Good friend? When did that happen? Never mind, it’s a sight, as Dad would say, for a sore-eyed cowboy. The best part is that Dini was the one who asked the angry chef to bake that cake, and she doesn’t even care that no one knows it but Maddie and Brenna. She’s so happy she feels like dancing.
But there’s Maddie. She’s been felled. She can’t dance. Dini looks at Maddie. Maddie looks back.
Then Dini offers her hand in a combination high five and pinkie clutch, their secret signal since second grade, and if it’s kiddish now that they’re both older, so what? Slowly, in a movement of forgiving and starting over, Maddie’s hand rises to meet Dini’s.
“Have some cake,” Dini says.
Maddie hesitates. Then she says, “Dini, could you go to the kitchen and call Brenna? Her number’s on the fridge.”
“Sure,” says Dini. She’s on it before anyone can say “chan-chan-chan.”
Brenna’s brother answers the phone. He says she’s not back yet, but yeah, he’ll tell her as soon as she gets home. Sure, he promises. He’ll say it’s urgent and it’s all good and Dolly’s here and she, Brenna, should turn right around and go back, no problem, and of course he can remember all that, duh!
When Dini returns to the family room, the cake samples are being passed around. Judging from the murmurs of delight, they are all delicious.
That is when an idea zips through the universe and lands smack-dab in Dini’s mind. “The reception,” she says. “Let’s ask Chef Armend to cater it. I know it’s short notice, but if anyone can do it, he can. We can get Mr. Mani to e-mail him recipes if we need to, or he can make up his own.”
A slow smile spreads over Soli’s face. “Missy,” he says, “you are a fine one for thinking on your feet. I’ll phone pronto, phuttaphut, this very minute.”
He pulls out his cell phone, while the rest of the company immerse themselves in a happy haze of chocolate. Soon Soli rejoins them to announce that the subplot of the catering dilemma has come to a fine resolution. Soli’s called the chef. The chef agreed. Soli then called that nice military man at the museum and told him it’s all done, not to worry about a thing.
Applause breaks out. Dini’s good idea has been taken seriously and carried out into the world. What could be better than that?
When the cheers have died down, Dolly says, “I, too, have a joyful announcement to make.” She lobs a merry string of beads into the air. “I had a little chat with the gentleman at the museum. He’s . . . you know, scatterbrained. He misunderstood my intention completely. Anyway, we agreed, of course there will be no elephant inside the museum. ‘My dear sir,’ I said to him, ‘no problem, aise bhi problem hai kya? Let’s hold the dance outside.’ ”
“Dance?” say Dini and Maddie together, just as Brenna reenters the scene, hot and out of breath.
“Did someone say ‘dance’?” says Brenna.
“Dolly,” says Maddie. “I can’t dance. I’ve broken my toe. I know it’s only a small bone, but still. . . . ”
“That’s right, no dancing,” Maddie’s mom chimes in.
“I know that,” Dolly says, retrieving a ring from the folds of her sleeve. “But I’ve been thinking about it. Mulling and meditating, conjecturing and considering. And I have come to a conclusion.”
She looks around to make sure she has everyone’s attention. She needn’t worry. They’re riveted.
“Easy,” says Dolly, throwing her arms wide in her uniquely glittery way. “Now that the dance is outside, Mini and I will join you girls.”
It is too bad that Dini’s dad is not present, or he would surely be slack-jawed with surprise. As it is, Dini is now unable to believe her ears.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The Not-a-Parade Parade
ANOTHER DAY WHIRLWINDS PAST, AND here it is, Tuesday, the day of the grand opening.
Dad remains a little bewildered, but that is because he was fixing satellite dishes on people’s roofs and therefore missed much of the action. Dini has to fill him in on the dance, which is going to be simply dazzling, and the delicious cake, which Dini’s sorry he missed sampling but he’ll soon get a slice of the real thing. She gives him the catering update. She tells him that Maddie will be in charge of a pair of silver rosewater sprinklers. And then she lays out the still-unfolding story of Ollie and the passport.
Dad does get most of it, although he keeps asking a few questions over and over, like “Who’s Mini again?” and “What’s Ollie got to do with Dolly’s passport?”
