I nod, twisting the key in the ignition, and the car whirs to life.
Chapter Eighteen
Michael is a mess all through our shift on Wednesday. Every ten minutes, he rises from his desk to do a lap around the children’s section, sinking back into his spot when he fails to reach his destination. After his third try, he rolls over to me in his swivel chair.
“I give up,” he says, expression long and defeated. “I’m tapping out.”
“You never tapped in,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Chin up, be an adult, and go ask her.”
He groans, sliding in his seat. “This feels like a humiliation ritual,” he says, scrubbing his eyes, and then he rolls back to his computer.
I know the feeling all too well. Michael is applying for a competitive English seminar this fall, and he needs a recommendation from Ms. Okonkwo in order to finalize his submission. I read over his statement last night, and it’s a strong application. Therecommendation is his final missing piece, if he can conquer the unpleasantness of asking for it. I dreaded this step throughout my transferring process too, so I don’t envy Michael one bit.
At a quarter till two, I begin packing up my desk to head to this week’s book club meeting, and Michael’s face falls.
“Leaving me in my time of need is the most unforgivable betrayal!” he calls as I exit.
“You better have a reference by the time my session ends,” I say, and he groans again.
I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week. There are five attendees today, a major level up from our first session, and the chosen text is sure to be a favorite: the latest release in a kid detective series. This story involves a dognapping, and I’ve simulated the scene of the crime in our event space, complete with fake fur tracings, a lost leash, and a dropped diary. The students can try to puzzle out the mystery for themselves in real time, alongside the book’s investigators.
Just like last week, Walter is our resident conspiracy theorist, convinced spies and aliens must be in the mix somehow. I try to direct his attention to the source material and have him substantiate his hypothesis, but he’s not having it.
“But a UFO would explain everything, Ms. Rani,” he says. He speaks slow, like I’m the one not comprehending.
I take the win of his participation and enthusiasm and keep it moving.
More theories abound. One of the new girls almost catches the culprit, raising concerns about the dog’s owner himself. But she’s quickly talked down by the others, and in the end, Cam puzzles it out before the big reveal. He identifies the rewardmoney as a motive and nabs the neighbor, crediting Marissa for her initial guess.
“I thought she was onto something,” he says, and my heart feels warm. It makes me so glad to see the returning kids include newcomers. And also just to see Cam use his words at all.
I take some notes during the session to compile into a summary report later to pass along to Professor Valdivia. After a few days of ghosting her, I finally sat down to review her notes on my early pages. They were critical but apt, and I feel more equipped to revise now that I’ve had some space. As anxious as I get, the reality is that I asked Valdivia to be my advisor because of her known reputation for challenging students. So I want to try not to interpret being challenged as an offense.
It’s a successful second meeting, and the kids all seem to enjoy themselves. We browse for a bit at the end of the hour, and the students leave with new books to read over the next week. I get some hugs goodbye and a chorus of “Thank you, Ms. Rani!” There’s a smile on my lips when I make my way back to Michael at three.
“Any updates?” I ask, relaxing into my chair.
“I asked her to have a quick conversation after my shift ends,” he says, and his voice is faint at the very thought of said conversation.
I give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Baby steps.”
Afternoons are my favorite time of day for driving practice. In true suburbia fashion, Gilmore is quiet and barren, no more than a few stray cars in the neighboring lane. It helps relieve thepressure I feel behind the wheel. I’m far more nervous about driving when forced to react to other drivers. I also like knowing I’m unwatched, apart from Kush in the passenger seat, of course.
Today is a particularly lovely driving day. We’ve been gifted with a cloudless sky, and the trees leave the street sun-dappled and golden. I drive with the windows down so a warm, delicate breeze keeps the space ventilated. It’s such pleasant weather that I roll past a stop sign, lost in appreciation. I release a thankful breath when the error escapes Kush’s notice.
Then my nose wrinkles, because the error escaped Kush’s notice. I sneak a glance at him and see he’s gazing out the window, busy in his thoughts. In fact, he’s been uncharacteristically quiet all of today’s session.
“Is everything all right?” I ask as I near the end of the route. There’s an available parking space right in front of me, so I manage to squeeze between the white lines for once and feel a rush of pride.
He starts at the direct address. He shakes his head, returning to himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, yeah, everything’s fine.”
I stare, disbelieving. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s even weaker this time. He rubs a hand over his neck.
“Okay,” I say. I change tack. “How’d I do today?”
“Great,” he says. “Really great.”
