She texted him, even though he had to be asleep. My dad’s onto us. Run for your life!
Us. They were an us. Sheetal still couldn’t really believe it. The memory of him singing to her from the stage would never get old, especially not that wink. Or that knowing smile.
He’d asked her to sing for him. Her mouth grew dry. He’d asked her to sing with him. She never could, of course, but what a delicious daydream. . . .
Her lips were already shaping words, and her fingers ached with the urge to touch the starry music, to conduct it through string and song. The need burned, demanding she feed it. As the pressure built, it felt like she might just go up in silver flames and take the whole house with her.
Sheetal padded back downstairs, past the wall where Charumati’s pictures still hung, and threw aside a floor-length hanging tapestry to reveal a bronze door pull in the shape of a serenely smiling naga. Her mother’s secret room.
Charumati had decorated it to feel like the vast library of the stars, which supposedly contained every story or piece of lore anyone could possibly want, all organized by color and song. It was her sanctuary on Earth, packed with all her old treasures, all her private dreams. The fragrance of wild roses and jasmine wafted out, as if she still waited inside.
But it was Sheetal’s room now. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped through.
She glanced past the rich fabrics and fairy lights lining the walls and the LED cherry blossom tree, past the gilt volumes of folktales and magical texts from around the world, until she spotted the two things she’d come for. The harp, she debated, or the dilruba? Both called to her from their corners, and both rang out brightly, their tones round and full, when Sheetal tested their strings.
Dad had bought the instruments after Sheetal woke night after night singing songs no human knew, when it became clear the music in her blood wasn’t going away just because Mom had.
Sheetal’s throat constricted. How many hours had she hidden here, strumming through her grief, her pain, her isolation—all as bulky and cold as sodden blankets? How many hours begging the night sky to give her mother back?
At least until the day her tears ran dry, the day she’d finally admitted Charumati was gone for good. She’d tried to put it all away. To turn her back on the secret room.
She couldn’t do it, though. Here and there—between homework and sleepovers, dish duty and trips to the aquarium—when that missing part of her got to be too much, she’d sneak in here and explode with all the things she couldn’t say. Couldn’t be.
More embers kindled in Sheetal, silver and hot. Why did she always have to hide?
She picked up her journal, a lined hardback book with an embossed peacock cover, whose pages she’d filled with all the stories her mother used to tell her. Where she’d written out her own pain when it got too big to swallow. But none of that would help tonight.
Why couldn’t she show the world what she could do the same way Dev or Minal or anyone else got to?
The harp, she decided, trading the journal for her tuning key.
Finally, seated on the silk-sheathed daybed, the harp’s carved wooden frame resting against her shoulder and thigh, she started to play.
The air tasted sharp and crisp, sweet with moonlight. Another breath, and music flowed out, tunneling through her fingers, rushing into the strings. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t played in months; her fingers always knew just where to go. She plucked and damped, flipping levers up and down, up and down, melodies swirling through her. Octaves and open fifths, D-sevenths and delicate trills all reverberated through the room and glided out the window, borne aloft on intangible wings.
The music wound itself into her heart, unlocking its passageways, searing away her defenses. It stung, but she refused to stop. She didn’t want to. It felt like miracles, mercury, mysteries—all soaring higher and higher, swallowing everything but her.
She played through the crystalline haze, faster and faster, the strings cutting grooves into her skin. Each new memory was a note, each note a wealth of sound and light. Cooling wonder blossomed from the pain, from her body, until the room was tinted silver.
Her voice, too, rippled forth, first halting, tripping over itself, then finding its rhythm. It dissolved the lump in her throat into words, dissolved her doubts into chords. She played, and she sang.
Sheetal hated how the stars, the sky, owned this part of her. How every time she played or sang, their own melody entwined with hers, underlying it, flavoring it. But she could never hate the music, this power that let her express all the things blazing within.
