Mani raises his eyebrows skeptically. “Really? What’s your favorite part?”
Deven strokes his chin. “Hmm,” he says. “That’s a bit like having to choose a favorite pastry. But if you forced me to make a decision, I guess I would have to pick when the pirates find the hidden cave with the maps painted on the walls in blood.”
Mani gasps. “That’s my favorite part too.”
Deven leans forward, his voice just above a whisper, conspiratorial. “I could tell you were a smart one.” Mani beams and Deven claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends.
I feel unsettled, like Deven has made a promise that he can’t keep. “We’d better go,” I say. “It’s getting late.”
Deven stands up. “I need to get going too. Can I walk you home?”
The question makes my throat burn. It’s an utterly ordinary thing for a boy to say to a girl. But boys never say ordinary things to me. It hurts how much it pleases me that he wants to walk me home. It hurts even more that he never can.
A memory surfaces, one I try never to think about. I was seven years old, playing on the grass in front of the girls’ home. Gopal almost never allowed me to be outside by myself, but that day he was in a good mood and had given me permission. I gathered up as many rocks as I could find and I built a village—rock houses populated with rock people. Rock mothers and rock fathers and fat rock babies held by adoring rock siblings. A boy walking past stopped and watched me for a few minutes. Then he came into the yard.
“Do you want to play?” he said.
I shrugged. I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure it was allowed. The boy sat down anyway. He showed me how to stack the stones into a tower and then, when we grew bored of that, how to use the chalky rocks to draw pictures on the darker ones. We played all afternoon, and then Gopal stepped outside.
I stopped breathing and braced myself for a blow that never landed.
Instead, Gopal invited the boy inside, offered him a drink and let us play for the rest of the day. My heart felt like it had expanded to fill my whole chest. It felt too good to be true.
And it was.
At the end of the night, Gopal held the boy down and forced me to kiss him. Then he made me watch as the boy perspired and cried and seized and died. When I tried to turn away, Gopal grabbed my head and held it in place. “Watch, rajakumari,” he said. “Learn.”
When it was all over, I was hysterical. “He was my friend,” I said between sobs.
Gopal pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger and stared into my eyes. “You don’t have any friends.”
The memory sends a wave of nausea through me. I’m about to tell Deven that he can’t walk us home, but he’s already heading for the door.
“We’re done here, right, Japa?” he says.
Japa nods. “Of course. Have a good evening.” He gives a wave meant for all three of us.
I feel trapped. “You really don’t need to…,” I start, but then stop as Mani slides a hand into Deven’s and turns toward me.
“Come on, Marinda.” Mani’s eyes are bright, his expression so hopeful that it sends a spasm of pain through me, but I can’t give in to him. Deven can’t be seen with us, can’t know where we live.
I don’t move.
“Is there a problem?” Deven asks.
Japa looks up sharply, and suddenly I’m trapped between two bad options. Let Deven walk us home or draw attention to ourselves if we don’t. I swallow hard. Maybe we can find an excuse to separate from him before we make it back to our flat.
“No,” I say. “Of course not.”
But I hope I’m not leading him into a den of vipers.
We slip outside and collide with a wall of heat and noise. The air is so thick, I feel instantly clammy. Gali Street is filled with shoppers—the kind who want to avoid the haggling and magic of the market and prefer to pay a fixed price with no strings attached. It’s not as loud as the market, no one is shouting out prices or calling out fortunes, but the sheer number of people produces a racket all its own—hundreds of small noises blended together into a dull roar.
A group of boys race in front of us carrying pails that slosh water over the sides. The children giggle as they dip rags in the buckets and toss them toward one another, droplets flinging through the air before the wet smack of cloth against bare torsos and legs. In this oppressive heat, it’s a game where losing is winning. I turn toward Mani, expecting to see yearning on his face, but he’s not looking at the children. He has eyes only for Deven.
I slide between the two of them, taking Mani’s hand. I can’t let Mani get attached. Deven gives me a puzzled look, but he doesn’t comment.
After a few minutes he says, “So how long have you been working with Japa?”