Speaking of Ollie, here he is with the first batch of refreshments.
“Wonderful,” says Dolly, who’s helping the Smithsonian staff to oversee the setup.
Ollie is hollow eyed from having chopped and stirred and baked for a whole day and some of the night, too. “Could I . . . talk to you?” he asks Dolly.
“Certainly,” says Dolly. “I love to talk to fans.”
Ollie shuffles his feet. Dini comes to his help. Someone has to, or he’ll be standing there all day shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s about your passport,” Dini prompts.
Dolly gives the shuffling young man a sharp look. “Are you the culprit?” she demands.
“No!” says Ollie, galvanized. “It’s a film magazine’s website. They’re in India. They even tweeted about auctioning off stuff.”
“Filmi Kumpnee?” cry four voices together. Dini and Maddie, of course. And Dolly. And Soli Dustup.
“Those turnip heads,” says Mr. Dustup. “I’ll . . . ” He shakes his fist. “I’ll make them sorry. How dare they?” His face turns many shades of purple in quick succession. “I’ll turn them upside down and inside out. I’ll . . . ” His ears waggle fiercely.
But Dolly is staring at Ollie in admiration. “You are a hero,” she says.
“I am?” says Ollie.
“Yes, yes. You tracked my passport down. You found out who has it. You risked life and limb. . . . ”
“Well,” Ollie demurs. “It wasn’t that dangerous or anything.”
“Don’t you worry,” says Dolly. “We will deal with those villainous people who are trying to—what do you say in America?—make a quick buck off a stolen passport? A passport that would have been auctioned off for charity if I had my way.”
“You and me,” Soli says. “We’ll deal with them together, Dolly darling. They’ll be sorry they tangled with us.”
“Hurryhurryhurry!” roars a voice, and Ollie hurries. But it is no longer a panicked hurrying.
Officially, this gathering might not be billed as a parade, but really, what else can we call it? A procession of people (and one elephant) all dressed up for the occasion. The elephant all by herself could turn such a collective walk into a parade.
Maddie has been installed in a place of honor in a small painted gazebo that sits on the sweeping sidewalk in front of the Sackler complex, with a strategic view of both street and garden. “Here, take these.” Dolly hands Maddie a pair of silver, vaselike containers with round bottoms, long tapering necks, and little sprinkler holes in their screw-top caps. “This is to welcome all our guests.”
From her place in the gazebo Maddie gets to sprinkle passersby with cool, refreshing droplets of rose water. A museum staff person stands by with jugs of the magical liquid, ready to fill those sprinkler vases whenever they empty. The sparkling showers of rose-scented water make little kids giggle and run back for more.
Gretchen arrives, having taken Chef Armend and his luscious chocolate cake with rose petals to the delivery entrance and seen them safely into the building. “How exciting,” she says, tapping her feet as loudspeakers begin to play Dolly songs over an outdoor PA system especially set up for the purpose.
Tourists come up to get their pictures taken with Dolly and Mini—and with Maddie in her silver-and-green skirt with a sparkly bindi on her forehead and those rosewater sprinklers in her busy hands.
“How’s your toe?” her mom asks her.
Maddie shrugs and grins. “Well,” she says, “it’s st
ill stuck to the rest of me, so I can’t complain.”
“Can we get you something?” Dini asks.
“Nope, I’m great,” Maddie says. And she is. She surely is.
Tariq Hasan has brought his wife and their twins, a boy and a girl, Karim and Kamila. He has also brought along his friend Dave, and Dave’s wife and their furry dog, which is the size of a small pony. “What kind of dog is that?” Brenna asks.
“A goldendoodle,” says Dave’s wife. “Her name’s Peony. She loves to dance.”
“She goes to Active Dogs Dance School,” says Dave. “Just watch her when the music starts.” They are proud dog parents. Peony waggles her tail; her big, square body shakes and her eyes disappear beneath her doggy bangs.
What a crowd has gathered for this occasion! Old friends and a host of new friends, new fans, all joined by their shared enthusiasm. Busloads have arrived from New York and New Jersey and North Carolina, Michigan and Ohio. Contingents from Texas and California. There are even a few Canadian Dolly fans bearing signs like WE DOLLY IN TORONTO and I’M LOONY FOR DOLLY.
