TEN Jessie

TEN

Jessie

Jessie couldn't stop thinking about Ravi's visit for the rest of the day. When it came time to review the letters, she was sure their meeting was going to be just as awkward. Except when he arrived, it was as if they had never spoken about evil eyes or money at all. He strolled into the study room, his easy swagger on full display.

"Hey," Ravi said. He had switched out his usual pair of cargo shorts for jeans and a fitted T-shirt. As casual and worn-in as both of those items looked, Jessie knew they probably cost a fortune. His entire wardrobe was expensive yet unassuming, including the bomber jacket he said was a Balmain vintage. As if she'd know Balmain from Old Navy.

Then there was the backward hat that always had her pulse fluttering.

Damn it, why did she like the backward hat so much?

"Sorry I'm late," he said as he stepped inside and closed the door at his back. The room instantly felt smaller. "I had a call with my parents. They're in Australia right now, so it's hard to get a hold of them."

The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. He must've noticed her expression, because he slid his backpack onto the table and dropped into the chair opposite from where she was standing. "Just ask, Jessie."

Her breath came out with a rush. "What was it like?" she said. "What's it like visiting all those places, and having all that money?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Normal?"

"Normal?"

"Normal," Ravi repeated. Then shook his head as if he was unsure whether or not to tell her the truth. He'd been honest with her as far as she knew, but because he was questioning himself now made her wonder what he was hiding. "Jessie, I never went on those trips growing up. At least not until I was a teenager and forced to tag along when my father had a business conference. For the most part, I was at home with my mom, my brother, or my grandparents, and even then, I had an older Punjabi nanny and staff that spent more time with me than my parents did."

"It was you and your brother?"

Ravi nodded. "Before he became a complete douchebag when he went off to college, we just had each other. We would go on these adventures by ourselves. We had some woods near our house, and we would spend hours exploring or pretending we were trying to find buried treasure. We also did this soapbox derby in our town where we used to build these soapbox cars every year. My brother would want to make it go as fast as possible, and I'd create this elaborate story behind it while doing all of the design work. We were such a good team back then that we won four years in a row. It was just what we did, and what all of our friends' parents did, too."

Jessie nodded, even though she hated the picture he'd painted in her mind. Of a sad Ravi sitting alone in a room with all the toys in the world and no one interested enough to play with him. Of his brother, his only friend, leaving him for college, then coming back to be just like his father. It seemed so different from the world she knew, where she was constantly surrounded by members of the community. There was always a family friend pitching in to raise her, to watch her parents' store when they needed it, to offer a hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"Yes, you did," he said, smiling in earnest now. He adjusted his backward cap. "I know you're not a fan of nepo babies."

She shrugged. "I guess some of them can be nice ... sometimes."

He laughed, and the sound was like warm sunshine. "If that's your way of saying we should be friends, I'll take it." He motioned to the book in the center of the table. "Were you able to keep your hands off it all weekend?"

Jessie propped her hands on her hips and tilted her chin up. "You know what? I'm not even going to be insulted that you asked me. Because obviously it's very tempting. But no, I didn't open it."

"Nice job. What do we do now, Velma?"

"We get to work, Daphne," she said, the quip rolling off her tongue. Jessie unzipped her backpack and took out a small pen pouch. Then she removed a folder with a few printouts that she'd managed to get from the yearbook office. She'd known to check with the office manager only because one of the other students who worked the information desk with her also volunteered as a photographer for the yearbook club.

Ravi watched her like she was an insect under a microscope, but at least he didn't say anything while she set up.

"We know the name of the person writing the letters because she wrote her name at the bottom of the very first note that we read in Davidson Tower," she said, removing the first piece of paper from the folder. "There was only one Divya Das on campus in 1972." She used a small magnet she usually brought with her and put the paper on the magnetic whiteboard.

"This still doesn't prove that Divya is a part of the legend—"

"No, it doesn't," she said. "We're going to have to try to first figure out who wrote the letters, then determine if there is any connection to the library fire." She looked at the black-and-white picture she was able to pull from the university yearbook archives. In those days, the university had every class take yearbook photos. Jessie had discovered that in late 1990, the policy changed so only graduating class members got their picture in the yearbook.

