Page 38 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“Oh,” I say, something funny settling in my stomach. I’d told Michael at work this week about my run-in with Frank, and judging by Noelle and Zara’s sympathetic expressions, he’s passed on the information. “How so?”
“I mentioned it to him before I knew,” Zara says. “He coaches my sister’s basketball team, and we write for the school paper together, so I didn’t think much of it, but I can always retract.”
Michael had mentioned the connection, and the last thing I want is to interfere with anyone’s plans. “No, don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine.”
“Only if you’re sure,” Noelle says. “Honestly, I’m so surprised at him. I don’t know Frank that well, but he really didn’t seem like a ghoster.”
I shrug, not wanting to push the subject more. “Who knows,” I say. I brush any lingering crumbs from my hands and grab for a new topic. “S’mores time, maybe?” Everyone’s long been finished with their chili dogs, and I’m hungry for a sweet treat.
Michael jumps to action. “Well past time,” he says, reaching for the marshmallows beside him. We spend the rest of the evening stuffing ourselves with gooey, chocolatey goodness and deliberating over which pop icons best fit our styles. The fairgrounds’ fireworks show plays on in the background.
The next morning, Aai and I head to the Seattle location of Maharani Bridal, the only Indian clothing chain in the States that Aai holds any confidence in. Most Desi retailers here stock cheap fabrics with outdated styles and shoddy workmanship, but Maharani is a rare exception. Their items are all handcrafted in Jaipur with exquisite detail and only the finest material. Many of my favorite lehengas are Maharani’s, both customs and off-the-rack.
Today, we’re shopping for the twins. The Mehra wedding is coming up soon, and the boys’ recent growth spurts mean they have nothing to wear. I do my best to stay focused on the task at hand, though my eyes keep darting over to the glimmering new arrivals in the women’s section. My closet is overflowing with unworn Indian fits, but one can never have too many beautiful clothes.
“How’s this?” Aai asks, holding up a sparkly yellow kurta. The cut is nice, and flamboyance is in, but the boys would never wear that.
I wrinkle my nose. “A little too neon,” I say, and Aai hums, returning it to the rack.
This outing feels like the first real evidence of our make-up. I did my part by ignoring her dig to me at the Pujaris, and she’s responded with similar softness. It’s always this way with Aai: Time brings about reconciliation, never honest conversation. I’d be frustrated if it weren’t so expected. This has been her routine since I was little.
And today has been a good day, so I try not to dwell. Fresh chai was waiting for me when I came downstairs this morning, and Aai let me pick the music for our drive into the city, whichmeant none of her usual self-help podcasts. If this keeps up, I might suggest manicures before we head home.
“He kasa aahe?” Aai asks, holding up a dark green ensemble next. Gold embroidery threads the chest of the kurta, and a peacock design lines the edges of the corresponding dupatta. It’s both classic and modern.
I nod, admiring the selection. “I think we have our winner,” I say. We assign the dark green to Sanju and get the same style in navy blue for Nabhi. Gone are the days where we could get away with dressing the twins in identical sets. I miss it dearly, but they would riot at the very suggestion.
Aai heads to the register, and finally, I indulge my desire to browse. The sheer variety in the women’s section is overwhelming in the best way. I feel like a child playing dress-up; I could spend an entire day in the Maharani fitting rooms.
I skip over the heavier anarkalis and swipe through the more lightweight lehengas. I fall for a sparkling lavender set with a cape-style chunni drape, but my breath catches when I see its neighbor. It’s a sunset-orange piece, not a color I’d usually gravitate toward, but the beadwork is stunning. The sleeves are trimmed with delicate golden lotuses, and the skirt shimmers with every movement.
I glance up to see Aai has arrived beside me, kurtas boxed up and ready to go. My mouth scrunches, caught. “It’s my size,” I say, unable to keep the longing from my voice.
Affection colors Aai’s features. “Try it on,” she says, and she doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I’m in mourning when I emerge from the dressing room. It’s too glorious to leave without and far too pricey to leave with. ButAai’s breath catches at the sight of me. She steps forward to stroke the dangling end of my chunni.
“My maharani,” she coos. Ajoba’s nickname for me is warm in her voice, a double meaning in this store. “Wemustget this.”
I’m still smiling at the nail salon an hour later. I wouldn’t mind fighting with Aai anymore if it always resolved with such a happy ending.
Chapter Seventeen
During my next driving practice with Kush, I’m determined to be the perfect student.
And I kind of am. My focus is unwavering, eyes steady on the road. I nail our usual parking lot lap, running it through five times with no discernible errors. My indicators flash, my lane position remains centered, and I round my turns gently, minimal jerkiness detected.
“Well done, Rani,” Kush says warmly when I roll into park after my last successful round. I’m well into the neighboring space, but he doesn’t mark that against me. I bask in my otherwise perfect drive, and Kush meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Should we hit the main road?”
My eyes widen. “Really?” I say, unable to contain my surprise. I instantly backtrack. “I mean, real. Duh, of course, it’s about time.”
His lips twitch. I reverse out of the parking space and slowly drive to the street. It’s a straight path with one stoplight and no traffic this time of day, but the advancement still feels big. My test is fast approaching, and I need to begin mastering the Gilmore roads.
“You can drive a bit faster,” Kush tells me. “Snail’s pace is also a ticketable offense.”
On a previous day, I probably would have returned a jab here (despite being a good ten miles under the speed limit), but today, I simply press a bit harder on the accelerator.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Simran’s words from breakfast lately. It’s true that I’ve built up a lot of bitterness toward Kush over the years, and I’m realizing much of that is unfair. I want to make the most of our lessons and ensure I get my license in August, so I need to start releasing those biases.