There was something she hadn’t figured out how to say, about Charumati, about Dad, about herself. There was a story she had to tell, one no one else could.
Someday soon, Sheetal swore, playing even faster, she would keep it from shape-shifting long enough to pin it down.
3
The late-morning sunlight, which had made a furnace of her bed, now batted at Sheetal like a kitten’s paw, poking and pestering until she forced her eyes open. Her fingers hurt, the pads sore.
Yawning, she stretched and blinked in the unforgiving sunshine. A splash of black caught her eye. Weird. She twisted to see it better.
Something was wrong with her bed. Ink?
She rubbed her bleary eyes and checked again.
No, not ink.
Her pillowcase looked like a crime scene, if the victim were a can of shoe polish. Black gore splattered everywhere.
This was two-day-old dye, dye that had soaked into her hair and dried, but now stained her pillow, her sheets. Even though there was no way it could be.
Just like her roots couldn’t have been silver last night—but were.
No one can ever know what you are.
Sheetal wobbled into the bathroom and looked right at the mirror. Her stomach clenched.
Every dark, inky drop of the dye was gone, from her roots down to her hip-length, blunt-cut ends. Unlike the diamond flower in her nose, which only glittered when it caught the light, the thick, tangled waves spilling down her back gleamed and dazzled all by themselves. She might have her dad’s skin with its tendency toward blemishes, but this was one hundred percent her mother’s hair.
And it was shining bright for the whole world to see. Alien. Inhuman. Not of this earth. Just like the hair that had once had to be disguised by an expensive wig because it refused to accept dye. The hair that had flashed and flowed when Charumati had cast off the wig and returned to the heavens.
Like mother, like daughter.
Except Sheetal was still here.
Minal held up a lock of Sheetal’s shimmering hair, turning it so silver light scattered across the blue tile of the bathtub, then looked regretfully at her own dye-spattered, plastic-gloved hands. “Are you sure we have to do this? It’s so gorgeous.”
Perched precariously on the side of the tub, Sheetal moaned. Her head hurt. The ratty old towel around her shoulders made her neck itch. Everything smelled—all sharp, corrosive chemicals that burned her nose every time she went through this ritual. No one wanted to skip it more than she did. “Can we please just finish? I’m so tired.”
She didn’t add that it had to work. It had to.
“Sure,” Minal said, reaching for the bowl of raven dye she’d just mixed. “Even though it’s a crime to cover up fairy-tale hair. You’re making me commit a crime, you know. I hope you’re happy.”
Sheetal gave Minal her best side-eye.
“Hey, hold still, unless you want a black ear.” Minal started working in the dye. “I never really saw you like this before, you know. It was always dyed.” She came around to study Sheetal from the side. “Not going to lie; if my hair looked like this, I’d never cover it up.”
Sheetal had never really seen herself like this before, either. She did look pretty. Her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. Dev would love it.
Her smile collapsed in on itself. Except he’d never see it. No one would.
�
�So,” Minal said, going back to the bowl. “Last night in the bathroom. Care to explain what that was about?”
Busted. Sheetal focused on the butterfly-patterned shower curtain. She should have known Minal wouldn’t let her off the hook.
“You looked like you were about to fly away. What’s going on?”
Longing as deep as the sky—longing to hear the astral melody again, to understand it—lit Sheetal’s cells. “They’re . . . I don’t know. The starsong. It did something to me.”
Minal’s brush paused its careful painting. “What does that mean?”
Sheetal shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Did what, though?” Minal pressed. “That sounds ominous.”
All the things Sheetal wasn’t saying flashed through her mind, one silver spark at a time. Like how the sidereal music had woken something in her bones, and she’d almost completely lost control and given herself up to it. Like how, desperate to reach it again, she’d gone into her secret room and played her harp until it felt like her fingers would fall off.
How in daylight the starsong was thankfully dormant, but every part of her was freaking out.
