Page 22 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“In the back,” Michael says. “I don’t have a poker face.”
Noelle slips away to prepare for the opening, and we take a table toward the exit. There are still ten minutes until the start, and attendees slowly mill to fill the space. All in all, Noelle and her team have done a great job curating a lively, vibrant atmosphere.String lights illuminate the seating area, and music hums in the background while we wait. As Noelle ascends the makeshift stage, Zara gives a gasp.
“Ten o’clock,” she mumbles to Michael. “Don’t look.”
Of course, we both whirl around to look. Michael locks eyes with a curly-haired Indian boy with gold hoops lining his ears, just entering the patio. The boy blinks, surprised, and gives a belated wave that Michael and Zara are obliged to return.
“Sorry,” Michael mutters to Zara, ears going red, sinking low in his seat.
“My fault, really,” she says, rolling her eyes. She turns to me as if about to clue me in, but Noelle starts to speak into the microphone, and Zara falls quiet.
“Welcome to the writing society’s monthly open mic night,” she says warmly. “This is the first of our summer series, and as always, we are so excited to showcase some incredible student talent for you. On behalf of all our writers, thank you so much for joining us to celebrate emerging artists.”
She continues on to elaborate on the mission and origin story of the program, and I settle in my seat, sipping more of my water-bottle wine. The first poet is a true star, expert delivery that brings both me and Zara near tears with her reflections on beauty and motherhood. But by the third act, I’m beginning to appreciate Michael’s foresight to sit in the back. It takes all my willpower not to erupt in giggles when one speaker earnestly performs a spoken-word readthrough of a recent breakup, and the wine doesn’t help matters. The boy Zara pointed out earlier somehow maintains a straight face, and I have to admire the composure.
Noelle joins us at intermission, sliding into the seat next tomine. “So?” she says, face flushed from wine and excitement. “How are you enjoying?”
“Oh, I’m enjoying all right,” Zara says.
“Positively entranced,” Michael says.
“Looks like we’ve got some characters in the department,” I say.
Noelle gives a dark look but takes it, good-natured. “I won’t lie, I love this stuff, eccentricities and all.” She nods to me. “And Rani’s right, it’s a nice way to get to know the program.”
I take another sip of wine, warmth starting in my belly. Tonighthasbeen really nice. Perhaps the first time I’ve felt like a real student here. I can picture myself in this world—though far from the microphone, myself.
“To know who to avoid, maybe,” Zara says. She tilts her head at me. “Speaking of, do you know many people at UW?”
“Oh, God,” I say. “Really just you guys. And a few obscure people from high school, I think.” I pause. “Plus, um, my driving instructor.”
“Yourwhat?” Noelle says.
At the same time, Michael says, “Aren’t you nineteen?”
“I am!” I say. “Just a late bloomer.”
Zara gives me a sympathetic look. “They don’t get it. Being unlicensed is basically a universal brown girl experience. I’m a rare exception.”
“Is that why you bike to work?” Michael says. He shakes his head, awestruck. “I just thought you cared about the environment.”
“It’s kind of impressive,” Noelle says. “To survive suburbia without a car.”
“Embarrassing, more like,” I say, and her mouth quirks.
“I was being generous,” she admits.
“Well, who’s this driving instructor?” Zara asks.
“He’s a family friend,” I say. “Our parents arranged it. Kush Khanna? He’s a junior premed.”
Their shock at my driving admission is nothing compared to this name-drop. Silence swells as the trio exchange glances.
“Not KushKhanna,” Noelle says at last, voice strangled and weak.
“You’re joking,” Zara says, similarly aghast.
“Tall, beautiful, brown-McDreamy Kush Khanna?” Michael gasps.