Here are other guests from the Promenade Hotel, hailing from Australia and Nigeria, El Salvador and Italy, Japan and Malawi. The hotel staff have told them all about this grand occasion, so they have dumped their plans for the day to join in. Here is the hotel manager, smiling and waving.
The fans all talk and laugh and sing Dolly songs.
The music fades and it is time for Mini to take the stage, or rather the sidewalk. A big brass gong has been set up near the garden entrance. Kris hands Mini a striker. Mini holds it in her trunk and—bing-bing-bling!—she hits that gong. Bing-blong, bing-blong!
“Oh my gosh!” Brenna cries. “Isn’t that the song from the movie?”
It is, it is. Haan-haan-haan, nahin, nahin!
“Stunning!” Dini cries.
“So beautiful and talented also!” Dolly cries as camcorders shoot video and cameras click.
Mini flicks her ears, whisks her tail, and plays that gong, bing-bing-bling!
And here come more people. The chef hurries to join in the festivities, having set up the refreshments inside to his satisfaction. Ollie and Alana are here. Here is Mr. Bayan, marching smartly out to welcome everyone on behalf of the Smithsonian Institution. Here is his secretary, tapping her feet in anticipation. What a grand opening dance this will be.
Chapter Fifty-Five
The Grand Opening Dance
DAD IS WAVING THE PHONE at Dini. “For you!”
It’s Mom. “Hi, my sweetoo,” says Mom. “I know your dance is about to start, but I just wanted to give you the great news.”
“News?” says Dini. “What news?”
“I got a call from that movie magazine you love so much,” Mom says.
“Filmi Kumpnee?”
“Yes, they’re giving the clinic fifty thousand rupees from the proceeds of a sale they had on the Internet. Some kind of auction. They mentioned Dolly’s name, so I figured you’d want to know.”
“Oh,” says Dini faintly. The elegant buildings of the Freer-Sackler museum complex begin to shimmer in front of her eyes, and for a moment she wonders if she’s dreaming. But Mom is going on and on about how lovely it is to know that her daughter, of whom she is so proud, is part of such a wonderful charitable drive. “And you know,” says Mom generously, “I told Daddy this as well. Maybe we’ve misjudged your interest in all this movie non—business, Dini. Anyway, I have to go, it’s very late here, but I just wanted to let you know.”
Is that Dini’s sensible doctor mother, now blowing kisses through the phone connection? She’s making Dini feel heroic! Dini hands the phone back to Dad, who is also congratulating her, and if she doesn’t duck out of reach, in a minute he’ll be rumpling her hair and calling her baby names out of sheer pride.
She runs to Dolly, and who’s this, also hurrying toward the star with microphone in hand? “Roopa Dalal,” the woman says, stopping by the gazebo to take a breath and get sprinkled by Maddie. “I’m from the ‘News ’n’ Views’ column of Filmi Kumpnee. Am I too late? Is the grand opening dance over? Is there any hope I might get an exclusive with Dolly?”
“Filmi . . .?” says Mr. Dustup, turning three shades of green. “Array, yaar, how dare you? Why, you—you are . . . shameproof!” He is incensed. He is outraged. He sputters. He waves his hands. “Sell Dolly’s belongings for profit and then show up for an interview! I have half a blinking mind to call the police. The FBI! Why not? This is America.”
Roopa is protesting and trying to say something. “Auction,” she’s saying. “For charity. Dolly said okay, I promise you.” But Soli Dustup’s a human flash flood and he roars on, regardless.
“Mr. Dustup! Stop, stop!” Dini cries. To her surprise, he stops. So does everyone else. All eyes are on Dini, and that is a lot of eyes.
“Tell us, Roopa,” Dini says, and Roopa does. Filmi Kumpnee called Dolly to ask permission to put the passport on auction, along with a bunch of other starry artifacts, as a benefit for charities designated by the star herself. That’s the truth.
Dini’s mind is dancing around this new information. Of course. Dolly must have picked Mom’s clinic because she knows it and she opened the new wing and all. And that’s what Dolly was talking about on the phone that evening when Dini and Maddie were running down to the restaurant to order dinner.
