Page 5 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“No,” I say in horror. The last thing I need is Aai as my teacher; I get a migraine whenever she sits behind the wheel. I give Baba a beseeching look. “She can barely drive herself,” I whisper.
Aai swats me. “I can hear you,” she says. “And I’m not volunteering myself.”
I frown. “I’m not following.”
“I was speaking to Noori at Ajoba’s birthday, telling her you want to learn driving and all that, she tells me Kush just taught his cousin Sameer to drive! She said to reach out if needed.”
Baba nods in appreciation. “How thoughtful.”
“Let me WhatsApp Noori right now.” Aai says, already clicking away on her phone.
“Great idea, Vandana,” Baba says.
“She couldn’t attend yoga today, or I could have asked then.”
Baba waves a hand. “Noori’s always on her phone, texting like a teenager, she’ll reply fast.”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, still bemused, “but what exactly are we asking Noori Aunty?”
“If Kush is available to teach you, of course.”
I blanch. “You can’t be serious.” My voice has gone dry. “You can’t mean KushKhanna.”
“No, Rani, I mean Lord Rama’s son.” The sarcastic reference to Kush’s divine namesake makes Baba chortle, but I’m too stunned to be impressed by Aai’s wit. “Obviously I mean Kush Khanna. Such a lovely boy.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at this characterization. There was a time when I would have agreed with Aai, back when I was ten and lovesick from my very first crush, but the years since have cleared my vision. Maybe it’s petty of me, but I can’t stand the idea of my driver’s ed success being another item on Kush’s already-lengthy resume of accomplishments that’s long distinguished him as our community’s model son.
“No,” I say, voice firm if a little hoarse. “I changed my mind, Idowant Aai as my instructor.”
“Don’t be silly, Rani. I can barely drive, remember?”
“I was joking,” I say. “And if you can’t teach me, I’ll just wait until October.”
My heart sinks as I say the words, but spending a summer taking lessons from Kush sounds unbearable. The embarrassing reality is that Kush, with all his brilliance and popularity, has always been a guaranteed spark to insecurity for me, and that’s not the energy I want in a summer that’s meant to be about getting my life back on track. It’s too vulnerable to belatedly learn driving from a boy who’s never been behind at anything in his life. Especially after the year I had.
“You’re not making any sense,” Baba says.
“At least wait for Noori to reply before you continue your bakwaas,” Aai says. “Now, tell me all about your day.”
There’s a note of finality in her voice, and I don’t feel like prolonging the argument, so I take a deep breath and try to push the worry from my mind. Baba resumes pruning his flower beds as he listens to my and Aai’s conversation.
Summer in Gilmore, Washington, is my favorite time of the year. There’s something special, magical in the air—beyond warmth, though I am grateful for the PNW’s two-month slice of sundress season. The hydrangeas are in bloom, weekday farmer’s markets are back on Main Street, and the county fair is busy and bustling a few blocks down the road. These are the days I always long for.
Most people fantasize about growing up and escaping their small hometowns, and for a while, that was me too. But the past year has made me value this cozy, familiar landscape so deeply.
Moving away for college in the immediate aftermath of Ajoba’s stroke was a recipe for the most restless, desperate variety of homesickness possible. I became uncharacteristically antisocial, skipping the majority of the welcome events, spending my nights on the phone with family while my roommates went out to parties and dorm socials. Even as Aai Baba assured me of his recovery, I felt antsy and wistful to be nearby, available for the man who’d given me the world and then some my entire life.
So I’m grateful to be home this summer, around and useful as Ajoba needs. Getting to do my dream internship program is just an added silver lining.
On Monday, I wake early and bike to Wanda’s, Simran’s and my go-to coffee shop all of high school. We spent countless afternoons here debriefing about boys and friend-group drama under the guise of studying for AP tests. I want a perfect start for my first day, which means one of Wanda’s salted caramel lattes.
It’s ten till nine when I arrive at Ms. Okonkwo’s desk in the children’s section of the library, beverage in hand. When we had our virtual interview in the spring, I felt immediately at ease from her kind and inviting demeanor, and in person, my impression holds up. She’s young, no older than early thirties, and she’s dressed in a yellow jumpsuit that suits her dark complexion. The back of her desktop is cluttered with stickers of characters from beloved children’s books: Frog and Toad, Junie B. Jones, and Ella of Frell, among others.
“Rani,” she says warmly when she sees me. “You’re early.”
“If you’re on time you’re late,” I chirp, and immediately regret it. The last thing I want is to come off as an unbearable kiss-ass. Luckily, Ms. Okonkwo pretends not to hear.
“Welcome to GPL,” she says, clasping her hands together. “Your coworker should be here any moment, and then we can get the two of you trained and set up for a wonderful summer.”
