Page 64 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“I’m heading to a pickup game after this,” he tells me, and now the lazy outfit makes sense. Any hope I had of having a nice time on this date (if it can still be called that) is rapidly going out the window, but I can’t figure out how to refuse the suggestion, so I follow after Frank to the courts.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kush as we walk:I can’t believe he’s dead. My lips quirk. It’s a true testament to the show that I have to reply:who?I’m so impatiently waiting for a reply that I don’t realize Frank has asked me a question.
“Do you wanna shoot for it?” he offers. We’ve reached an empty court, and he spins the ball in his hands as he speaks.
“Oh, all good,” I say, resolving myself to suffer through a couple rounds before inventing an excuse to leave. “You can have possession.”
A very haphazard game of one-on-one ensues. I’ve shot around enough with Sanju and Nabhi that I can handle myself on the court, but my heart simply isn’t in it today. At the least,Frank seems to be enjoying himself, showing off with various trick shots. His close friendship with Steve is beginning to make sense to me.
“Frank,” I say after I catch a rebound. I hug the ball under an arm. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” he says, smiling at his own joke.
“Did you ever text me after Simon’s party?” It’s my last little curiosity of the day, and it’s not as if I have anything to lose.
He stares at me. “Um,” he says, hesitating. “I guess it slipped my mind,” he says. He rushes to add, “But when I saw your profile, I knew I had to get back in touch.” He grins, dimples deepening. “And I’m so glad we made this happen.”
I already knew the answer, but now I’m feeling extra eager to leave. “Same,” I say. I scan for an excuse as I dribble forward. I’m still operating on a time-out, but Frank must think the ball is live again, because he rushes to play defense. In my confusion, I try to slip around him and trip on my shoelaces. They must have come untied without me realizing.
I catch my fall with my hands, but pain still shoots up my ankle. I attempt to stand and wince at the strain.
“Oh, no,” Frank says, hurrying to my side.
“Oh,no,” I hiss. I put my fingers to the bone and find it aches at the touch.
“Let me—” Frank says, helping me to my feet. “I’m so sorry, Rani,” he says. He wraps one arm around me, and together, we kind of waddle over to the side bench, pain spiking with each step.
Mild swelling has already sprung to the site of the injury. Thankfully it doesn’t appear worse than a sprain, but I walked toGloria’s, and it’s clear I won’t be able to walk back. Frank volunteers to grab his scooter and bring me home, and while it’s a kind offer, I can’t fathom anything less desirable.
“I think I’ll just grab an Uber,” I say, and he nods, worry lacing his brow.
“Please text me,” he says. “Sucks we had to cut this short.”
“For sure,” I say, without a twinge of guilt for the lie.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’m still suffering from a slight limp on Friday, the day of our next scheduled driving practice. I wait it out, hoping for some last-minute relief, but in the end, I text Kush to cancel an hour prior to our lesson. It’s unfortunate timing—my test is only a week away now, and while I’m gaining confidence at the wheel, additional practice can only help.
But my ankle requires rest, so I take the day off, setting up a space on the living room couch with elevated pillows to alleviate leftover swelling. A few more days of ice and ibuprofen, and I should be back on the road with ease.
I use the spare time to catch up on my readings for Professor Valdivia. Her deadline is coming up, and I still have several sections of my paper left to draft. As I read, I feel a prick of disappointment for being so strapped for time. Many of the readings are genuinely fascinating, the exact kind of research I’m interestedin: deep dives into rural public schooling, the history behind modern ESL programs, all the failures of high-stakes testing in the 2000s. But I’m too delayed to do the work justice.
Simran texts as I’m starting to make some headway on my outline: a frowny-face reaction to a picture I sent of my amateurishly bandaged ankle.This is exactly why I told you to ghost him, she says. I scoff, but she follows it up immediately:Jk so sorry you can Venmo request me for your co-pay.
My lips push up. I’m not planning to visit the doctor, since Baba took a quick look last night and prescribed bed rest, but I’m happy to have Simran make it up to me regardless. I’m typing a reply back when the doorbell rings.
I wait it out, hoping it’s a delivery person who’ll drop a package and leave, but the bell rings again. I groan and rise from the couch with a sigh. Aai Baba are at work, the twins are at a friend’s, and Ajoba left on his afternoon walk a while back, so it’s up to me.
I’m halfway to the door when the bell rings a third time. “Coming!” I call, limping on, irked by the impatience.
An irate Kush is on my porch when I twist the handle. “Where have youbeen?” he says, not missing a beat. “I’ve been sitting in the driveway for twenty minutes.”
My brows furrow. “I texted you.” I lift my injured foot, the white bandage already peeling off. “Need to tap out today.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, God,” he says. He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “My phone died at work, and my charger in the car isn’t working,” he explains. He nods at the foot. “How did this happen?”
I give a version of the truth. “Tripped on my shoelaces,” I say, and he clucks his tongue.