“We were there when you took that call,” she says. “We just didn’t get it, and you were so tired you weren’t really paying attention.”
“Anything can happen,” says Dolly, “and you know, it often does.”
“And then when Ollie got on Twitter, he didn’t get it either; he just got scared.” Misunderstanding piled on misunderstanding. Dini explains it all. It has only just become clear to her.
Slowly Mr. Dustup’s face returns to its normal color. Slowly Roopa relaxes. “I was trying to tell you. We at Filmi Kumpnee are Dolly’s loyal fans,” she says. “We would never steal anything from such a good and generous star.”
Only one thing remains to be clarified. “Who bought the passport?” Dini asks. “I mean, that was a lot of money.”
Everybody looks at Roopa. She grins back. “Fans,” she says. It turns out that a group of Dolly’s fans formed a club. “I think you may know some of them—friends of yours from Swapnagiri. They all pitched in. Took it to Facebook, and then it totally went viral. Thousands of people gave a little bit. Together they made it a very lively auction, I can tell you.”
“A blinking grassroots movement,” says Mr. Dustup, dazed by this news. “And where’s the passport now?”
“I know!” Dini cries. “It’s gone to some art collection or museum, hasn’t it? That’s what they meant in that post on the Filmi Kumpnee website.” She explains how that post and a backpack combined to make Maddie fall down the stairs. She ends, “So what was the big plan? What was that collection?”
Roopa beams. “Mr. Dustup,” she says. “The passport and a few other Dolly-dazzling objects are on their way to the Bolly-Dazzle Museum. A gift from her loving fans.”
“Array, that is phenomenal news!” cries Mr. Dustup. “I am thunderstruck and wonderstruck. Not to mention starstruck, of course.” He blows an affectionate kiss to Dolly, who waves and smiles as the photographers click away.
Everyone cheers and applauds. Then, “Dance, mere saathiyon!” Dolly cries. She’s calling Dini and Brenna. They run to her side, her friends and fans, to dance with her.
While the music plays and Mini beats the gong, Dolly leads them into the opening movements of the dance. They circle and circle and zigzag and circle, out from the center and back again. Haan-haan-haan, nahin-nahin! It is a grand extravaganza of a dance, with flags waving for every country where Dolly’s ever been.
The whole crowd falls in, hundreds of them by now, all loving the beat. People from all over the map, some of them waving their own flags. An enterprising vendor passing by on Constitution Avenue now hastens to the scene with his little cart of flags
(Peace the World Together: Buy Flags Now) and sets up a brisk business.
Dad is dancing, and he’s invited a bunch of people from the B&B. Gretchen’s dancing, waving at Maddie, who’s waving back with rosewater drizzles.
Even Mr. Bayan of the Smithsonian is executing a brisk little step all his own. Tariq and his family dance too, the twins mirroring each other. And Peony the goldendoodle joins in with her owners. Waggling her big, furry body, she trots and tumbles in time to the rhythm. She follows Brenna’s moves, weaving in and out right behind her and making everyone laugh. And that is not all. There are refreshments to come.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Yes-Yes-Yes, No-No!
THE MUSIC IS ON IN the garden on this fine spring break Tuesday evening. Tables groan with delicacies. The company throngs among them.
“Everyone say ‘Hey, Dolly!’ ” commands Roopa Dalal, the Filmi Kumpnee reporter. Her camera click-clicks. “The photos will be up on the website very soon,” she promises. “Along with the clinic donation announcement.”
“So . . . you found the passport!” Dini says.
“I did,” says Roopa. “And I called Dolly at once.”
“You did?” Dolly says, surprised.
“Yes. I even offered to bring it to you. But you said not to bother you! ‘Auction it,’ you said.”
“Oh,” Dolly says. “I didn’t realize—it was the passport? Oh dear, how very confusing. Well, it’s all fine now, isn’t it? That’s the important thing.”
Yes, all is explained. All is understood. “If I’d only refreshed the page,” Ollie mourns. “I’d have seen the updates. I just got—”
“A little confused,” says Alana, shaking her head fondly at him and making his ears turn pink.
Dad says, “If you’re hunting for cougars, you start to see them in every canyon,” which confuses even those who’d begun to get the bigger picture.
The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic Page 13