Page 17 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
In the evening, I take my dinner up to my room—a double serving of Ajoba’s famous dadpe pohe, a beloved Marathi breakfast consisting of flattened rice, fresh herbs and veggies, and shaved coconut. Aai Baba are working late tonight, so I’m spared from our usual chaotic family meals, and breakfast for dinner isn’t considered the outrage it otherwise would be.
I play an episode ofGossip Girlas I eat, my go-to background noise choice since Simran and I discovered the show in grade school. The first bite is the perfect combination of tangy andsweet on my tongue. I make a mental note to give Ajoba his flowers; I’ve missed his cooking this past year. And him, of course.
My first semester of college hung heavy with his absence. Or my absence, more accurately. I left for school only a few weeks after Ajoba’s release from the hospital, and I spent those early days in a constant state of panic and guilt, struck with the most horrid brand of FOMO, afraid I was missing precious last moments with him. As a girl who lived her entire adolescence dreaming of distance and independence, the sheer intensity of my homesickness was beyond dysregulating.
It certainly didn’t help that I lacked any sort of support system at university. I was assigned to a triple with two random roommates who were friendly enough, at least at first, but clicked with each other far more than me. Once they rushed the same sorority, it became ever more apparent that I was an outsider to their sisterhood. Our dorm room quickly became the spot for pregames to date parties and other functions I wasn’t invited to. The point of no return came after winter break, when Victoria had a hometown friend visiting and asked me in earnest if I planned on “using my bed” that night. She seemed comically affronted when I said yes.
I did my best to make friends outside the dorms, in classes and clubs, but I always felt like a floater, welcome but maybe not all too wanted, someone it would be easy to do without. That isolation is part of why my relationship (or lack thereof) with Kamran became so all-consuming. After months of feeling lonely, his attention was a gift. I loved that he liked me. A little bit, anyways. Not enough to actually date me. And even though we had nothing in common but our attraction for each other, andI didn’t really admire him as a person at all, his answer ofhaha idk vibing?to mywhat are we?text still hit like a true devastation. Reinforcement of all of my prior insecurities. I felt a humiliating desperation to convince him to want me, and it ultimately required an intervention from Sim to gather the courage to call it quits.
I know that bad roommates and thoughtless boys are a common cornerstone of the freshman experience, but in the context of Ajoba’s crisis, it all felt so overwhelming. And it’s not like all my first-year disappointments were just a cosmic case of bad luck—the harsher reality is that I probably could have been more proactive about making things better for myself. But I was left drained, immobilized, and longing for a do-over. A new college environment in my familiar Seattle landscape, close to loved ones, where I’d be wanted and needed, felt like the right solution. I remain hopeful that it will be. I finally feel ready to build a more joyful life, and this summer is my time to put that plan into motion.
I scrape the bottom of my bowl asGossip Girlunveils yet another illicit affair on the Upper East Side. Downstairs, Ajoba is already waiting to serve me seconds.
Chapter Nine
Before our next driving lesson, I examine the car’s damage as I wait for Kush. In the dim garage light, the bruised bumper isn’t too noticeable, but my stomach still sinks at the realization that I’ll eventually have to tell Aai Baba the bad news. I’ll need a repair prior to the test, and my GPL stipend barely covers my morning coffee, let alone exorbitant mechanic fees.
I kneel beside the bumper in mourning, running my hands along the dent like it’s possible to nurse the car back to health. Kush arrives just as I’m GooglingDIY minor car accident repairs. I shove my phone in my back pocket and jump hastily to my feet, almost caught.
Kush assesses the sight too. “It’s not so bad,” he says, and when he notices my look, reevaluates. “Battle scars,” he suggests.
“Scar,” I correct. “Let’s keep it singular,” I say, and he ducks his head to hide a smile.
Kush reverses out of the garage, the gold of his signet ring glinting in the sun as he drives. It’s a long, winding driveway, so I have to admire the smooth maneuver. Aai often skids over Baba’s tulip patch on her way out; I must be in good hands.
“Where are we driving today?” I ask. “Fairgrounds again?” Returning to the scene of the crime feels daunting, but I’ll stomach it if it’s truly the best place to learn.
He pauses for a second too long. “How would you feel if we didn’t drive today?” he asks, eyes meeting mine at the stop.
“I would feel confused,” I say. “Since this is meant to be a driving lesson?”
“It is,” he agrees. “But given our rocky first day,” he starts with a drawl, “I’ve been thinking it could be productive to take a beat to sit and talk about our goals and expectations for the summer.”
My frown deepens. “My goals and expectations are to get my license,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “But I think your chances of passing on the first try are a lot higher if we set some intentions for our practices.” He sees my hesitation and adds, “It’s like drawing up a play before getting on the court.”
I ignore the implication that there’s a chance Iwon’tpass on the first try. “Sports metaphors don’t really work for me,” I say instead, a bit of restlessness rising. It’s already late June and all I have to show for it is a minor fender bender from the singular time I was permitted behind the wheel.
“Like going to office hours before a big exam, then,” he says.
“You’re hardly my professor.”
“For all intents and purposes,” he says. A red light, and he glances at me again. “Look, I think part of the reason Sameerand I worked so well when I taught him is because of exercises like this.”
“God,” I say. “Sameer and I need to unionize.”
He rolls his eyes. “I just mean that we spent time together outside of driving,” he says. “So we were closer, and practice felt kind of fun, not like a chore.” He considers his next words carefully. “You and I have never spent time together without our families, so maybe this could be good. Though I won’t force it, of course.”
It’s not actually true; wehavespent time together without our families. But it’s clear that he’s forgotten, and it’s not a memory I want to resurface regardless. Still, there’s an earnestness in his tone that sways me. Kush has always had a way of making you want to agree with him.
It was part of why I was so drawn to him as a child. When he chose to, Kush made me feel noticed and special. The quality was reserved for private moments; around the influence of other boys, Kush often adopted their careless manners, but when we were the only two kids at the function, he had a thoughtfulness so rare to his demographic. Only Indian sons are usually overindulged to the point of complete emotional incompetence. Kush was, by all metrics, a unicorn.
And it works on me even now, despite the considerable prejudice I’ve since built against him. “Okay,” I say. “But next time, we need to get some actual driving practice in.”
“Agreed,” he says.
“You want to go to Wanda’s?” I offer. I saw on Instagram that they launched a s’mores latte for the summer, and nothing could be more of a need.