Just the thought of trying to explain made her want to take a nap right there in the bathtub. “No, nothing like that,” she said quickly. “It— I had to play a lot last night. Like, my calluses are going to have calluses.”
“Do you think it had something to do with your hair?”
“Maybe.” Sheetal winced. “Radhikafoi’s going to kill me if she finds out about it.”
“So don’t tell her.” Minal put the brush aside and sat down next to Sheetal. “You know, sometimes I think your foi looks at you like one of her clients. Like, she couldn’t save them from getting hurt, but she can still save you.”
Sheetal scoffed. “From what, having a life?” Radhikafoi helped battered women escape terrible situations, but as her auntie knew, Sheetal’s home with Dad couldn’t be safer.
“No, I mean she probably feels like she has to make up for your mom leaving.”
“Yeah, well, I never asked her to,” Sheetal pointed out. “Why can’t I have your family? You guys all get along.”
“Have you met my siblings? Just this morning, Yogesh was whining about how unfair it is I get to have a car, but he doesn’t—uh, because he’s thirteen?—and Soni knocked my dad’s coffee all over his shirt. The one he’d just had dry-cleaned.” Minal snorted. “Ordinary. That’s us. But look at you, star princess out of some fairy tale. You’re magic.”
“I guess,” Sheetal said. She definitely didn’t feel like a star princess. She felt like a weirdo, and weren’t fairy-tale heroines supposed to be free of zits and tangles and general awkwardness? Without even trying, Minal had better skin than she did. No split ends from nonstop dye jobs, either.
“Besides,” Minal asked, wistful, “do you really want to be ordinary? Ordinary’s boring. I always wanted magic, and you actually have it.”
You don’t get it, Sheetal thought. Magic isolates you. You’re this misfit who doesn’t belong anywhere, and you want to make it all go away, but at the same time, you crave it, and you can’t help craving it. You’re just stuck.
Minal stood and picked up the bowl again. “Think about it. My mom yells up the stairs or texts me to check on me. Yours sends you starlight.”
Her mom. Oh, man. Sheetal hadn’t let herself even dance around the question of whether Charumati in particular wanted to tell her something. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”
“Okay. But if you ever decide you want to say hi to her in person,” Minal added, her tone cheeky, “don’t even dream of leaving me behind.”
At least that was something Sheetal could answer. She lifted her head enough for Minal to see her watery smile. “Never.”
“You better not.” Minal changed the subject to her latest work in progress, a mixed-media circus cart made from a cigar box and sea glass, and resumed kneading the dye into Sheetal’s hair.
She’d basically finished when Sheetal’s phone dinged with a message from Dev. Just got your text. I’m not big into running. Maybe a leisurely jog for our lives.
I heard that’s really bad for your knees, she texted back. “Ow!” Minal was folding her hair into the plastic cap with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Sorry,” said Minal, not sounding at all sorry. “It’s supposed to be tight. Read the directions if you don’t believe me.”
“Show me where it says you’re supposed to cut off my circulation!”
Sheetal’s phone dinged again. Then we’ll just stroll. Mosey right along.
What if we wander? You can’t go wrong with a good wander.
Wandering could work. Just no shambling—unless you’re a zombie, Dev went on. Anyway, I had this dream last night. I was eating cookies, and you were guarding me with this seriously kickass sword. It shot lasers whenever anyone got too close.
Sheetal felt like she’d broken into two people, one overlaying the other. The ordinary human girl who flirted with her boyfriend, and the bizarre alien girl hiding in the skin of that ordinary girl, frantically pretending everything was fine. Her skin wasn’t big enough for both of them.
But all she typed was, Excuse me??? As a knight, I can do better than guarding Cookie Monster. All he does is eat cookies! Tell your subconscious I want a promotion.
Excuse ME, Dev replied, but you should be honored to have such an important job. Clearly all those people wanted to steal my cookies. Who’s Cookie Monster without any cookies, huh? HUH?