Thank god for policy changes.

"I could only find one reference of Divya in the yearbook office," Jessie said. "But I cross-checked a bunch of the other South Asian students, and a lot of them only had one picture taken as well."

"Do you think they dropped out?"

"Maybe," Jessie said. "College dropout rates were a lot higher back then. Especially for women."

Divya had only two yearbook photos; her first was from 1971, and the second was 1972. She looked so young, even though she was probably just a year older in the photo than Jessie was now. Her hair was parted in the center and pulled back to a simple knot at the base of her neck. She wore a small red bindi and a simple salwar kameez, judging by the neckline of the bust photo. Did she dress in traditional Indian clothing all the time? Or did she change into pants for classes? Did she ever feel coerced to wear one thing or another? Divya heard the stories from her mother and grandmother. She'd listened to her friends back home. Cliches were truths in the seventies.

"She was beautiful," Ravi said softly.

Jessie turned to her left to see that Ravi had gotten out of his seat and rounded the table to take a closer look at the printout. His jaw was set as he scanned the grainy image.

"Ravi?"

"Mm-hm?"

"How brave do you think she was to have lived a life where she wrote letters and had to hide them in fear of being found out?"

"Brave," Ravi said without thinking. "I have to work myself up to answer the phone now when talking to my father. I can't imagine what hers was like."

Jessie couldn't, either. Divya's parents were immigrants, arriving in a foreign country, with so many beliefs and concepts that didn't apply in their new home. "I'm surprised she was able to go to school."

"Yeah, she must have been loved."

She must have been loved.

Maybe that was the simple answer they weren't taking into account. Love was a powerful motivation. Jessie cleared her throat and took a step back from Ravi. She motioned to the book. "Do you want to do the honors?"

Ravi sat in his chair again. "As a reward for your patience, knock yourself out."

She leaned over and slid the book toward her before lifting the cover again. Each letter was a folded piece of paper with an extended flap that was creased to curl over one edge and seal it as a makeshift envelope. "Do we put these in chronological order first, or read them how they were stacked in the box?"

"I'm sure the order they're currently in means something, but if we're trying to figure out context, it might be a good idea to get the real timeline."

"That's very practical, Ravi Kumar."

He smiled, and it was ever so cocky. "I have my moments."

They worked in tandem, looking at the top of the folded messages for the dates and piling them first by month, then ordering them by day until they were able to create one neat stack. There were fifty-six letters in all, with the first dated September of 1971 and the last dated May of 1972. There were gaps in time that coincided with school breaks and holidays.

"Are you ready to open the first letter?" Ravi asked.

Jessie nodded. She could feel her heart pounding. She picked up the first paper, yellowed at the edges, faded in black ink. Then she ran her finger under the flap, and it opened easily, as if it had been read many times before.

It was all there before her. The handwriting that was indicative of Indian boarding school, because her father had the same kind, and she knew it well. There were subtle flares of personalization, though. Divya drew circles over her i's instead of dots. The tails of her t's were elongated.

"‘Dear Jaan—'"

"Jaan," Ravi said. He pressed a hand to his chest. "Do you think he was Indian, too?"

Jessie looked up. She hadn't even gotten into the meat of the letter yet. "Maybe, but isn't the legend that the guy's parents worked for the university?"

"You're still assuming that this is a part of the legend, Jessie," Ravi replied. "What happened to figuring out the letters first?"

"Yeah, you're right. Let's see what else it says."

Jessie read the rest of the letter, and they stopped after each line, discussing any hidden meaning that might be there.

She liked that they were working together. That they were using the study room for a shared purpose. Because in this endeavor, he wasn't a nepo baby and she wasn't uptight. They were just Ravi and Jessie.

After they had finished the first letter, they decided to read two more before they called it quits for the day.

"Hey, Jessie?" Ravi said as she unfolded the next letter in the pile.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," he said.

"For what?"

"For helping me with my story."

She cocked her head to the side. She had no idea what he was talking about, but he smiled at her. He was happy, and maybe that was enough of an explanation from a friend.

"You're welcome," she said. Then cleared her throat.

"‘Dear Jaan, I wish I could focus on my studies today, but thoughts of our conversation from last night keep replaying over and over again in my mind.'"