When Dimple Met Rishi
Page 52
“Everything okay?” he ventured, waiting for an outburst.
Dimple had been waiting for them in the lobby, and when he’d reached for her, she’d patted his back perfunctorily, with way more force than necessary, and then proceeded to fume the entire way to the dining hall.
“Yeah,” she said, gnashing her teeth as she chewed on a fry. “Fine. Just great. Fabulous.” She sipped from her glass of Coke and glared at the ice cubes when they rattled. Then, looking at Ashish, she said, “You need to forget about Celia. It’s never going to happen.”
Rishi watched his little brother’s face fall and then settle into its usual nonchalant mask, and he felt a tug of sympathy. He turned to Dimple. “Why? What happened?”
She stabbed a fry into the little plastic ketchup pot on her plate. “She’s an idiot.” Dimple looked back up at Ashish, and her eyes softened. “Sorry, man, but she’s just too into Evan for anything to happen between you guys. For no reason I can fathom. I mean, you’re clearly the better choice, but try telling her that.” She set her fry down and sat back in her chair, sighing. “Love just makes idiots of people.”
Rishi grinned. “Yeah, but that’s not always a bad thing.”
Dimple smiled reluctantly, and his heart soared on gilded wings. He had the power to do that. To make her smile even when she was upset. She felt the same about him as he felt about her. The thought still made him giddy. Then, remembering his little brother’s pain, Rishi put a hand on Ashish’s shoulder. “Sorry.”
Ashish shrugged and took a sip of water. Then he pushed his chair back. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you back at your room later.”
As they watched him walk away, Dimple said softly, “Do you think he’s going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” Rishi said, watching his brother’s retreating form. “He’ll be fine. Ashish always lands on his feet.”
CHAPTER 48
Saturday night came hurtling with the speed of a thousand maglev trains. Dimple did not feel remotely ready.
It was dark backstage, darker than she’d anticipated. Dimple hadn’t been in a backstage area since elementary school. It was too big, too serious, too heavy. Everyone was speaking in hushed voices, racing back and forth from the dressing room, even though the audience hadn’t even begun to gather yet. Max flitted around, talking to people encouragingly, one hand on the shoulders of those especially nervous.
She swallowed and turned to Rishi in the wings. “I don’t think I can do this.” She clenched her hand around her tote bag that held her costume and makeup. “Seriously. Maybe we should just back out now.”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just say ‘no’ to me?”
He looked sheepish. “No?”
That made her smile. For a second. “Look, maybe we can tell Max I’m sick. He can’t dock points for that, right? It’s, like, an act of God or nature or something. Even insurance companies realize those are—”
Rishi put both hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath. She copied him without even thinking about it and felt instantly slightly calmer. “We’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice low and rumbling and soothing. “I promise.” His honey eyes didn’t lie.
She nodded, and, hand in hand, they walked to the dressing rooms in the back.
• • •
If backstage had been heavy with hushed silence, the dressing rooms were mirthful, dizzying chaos. The smell of hairspray and cologne was like a physical presence, pressing itself between people, wrapping its arms around Dimple. People peered in mirrors that had big, round lightbulbs studded around them, putting off enough heat so that the light hoodie Dimple wore began to feel like a snowsuit. She unzipped it and took it off, looking around at the various stages of costumed finery. “Wow.”
“No kidding,” Rishi said, looking around. His eyes sparkled in the lights. “It looks like a bunch of theater majors in here.”
A boy dressed like a mime—his face white with makeup, lips done in rosy red—turned to them from the next chair. “Hey.”
It took Dimple about ten full seconds to realize it was José. She laughed. “Hey! Nice costume.”
He grinned, his teeth slightly yellow against the white paint on his face. “Thanks. This is nothing, though. Apparently some of our classmates got the hookup from some theater camp peeps. That’s why some of the costumes are so amazing.” He waved his hand over at a brown-haired girl, Lyric. She wore a long-sleeved leotard, with a big plume of peacock feathers fanning out from her butt area, studded with glittering blue and green sequins and trailing black-sequined feather boas from her wrists. She looked ethereal.
Dimple looked around. Celia wasn’t anywhere; none of the Aberzombies were. She wondered what was going on. Then she was distracted—some of the guys had whole cases of professional-looking makeup and actual rolls of makeup brushes. Dimple had her Covergirl stuff she’d had since ninth grade, when Mamma had forced her to buy some for the Diwali celebration. She looked in alarm at Rishi. “How do they even know how to use this stuff?”
He leaned toward her. “We don’t need that,” he said confidently. “We have sheer talent. They’re obviously overcompensating.”
One of the übercostumed guys passing by threw them a dirty look, and Dimple pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “Well, I guess I’d better get started.” She sat on the stool nearest her, setting her bag on the table. Rishi took the stool next to hers.
