. “Just this morning, I had to confirm RSVPs for the party myself because you forgot.”
My jaw drops at this. “So you had to do your own work for once,” I exclaim. “Big deal.”
Aai reels at the back talk, and I feel some instant shame. I never speak to my parents like this. But my frustration has been accumulating for some time, and I can’t stand to hear Aai’s criticism on top of it, when I’m already so vulnerable from my quarrel with Simran.
“We’re sorry about your gift, Tai, I promise it’s coming,” Sanju interjects sheepishly.
“I don’t care about the gift,” I snap, and it’s true. The delayed gift is just the final straw, a trigger to lash out after a summer of feeling taken for granted. A lifetime, really. I’d forgotten while I was away, glossed over the bad while ruminating in homesickness, but it’s always been this way. My whole life, my family has expected my labor as a sister and a daughter to be available and guaranteed.
Ajoba has been observing in quiet, but he speaks now, attempting to mediate. “Let’s eat,” he says. “Tensions only rise in hunger.”
Aai Baba’s expressions remain stoic, and my nose pricks. “I’ve lost my appetite,” I mutter, and then I’m hurrying up the stairs to my room.
Chapter Thirty-One
I have just completed my final book club meeting of the summer when I see the email. A notification flashes on my screen as I’m wishing goodbye to Walter’s parents, who stopped by my desk to express their gratitude for the program. It’s a message from Professor Valdivia with the ominous subject line:checking in?
A bad feeling grows in my stomach, but I manage to give the heartwarming conversation with Walter’s dad its due, clicking on Valdivia’s email only once I see his retreating back. I immediately almost fall out of my chair.
The email is brisk:Checking in as it’s a day past our agreed-on deadline. Are you still planning to submit the project?
“Oh,no,” I say unconsciously. My reaction draws glances from passersby, and my hand flies to my mouth when I realize I’ve spoken aloud.
Feeling numb, I scramble to check my calendar app. I wasconfident my deadline was Friday at midnight—already not ideal scheduling, but I’d fully intended to spend all day after my driver’s test cramming to complete the paper.
My calendar lists Friday, but dread sinks in my stomach when I scroll up through past emails with Valdivia. There’s been a misunderstanding on my end. I mixed up my dates, likely confused with my driving date being the same week. Valdivia’s deadline has always been Tuesday.
