Page 36 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
A hint of a smile starts on my lips at the thought of a moody thirteen-year-old Kush, up to no good. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Kush says. “Anything to make him mad.”
I feel a shiver at the thought of Suresh Uncle angry. He’s domineering enough in his natural state. “What’s the worst thing you did?”
Kush meets my gaze, eyes sparking at the memory. “I shaved my head,” he admits seriously.
My mouth drops. I bring a hand up to cover it. “No,” I say.
He nods, enjoying my shock. “He was livid.”
“Naturally,” I say.
“Said I was making a spectacle of myself.”
“To be fair,” I say, “I don’t think bald is your look.”
“I’ve come to agree,” he says. “But at the time, I relished his reaction.” He clucks his tongue. “I want to spare Arjun from that path.”
An image comes to me—Kush, at the first Sunday dinner following the Khannas’ return to Gilmore, hair buzzed alarmingly short. I didn’t approve of the cosmetic choice even then, but I never would have imagined this backstory.
“Damn,” I say. “You really were as troubled as it gets.” Kush lifts a shoulder, likeI told you so. I go on. “It’s a shame,” I say. “If you’d been more stabilized, we could have been pen pals.”
He frowns at this, and I immediately want to retract my words. I’m not sure what compelled me to raise the subject I’ve so carefully avoided for the last five years. “What do you mean?”
Of course he’s forgotten. My face warms. “Oh,” I say. “It’s a small thing, but before you moved, we said we’d try to stay in touch.”
He tilts his head. “I remember,” he says. “You never emailed.”
I jerk back, thrown by this. “Yes, I did,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
“I definitely did,” I insist, utterly bemused at this response, but he’s still shaking his head. “I’ll show you,” I say, and then I’m pulling up the email application on my phone. Though it’s been half a decade, it doesn’t take long to find the message. I type Kush’s name into the search bar and it appears: the singular email I ever sent him, a bit long and overeager—and forever unanswered. “See?”
He shifts his head closer to mine to view the screen. Our foreheads nearly bump. His thumb hovers over each line as he reads, brows creased. I feel stupidly nervous at grown-up Kush reading my preteen prose.
“Ah,” he says, pulling away. “You sent it to my school email. I lost access to that after the move.”
A funny feeling lurches in my chest. “Oh,” I say. “Pretty sure I got the address from my mom, so I didn’t think anything of it.”
Our eyes lock, each of us considering the other. My head spins at the new information; much of my ill will toward Kush upon his return was built on the initial slight of his ignoring me. I’m not sure what to do with this discovery.
“I guess I could have emailed you first,” he says at last. “But troubled kid, and all that.”
My lips twist. “Right,” I say.
He starts to continue, but his eyes catch on the cradle behind me, and his expression alters, transfixed. “Rani,” he says, voice soft and full of wonderment. “She’s smiling.”
My gaze drops. “Oh,” I breathe. Ishika’s eyes are bright, hercheeks dimpled in a captivating, lovely beam. My own smile mirrors hers. “I think she likes us.”
We marvel at Ishika, rocking the cradle gently to keep her content, past conversation mostly forgotten. In moments, mess all cleaned up, the parents and a weary Arjun join at our side.
Chapter Sixteen
Michael hosts a bonfire night for the Fourth of July. It’s at his parents’ place in Gilmore instead of the Seattle apartment, so I can easily bike over after yoga. Accepting the invite means I have an out for taking the twins to the firework display at the fairgrounds, and while Aai Baba grumble, no one stops me.
I bring sticks of dark chocolate for our post-dinner s’mores. Zara and Noelle supply our main course of chili dogs, and we lounge out at the Jeong firepit, faces orange and aglow in the light. Miley Cyrus’s 2009 anthem “Party in the U.S.A.” plays on full blast.
