Page 3 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
The cake is a rich chocolate-raspberry confection that my twin brothers picked out. Aai wanted simple vanilla, but the boys begged at the bakery, and she’s never been good at denying them. We unveil it after everyone has finished dinner, and I slide birthday sparklers into the center before we sing. In loopy lettering, the frosting spells out:EIGHTY’S NEVER LOOKED THIS GOOD!
“What’s your wish?” I whisper to Ajoba as guests snap pictures of the cake and of our family behind it.
“What could I possibly ask for when you’ve already given me so much?” he says, and my lips twitch. Shilpa Aunty’s six-and-a-half-minute rendition of “Bole Chudiyan” had quite literally brought a tear to Ajoba’s eye.Andmade Aai send me a strongly worded WhatsApp message during our meal. “I’m transferring my wish to you.”
I laugh, but in all honesty, I could really use one. The chorus starts, and I think of the summer stretched out before me—driving practice, adventures with Sim, preparing for sophomore year. I want this time to be restful and rejuvenating, my second chance. A do-over.
So when the candles are blown out and everyone cheers, I close my eyes and wish.
Chapter Two
Simran’s return home demands an outing. After sharing every aspect of our entire girlhoods together (quite literally—we even got our first periods on the same day), going to college on opposite coasts was a disruption to the routine. Among various other disruptions. I spent so much of my freshman year feeling unrooted in her absence, never quite finding that sisterlike bond in my new environment.
So our time together this summer is of particular importance to me, and I intend to make the most of it. On Sunday, we grab brunch at our favorite café in downtown Seattle. It’s cozy, chic, and (crucially) centrally located, walking distance from both my metro stop and the Sinha art gallery. Simran arrived only just yesterday, and the two of us have much to discuss. We sit at our favorite corner table, laptops out, our shared Google Doc pulled up.
I highlight the heading Simran’s typing and wrinkle my nose. “Times New Roman?”
“It’s a classic,” she insists.
“It’s a bore,” I correct, switching the font to Average. Simran sips her iced latte and doesn’t press. I’m the English major in our friendship, after all.
We’re early in the process of curating our official joint summer checklist. For our many differences, Simran and I are united in our type A, list-making tendencies. Underneath it all, we are still the girls who presented (performed, really) twenty-slide PowerPoints to convince our parents to let us have double sleepovers. Crafting detailed plans has always provided us both with a comforting illusion of control.
Our checklist is divided into three sections: personal, professional development, and R&S, or our shared summer goals. Professional development writes itself; Simran wants to prep for the LSAT while networking with superiors at her labor rights law firm, and I want to make the most of my time at Gilmore Public Library, where I’m doing education policy research as a children’s reading assistant. The personal section, however, is where things get, well, personal.
When I add a bullet point to Simran’s half of the list that readsno more dating losers, she reaches over my lemon ricotta French toast to slap my wrist.
“I’m just looking out for you,” I say, rubbing my arm. “Your track record is deeply alarming.”
“They haven’tallbeen losers,” Simran sniffs, and I raise a brow. Neither of us dated much in Gilmore, so our freshman years of college served as our very first romantic landscapes. ForSimran, that meant oscillating back and forth between a stoner and an out-of-work DJ from her floor all year.
“I thought they only let smart people into Dartmouth,” I’d said when she first debriefed me on her tragic little love triangle.
“That, or you have generational wealth,” she said. There was a pause. “Darshan and Steve are obviously from the second category.”
I stare at her without saying anything.
“Fine,” Simran says, faltering under my gaze. She straightens in her seat. “I’ll accept your feedback.” She frowns. “But what if he has a neck tattoo?”
It’s my turn to swat her. “Doesn’t cancel out.”
“Kinda cancels out,” Simran says, a smile starting, and I roll my eyes, returning to the screen. I’m fleshing out my bullet point on getting my driver’s license when Simran interrupts.
“I think,” she says slowly, “that you need to datemorelosers.”
I snap my gaze up to meet hers. Simran’s face is bright like she’s had aEureka!moment.
“You’re too picky for your own good. It takes you ages to have a crush, and where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m notpicky; I have standards,” I say, affronted, and Simran snorts.
“And Kamran met these standards?” she says, referencing basically the only boy I talked to all of last year, who Sim has aptly dubbed “an emotional terrorist.” We had a poetry workshop together in the fall, and I developed an obsessive crush after he posted a picture ofAll About Loveby bell hooks to his story with the caption:all men need to read fr. Unfortunately, I soon learned his concept of a date was sloppy makeouts on his dorm room floor whileHow I Met Your Motherplayed in the background.We made it to season three before I finally found the self-respect to call it quits.
I say the only thing I can think of in my defense. “I’ll have you know he had a perfect GPA.”
She ignores this. “You’re pickyandyou pick wrong. So instead of just one loser, date five. Like, instead of just Kamran, you should have asked, ‘And who are his friends?’”
A giggle escapes me in spite of myself. “This feels like a blind leading the blind conversation.”