Sheetal hesitated. What she really wanted to say, just as breezily, was, Hey, so guess what? I’m half star, and my hair’s going rogue, and the sky’s singing to me, and I don’t know what to do. Wanna get tacos?
She settled for, I guess I can do my part to prevent that existential crisis.
All hail Sir Sheetal, champion of Cookie Monsters everywhere.
One side of her mouth lifted in spite of itself. Omnomnom.
So are you going to ask what I did today?
Maybe. I’m still deciding.
You know you want to.
Do I? Sheetal made him wait a couple of minutes before typing, Fine, what’d you do today?
I finished my song! The whole thing. It took me all night, but it was like I finally broke through this wall, you know?
I can’t wait to hear it, Sheetal replied, and now she really was smiling.
So come over. No one’s here but me.
An electric thrill ran through her, mixed with guilt. She hadn’t gone to Dev’s house once in the three months they’d been together. Dad would never be okay with it.
But he didn’t have to know, and besides, she really, really didn’t want to obsess about star stuff anymore.
Minal broke into her thoughts. “The moment of truth. Time to wash it out.”
Okay, Sheetal typed. See you soon.
She got up and put her phone by the sink. “Minu, what if it doesn’t work?”
“It will.” Minal gave her a quick hug. “Even if I kind of wish it wouldn’t.” With that, she left Sheetal to the shower.
Even after everything, as Sheetal climbed under the hot jets, she kind of wished it wouldn’t, too.
4
Minal’s car idled against the curb in front of Dev’s white colonial house, engine rumbling. All Sheetal had to do was open the door and get out.
All she had to do . . .
Her butt stayed planted in the passenger seat like it had been glued down. “Check again,” she begged for the fifth time.
“Good news,” Minal said, glancing up from her phone. “Your hair’s still black as a politician’s heart. Same as it was five minutes ago.”
The dye had set for real. Sheetal should be overjoyed. Instead, it felt like she was teetering on a seesaw between relieved and regretful. “That’s pretty black, all right. No roots, even?”
“Nope.” Minal gestured with her chin toward the house. “Going in?”
Relieved, Sheetal decided
, testing a strand of her undeniably ebony hair. It was lank, dry, and coarse from being dyed twice in one week, and she really did need to take scissors to those scratchy little branches of split ends. But at least they were black scratchy little branches.
So what was she waiting for? “Maybe?”
Minal reached past her to point out the window. “See that rectangular thing there? Between the pillars? It’s called a front door. I know it’s a whole ten steps from here, but you can’t get lost, I promise.”
Sheetal pressed her crimson-stained lips together. Maybe it was stupid, but her palms were sweaty and prickling, and an entire ensemble of butterflies was performing a ballet in her belly.
She had remembered to put on deodorant, hadn’t she? And brush her teeth? Oh, gods, what if she was breaking out—
“Just think, Sheetu,” Minal said, deadpan, “if you don’t get out of my car, starting tomorrow, you’ll spend the rest of the summer stuck in that test prep class, cramming vocab lists under your auntie’s watchful eye and wishing you’d actually gone inside instead of just staring at his house when you had the chance.”
Sheetal sat up ramrod straight at that. She smoothed out the lace-draped aquamarine waterfall skirt Minal had lent her, then reached for her messenger bag.
Smiling, Minal pressed the unlock button. “Go find that boy you like.”
Sheetal swung her legs back and forth on a stool at the island in the middle of Dev’s kitchen, playing tag with the sunshine splashing through the windows while he tinkered with the oven. It was the first week of summer vacation, and she was at Dev’s house. Dev’s house. Just the two of them.
They’d never been alone like this during the school year. A wild sense of possibility bloomed inside her, making her feel bold and shy at the same time.
She inhaled the aroma of vanilla and butter and sugar wandering over from where he stood. “That smells amazing.”
“Yup.” He straightened and turned around, a baking sheet in his hands. “Now you just need a sword.”
Star Daughter Page 3