Hours or weeks or milliseconds later (time sort of did its own thing when Rishi was with Dimple, he’d noticed), they were in the convertible, driving back to campus. They’d talked for hours, until Rishi’s stomach had growled its impatience, and Dimple had insisted they go get some froyo at one of their favorite places near their dorms.
He looked at her, sitting next to him, the city lights playing across her face and hair. She’d catch his eye and they’d laugh, surprised, disbelieving, that this was happening. That they were here, that this magic was for them, that it was real. At least, that’s what Rishi was thinking. Dimple may just have been laughing at the goofy expression on his face.
“Don’t forget this,” Dimple said, patting A Wrinkle in Time in the center console. “Your assignment is to read it so we can discuss it later.”
“Right. I’ll get right on it. My money is still on Charles Wallace being a terminator, though. Kid’s creepy.”
Dimple laughed, and he had to stop himself from closing his eyes so he could just let the sound wash over him. Speaking of creepy, Patel. Jeez.
CHAPTER 37
A couple of days later Dimple and Rishi were sitting in the lecture hall, having a heated discussion (or as Rishi would say, arguing) about their app’s data diagram when Celia sank into the empty seat next to them with a sigh and a cloud of citrus perfume.
Dimple looked at her. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just taking a breather. You guys carry on; just ignore me.” She rummaged in her bag, purposely not meeting Dimple’s eye.
Dimple resisted looking over her shoulder at the Aberzombies. Things between Evan and Celia must not be going well. She had walked over with him today after spending the night with him in his dorm.
“Okay, everybody! I know you’re all busy cranking out your projects, but listen up for a second. I have something important to say.” Max stood at the front of the lecture hall, stroking his beard and smiling benevolently at them all.
When everyone had quieted down, he continued. “All right. So we’re just about at the halfway mark of your six weeks here. I trust we’re all making good progress with our programs and apps. As you know, right around now is when we announce the fun part of Insomnia Con . . . the talent show. This year’s talent show will be held next weekend, on Saturday, at the Little Theater at seven p.m.”
There was scattered applause, although some people—those of the introvert persuasion—groaned. Needless to say, the Aberzombies all looked like they might tear off their clothes and dance on the tables right then. Dimple pulled a face at Rishi.
“The talent show is important because it’s a chance to really get a leg up on your competition,” Max continued, over the noise. “Historically, we’ve had a five-hundred-dollar prize for the pair of winning partners. However, due to the generosity of a donor this year, the prize has been upped to a cool grand. Remember, the goal is to get your project as finished as possible by the time Jenny Lindt looks at it, and this will go a long way toward helping you put your most polished foot forward.”
Celia groaned and stood. “I guess I should go talk to my partner, figure out what we’re doing,” she said.
Dimple waved to her and turned to Rishi. “Wow. We’re almost at the talent show already.” Her heart fluttered in a strange, unpleasant way.
Rishi nodded, his face slack. “Yeah. Halfway through. Just three more weeks and we’ll be going home.”
She waited for him to say more. To acknowledge what they hadn’t spoken about yet. What happened when this was all over?
He opened his mouth and leaned in, his eyes serious and sharp. Dimple’s heart thundered. But then his eyes dimmed and he sat back. “So . . . do you have any idea of what you want to do for this thing?”
Dimple swallowed her disappointment and nodded. Okay, focus. The talent show. That’s what was important now. “Yes,” she said firmly. “We’re doing a Bollywood dance.”
Rishi stared at her. “What? You want to get up on a stage in front of a bunch of strangers and dance?”
“I know. It doesn’t sound like me. But look at this.” Dimple clicked to open a spreadsheet and turned her laptop around. “I went back ten years—since the inception of Insomnia Con—and plotted out all the winners of the talent show. Look: 2007: dance; 2008: dance; 2009 and 2010? Dance. 2011 was a singing year, but 2012 again was dance, followed by magic in 2013, but in 2014, we have another dance! 2015 and 2016 were juggling and singing, respectively.” She looked at Rishi. “Do you know what this means?”
“That . . . you’re a little too obsessed with Insomnia Con?”
Dimple punched him in the ribs, and it was a testament to him having acclimated to her that he didn’t even flinch. “No. This is a dance year! I can feel it in my bones. The judges are clearly biased toward the dance category. And look, about a third of these winners were ethnic dances, but no one’s done a Bollywood dance yet. We have to do it.”
“Okay, but you do realize this means we’ll have to get up onstage? And actually dance?” Rishi leaned forward in his chair. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re sort of an introvert.”
“Yeah, I thought about that.” Dimple pulled her hair up into a bun and stuck her pen into it, dropping her gaze. “That’s why I picked a song where, um, I have a very small dancing part. It’s mainly all you.” She winced and darted a sidelong glance at him.
“What! So you’re just going to sell me down the river so you can ride off into the sunset with your prize?” Rishi laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Look.” Dimple turned in her chair so he could get the full effect of her eyelash batting. Not that she was very skilled at it, but still. “You just look like one of those people who can dance well.” When he opened his mouth, probably to argue, she hurried on. “Okay, so not well, but decently?” He made an eeeh face. “You’re our big shot, Rishi. I can’t dance. I just get too nervous and weird and—I had this one performance, when I was nine? My mom made me do a bhangra dance for the Indian Association’s Diwali party. And I puked. Onstage. In front of everyone. It was humiliating.”