She ignores this too. “Put yourself out there more, is all I’m saying. Build a roster. Rani’sSex and the Citysummer.”
“Gilmore’s hardly a city.”
“Set your Hinge location to Seattle.”
I decide against telling Simran that I’ve yet to make an account and take a bite of French toast. Something warm settles in my chest as I look over our document. I’ve missed this, Simran and her nonsense advice that I listen to anyways, because it’s Simran, and there’s no one whose opinion I care about more.
Under R&S, Simran writes:CELEBRATE OUR FIFTEEN-YEAR ANNIVERSARY!(We met at our local day care exactly fifteen summers ago.) I highlight the text in hot pink and add a heart.
“And how shall we celebrate?” Simran asks when I finish.
“Another worksheet?” I suggest.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says, and I laugh.
Baba’s in the backyard when I return home from the café, tending to his flower beds. He’s got on a visor and the gardening apronAai got him for his birthday last year, and the look is so endearing I want to snap a picture. He stands when he notices me.
“Hi shona,” he says, brushing dirt from his gloved fingertips. “How was brunch with Simran?”
“It was lovely,” I say. “I missed her.”
“Good,” he says. He takes off his visor and uses his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Are you all ready for your first day tomorrow?”
I start my job at the library in the morning, and some nerves are settling in. “I think so,” I say. I’ll get my official training soon, but from my understanding, I’m helping revamp the children’s section and leading storytime sessions for early readers alongside my academic research this summer. I plan to teach elementary school postgrad, so this is a perfect preparatory opportunity. “I’m sure I’ll love it there,” I say.
“Excellent,” he says. “When you’re all settled in, we can send the boys to participate in your programs. Get them off their video games.”
“Of course,” I say, even though I already spend most of my time babysitting Sanju and Nabhi. I’m not really dying to supervise them during my work hours too. But I don’t want to contradict Baba now, not when I’m about to ask for a favor. “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about my driver’s ed.”
He nods. “Did you register?”
I twist my hands. “Not exactly,” I say. The sales representative for Gilmore’s sole driver’s education company actually laughed when I called to book lessons for the coming weeks. They’d filled their summer slots months ago. Everyone and their mom learns how to drive in the summer, apparently. I clearly missed thememo. “They’re unfortunately all booked up. So I was hoping you might be able to teach me.”
He’s shaking his head before I can even finish my sentence. “I’m sorry, shona. We’ve been short-staffed at the hospital, my on-call shifts have increased, I have hardly any free time. This is the first I’ve been in my garden in days.” He gazes mournfully at his blooming zinnias.
Baba is a pediatric surgeon in Seattle, and while normally I worry about the stressful hours on his behalf, his work troubles could not be more inconvenient for me right now.
“I’ll work around your schedule,” I insist. “Whenever you have a spare moment, we can practice.”
“That’s not how driving works,” Baba says, tone insufferably patronizing. “You need routine, you need consistency. Especially for a beginner like you.” He gives me an amused look. “Do you even know the accelerator from the brake?”
“Obviously,” I huff. “Right foot accelerator, left foot brake.”
There’s a pause. “You use the same foot for both, Rani.”
My cheeks flush. “Whatever,” I say. I clear my throat. “Look, they don’t have any openings till October.” I’m moments away from stomping my feet, and I can hear the whine entering my voice, but I’m too desperate to care. Getting my license is the first, most urgent matter on my summer to-do list. “Please, Baba.”
I hear Aai’s voice call out from behind me. “What’s all this tamasha?” She’s walking up the driveway to us, hair swept back and face gleaming with sweat, home from her evening class. Aai owns a small yoga practice on Main Street, and Sundays are one of her busiest instruction days.
“No tamasha, Aai,” I say, stung. I’m hardly making a fuss.
“Rani doesn’t have a driving teacher,” Baba explains.
“Ah,” Aai says. “What else is new? Every summer, same story.”
It’s classic Aai to make light of sensitive situations, definitely a trait she inherited from Ajoba, but my stomach still constricts at her allusion. The last time I seriously contemplated driving lessons was almost a year ago to the day, and Ajoba had offered to be my instructor. But he had a stroke in July, and driver’s ed fell off my radar while I spent the summer devoted to his recovery. He’s much better now, if still a little too weak to drive, but his health is always a concern in the back of our minds. It’s why celebrating Ajoba’s birthday was of particular importance to Aai this year.
“But not to worry,” Aai continues, reaching an arm around me to squeeze my shoulder. “I can help you, Rani.”
