Dimple heard the lecture hall doors open and footsteps come toward her. She felt Rishi before she saw him. He sat next to her. “That’s total crap,” he said, his voice low but furious. “They only won because of who Hari’s parents are.”
“You don’t know that,” Dimple said, staring straight ahead. She would not cry. She would not cry. She tried to put a lid on her simmering resentment. Sure, it was easy for Rishi to blame Hari. But what about him? What about the fact that, right at the beginning, she’d told him that she didn’t want him there? Why didn’t he even question what part he might’ve played in it, what part their relationship might’ve played?
“Drunk Zombies? I mean, come on.” He pushed an agitated hand through his hair.
Dimple bit her lip and forced herself to say the next part. “Their app’s going in front of Jenny Lindt. Maybe she’ll love it.”
“Unless Jenny Lindt is secretly a frat boy, I seriously doubt it. They’re going to flop. This thing isn’t going to go any further.” Rishi turned to look at Dimple, his hand at her elbow. “Hey, look at me.”
She did.
“This doesn’t take away from how amazing your idea is. We have to continue to try to get it out there. Okay? We aren’t going to stop here.”
Dimple wanted to believe him. She wanted to accept what he was offering her—hope. But she knew she couldn’t. She blinked and looked away. “Yeah, maybe. I think . . .” Dimple stood. “I’m going back to my room.”
“Okay.” Rishi stood and began to walk to the exit. “Let’s binge-watch something on Netflix. And we’re totally skipping that stupid Last Hoorah party tomorrow too, by the way.” He stopped and looked back at her when he realized she wasn’t walking with him.
“I just . . . I want to be by myself,” Dimple said, not quite able to look him in the eye. “Please.”
“Oh.” The hurt flashed just for the briefest moment across his face but was replaced by understanding and concern. “Sure. Text me later?”
She nodded and walked quickly to the door, her eyes filling fast.
Nothing was going right. The world was falling to pieces.
CHAPTER 53
Dimple sat in her room, staring at the wall. It was too much effort to even look outside. Twenty-four hours after she’d heard the news—she’d lost to the Aberzombies—everything was still a mess.
What the heck had she been thinking, wasting Mamma and Papa’s money, coming out here on basically a whim and a wish to meet Jenny Lindt? She felt utterly stupid, like a dumb kid who thinks she actually has a chance at turning her home into a gingerbread house (something Dimple actually used to aspire to do when she was little; she’d thought it was simply a matter of growing up and gaining the skills).
She gripped her cell phone in her hand; Mamma and Papa had already called three times just today to find out the results. In the third voice mail, Papa had simply said, “It’s okay, beti. Just phone us.” So obviously they’d guessed. The understanding and kindness in Papa’s voice was too much. Dimple didn’t know if she could talk to him stoically, without bursting into tears. The worst part was that she was letting Papa down. He would’ve really benefited from this.
Her phone rang again. Home, the display said, which meant it was Papa and Mamma’s landline.
Dimple took a hitching breath and answered. “Hello?” Ugh. Her voice sounded all watery even to her own ears.
“Dimple?” It was Papa, sounding concerned and fatherly and soft and all the things that made her want to cry even more. Her throat hurt with the effort of holding it in. “Kaisi ho, beti?”
“My idea didn’t win,” she sort of whispered, just wanting to get it out of the way. A tear dribbled down her cheek and she brushed it away with a fist.
“Oh, beta . . . these things happen, hmm?”
She shook her head, more tears falling, her face screwed up with the effort of trying not to cry. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said finally, her voice breaking.
“Sorry? Kis liye? For what?”
“I let you down. I asked Mamma and you for the money, and then I totally just blew it. I don’t even know what I did wrong, so I can’t fix it. They didn’t give us any feedback, and this was all such a bad idea, all of it. . . .” Dimple dissolved into sobs, her glasses fogging over, snot leaking from her nose.
“Dimple,” Papa said, his voice quiet and firm. “This was not a bad idea. It was a great idea. You went there and you did what you are passionate about. Don’t be sorry. Be proud, like I am.”
Dimple sniffled. “You’re . . . proud? You don’t think this was all a colossal failure?”
“No, no, no. Absolutely not.” She heard the smile in Papa’s voice, and it made her smile too. “Ab tum ghar kab aa rahi ho?”
“I’ll drive home tomorrow morning. I told Mamma.” She frowned. “Where is she, by the way?” She would’ve expected Mamma to wrench the phone from Papa and deliver unneeded advice. She’d probably have told Dimple to pack it in and get married, to take this as a sign from the gods. The gods. She was starting to sound like Rishi. Dimple closed her eyes at the thought of him, at the thought of the decision she had to make that she didn’t want to.
“Oh, she went to Seema and Ritu’s house to watch Mahabharata. But actually I think she wanted to see Ritu’s new curtains. She was telling me Seema hates them, but Ritu forced her to buy them anyway.”
Dimple rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh. “Great. Well, I guess I’ll be hearing about all that soon enough.”
She hung up and sat in the silence again, the temporary lightness she’d felt from the conversation already receding. Papa could say he wasn’t disappointed. It didn’t matter. Dimple was disappointed with herself. And she was mad.
She set her phone down so she wouldn’t be tempted to fling it across the room. The shock of losing to those idiots had tempered her rage yesterday, but it was back now, full force. It was so unfair. Hari, Evan, and Isabelle had not deserved to win. Yesterday, Celia had told Dimple her theory: that the founders of Insomnia Con had been in Hari’s dad’s pocket from the beginning. Apparently Hari knew them all by their first names; they’d all been to his house for dinner just a few months before the contest began.
It made sense. Dimple remembered hearing Evan say at the talent show that Hari’s parents had donated the new computer science wing. They hadn’t gotten kicked out for fighting. And the most telling of all—they’d won Insomnia Con with their stupid frat boy drinking game idea. Dimple’s app would’ve changed lives. Well, their app might too, she thought wryly. Getting rushed to the hospital in the back of an ambulance for alcohol poisoning was life changing, right?
Her phone beeped with a text, and she peeked at the screen.
Pick you up for brunch in thirty minutes?