They were already wearing most of their costumes. Luckily, Anushka Sharma and Shah Rukh Khan wore pretty simple outfits in the official “Dance Pe Chance” video—athletic clothes for her, pants and a jacket and shirt for him. It was just another reason Ashish’s idea to use the song had been so genius. Now Dimple could focus on not blundering the steps and falling off the stage.
“Celia isn’t here,” Rishi said simply.
Dimple didn’t answer the question he wasn’t asking. “Nope.” She concentrated on plugging in her hair straightener—which she’d borrowed from a girl down the hall who was going to be wearing a wig tonight anyway—and laid out her makeup. Powder foundation, eyeliner (not kaajal ; Mamma would be so disappointed), and lip gloss. She tried not to think about what was probably happening out there: The show didn’t start for another forty-five minutes, but some of the early birds in the audience would be filtering in. Each segment was supposed to be no longer than five minutes, and Dimple and Rishi didn’t come on till the middle, so they probably had close to two hours of waiting left. Urrrrgh.
“I heard the audience is supposed to be a mix of art and theater students attending summer camps,” Louis, a quiet, blond boy said. He was sitting on Dimple’s right, dressed in a suit with a red handkerchief poking out from his pocket. A black top hat, white gloves, and a bouquet of colorful plastic flowers sat on the counter at his elbow.
“Magic?” Dimple guessed, nodding toward his accoutrements.
He nodded. “I’ve been doing it since I was seven.” He nodded toward his partner, who was sitting beside him, playing on his phone. “Connor’s my assistant. I’ll saw him in half at the end. I think we have a real shot at winning.”
Dimple’s spreadsheet said otherwise. Magic was a notoriously poor performer. “Cool.”
“What about you guys?” he asked, glancing over at Rishi, who, totally unself-consciously, was practicing a few moves in front of the mirror.
“We’re doing a dance to an Indian song,” Dimple said, feeling a flurry of nerves in her belly.
Louis’s eyes drifted to Rishi’s gyrating form. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Good luck.”
• • •
Max stood between their stools and smiled at them. This was their second visit in ten minutes. Ashish had been in before Max, to assure them that he was armed and ready with the music. He kept saying, “Chill, dudes, you’re going to be great.” Dimple knew he was trying to be helpful, but at the end she’d wanted to bash him over the head with her stool. She’d been glad when he left. Honestly, with her nerves the way they were, the only person she could stand to be around right then was Rishi.
Dimple had been waiting for them in the lobby, and when he’d reached for her, she’d patted his back perfunctorily, with way more force than necessary, and then proceeded to fume the entire way to the dining hall.
“Yeah,” she said, gnashing her teeth as she chewed on a fry. “Fine. Just great. Fabulous.” She sipped from her glass of Coke and glared at the ice cubes when they rattled. Then, looking at Ashish, she said, “You need to forget about Celia. It’s never going to happen.”
Rishi watched his little brother’s face fall and then settle into its usual nonchalant mask, and he felt a tug of sympathy. He turned to Dimple. “Why? What happened?”
She stabbed a fry into the little plastic ketchup pot on her plate. “She’s an idiot.” Dimple looked back up at Ashish, and her eyes softened. “Sorry, man, but she’s just too into Evan for anything to happen between you guys. For no reason I can fathom. I mean, you’re clearly the better choice, but try telling her that.” She set her fry down and sat back in her chair, sighing. “Love just makes idiots of people.”
Rishi grinned. “Yeah, but that’s not always a bad thing.”
Dimple smiled reluctantly, and his heart soared on gilded wings. He had the power to do that. To make her smile even when she was upset. She felt the same about him as he felt about her. The thought still made him giddy. Then, remembering his little brother’s pain, Rishi put a hand on Ashish’s shoulder. “Sorry.”
Ashish shrugged and took a sip of water. Then he pushed his chair back. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you back at your room later.”
As they watched him walk away, Dimple said softly, “Do you think he’s going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” Rishi said, watching his brother’s retreating form. “He’ll be fine. Ashish always lands on his feet.”
CHAPTER 48
Saturday night came hurtling with the speed of a thousand maglev trains. Dimple did not feel remotely ready.
It was dark backstage, darker than she’d anticipated. Dimple hadn’t been in a backstage area since elementary school. It was too big, too serious, too heavy. Everyone was speaking in hushed voices, racing back and forth from the dressing room, even though the audience hadn’t even begun to gather yet. Max flitted around, talking to people encouragingly, one hand on the shoulders of those especially nervous.
She swallowed and turned to Rishi in the wings. “I don’t think I can do this.” She clenched her hand around her tote bag that held her costume and makeup. “Seriously. Maybe we should just back out now.”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just say ‘no’ to me?”
He looked sheepish. “No?”
