“I don’t! I mean, that’s not why I . . . I admit I think Ashish and you make a better couple than you and Evan.” She tried to say his name without gagging and mostly succeeded. “But that’s not why I’m saying this. You genuinely seemed upset—which you had every right to be. This isn’t you, Celia. I know you want to fit in with the cool kids like you couldn’t in high school and everything—”
Celia turned to her, her face remote and blank. “You’ve known me a month, Dimple.”
Dimple felt something cold close around her heart. She stood up slowly. “No, you’re right. I know if I was going to make a mistake, I’d want my friend looking out for me, but maybe that’s just me. And anyway, it’s not like you can be friends with someone you’ve lived with for less than a month, so okay. I get your point.”
Celia’s face flashed hurt for a second, but she just turned back to her makeup in silence. Dimple walked out without saying bye.
At dinner Rishi glanced at Ashish, who made a who knows? face and went back to eating his chicken and dumplings. (Their entire family was supposed to be vegetarian for religious reasons, but Ashish—of course—ate meat whenever their parents weren’t around.) Rishi tried to catch Dimple’s eye, but she kept shoveling in French fry after French fry like she was punishing them with her teeth. For a small second his gaze focused on her mouth, and he remembered . . . things. But then, cheeks flushing, he pushed the thought away. Now was definitely not the time, Patel.
“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.”