That made her smile. For a second. “Look, maybe we can tell Max I’m sick. He can’t dock points for that, right? It’s, like, an act of God or nature or something. Even insurance companies realize those are—”
Rishi put both hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath. She copied him without even thinking about it and felt instantly slightly calmer. “We’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice low and rumbling and soothing. “I promise.” His honey eyes didn’t lie.
She nodded, and, hand in hand, they walked to the dressing rooms in the back.
• • •
If backstage had been heavy with hushed silence, the dressing rooms were mirthful, dizzying chaos. The smell of hairspray and cologne was like a physical presence, pressing itself between people, wrapping its arms around Dimple. People peered in mirrors that had big, round lightbulbs studded around them, putting off enough heat so that the light hoodie Dimple wore began to feel like a snowsuit. She unzipped it and took it off, looking around at the various stages of costumed finery. “Wow.”
“No kidding,” Rishi said, looking around. His eyes sparkled in the lights. “It looks like a bunch of theater majors in here.”
A boy dressed like a mime—his face white with makeup, lips done in rosy red—turned to them from the next chair. “Hey.”
It took Dimple about ten full seconds to realize it was José. She laughed. “Hey! Nice costume.”
He grinned, his teeth slightly yellow against the white paint on his face. “Thanks. This is nothing, though. Apparently some of our classmates got the hookup from some theater camp peeps. That’s why some of the costumes are so amazing.” He waved his hand over at a brown-haired girl, Lyric. She wore a long-sleeved leotard, with a big plume of peacock feathers fanning out from her butt area, studded with glittering blue and green sequins and trailing black-sequined feather boas from her wrists. She looked ethereal.
Dimple looked around. Celia wasn’t anywhere; none of the Aberzombies were. She wondered what was going on. Then she was distracted—some of the guys had whole cases of professional-looking makeup and actual rolls of makeup brushes. Dimple had her Covergirl stuff she’d had since ninth grade, when Mamma had forced her to buy some for the Diwali celebration. She looked in alarm at Rishi. “How do they even know how to use this stuff?”
He leaned toward her. “We don’t need that,” he said confidently. “We have sheer talent. They’re obviously overcompensating.”
One of the übercostumed guys passing by threw them a dirty look, and Dimple pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “Well, I guess I’d better get started.” She sat on the stool nearest her, setting her bag on the table. Rishi took the stool next to hers.
They were already wearing most of their costumes. Luckily, Anushka Sharma and Shah Rukh Khan wore pretty simple outfits in the official “Dance Pe Chance” video—athletic clothes for her, pants and a jacket and shirt for him. It was just another reason Ashish’s idea to use the song had been so genius. Now Dimple could focus on not blundering the steps and falling off the stage.
“Celia isn’t here,” Rishi said simply.
Dimple didn’t answer the question he wasn’t asking. “Nope.” She concentrated on plugging in her hair straightener—which she’d borrowed from a girl down the hall who was going to be wearing a wig tonight anyway—and laid out her makeup. Powder foundation, eyeliner (not kaajal ; Mamma would be so disappointed), and lip gloss. She tried not to think about what was probably happening out there: The show didn’t start for another forty-five minutes, but some of the early birds in the audience would be filtering in. Each segment was supposed to be no longer than five minutes, and Dimple and Rishi didn’t come on till the middle, so they probably had close to two hours of waiting left. Urrrrgh.
“I heard the audience is supposed to be a mix of art and theater students attending summer camps,” Louis, a quiet, blond boy said. He was sitting on Dimple’s right, dressed in a suit with a red handkerchief poking out from his pocket. A black top hat, white gloves, and a bouquet of colorful plastic flowers sat on the counter at his elbow.
“Magic?” Dimple guessed, nodding toward his accoutrements.
He nodded. “I’ve been doing it since I was seven.” He nodded toward his partner, who was sitting beside him, playing on his phone. “Connor’s my assistant. I’ll saw him in half at the end. I think we have a real shot at winning.”
Dimple’s spreadsheet said otherwise. Magic was a notoriously poor performer. “Cool.”
“What about you guys?” he asked, glancing over at Rishi, who, totally unself-consciously, was practicing a few moves in front of the mirror.
“We’re doing a dance to an Indian song,” Dimple said, feeling a flurry of nerves in her belly.
Louis’s eyes drifted to Rishi’s gyrating form. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Good luck.”
• • •
Max stood between their stools and smiled at them. This was their second visit in ten minutes. Ashish had been in before Max, to assure them that he was armed and ready with the music. He kept saying, “Chill, dudes, you’re going to be great.” Dimple knew he was trying to be helpful, but at the end she’d wanted to bash him over the head with her stool. She’d been glad when he left. Honestly, with her nerves the way they were, the only person she could stand to be around right then was Rishi.
