“Maybe they won’t bother you again,” he finished mildly. “Makes sense.”
They walked along, both looking straight ahead until they got to the light. Dimple turned to look at him while they waited for a WALK sign. “Does it really? Make sense to you, I mean?”
“Sure.” Rishi’s eyes were clear and genuine.
Dimple smiled a half smile. “No don’t appease the bullies sentiment?”
Rishi shrugged. The WALK sign beeped, and they started across. “There’s a place for that. But if you want to try appealing to their friendly side, I see nothing wrong with it.”
Dimple nodded. She didn’t need his approval; she knew her strategy was a good one. And still, somehow, she felt vulnerable in a way that was totally unfamiliar to her. Her usual style was ignoring the haters, pretending they didn’t exist.
It worked, for the most part. They usually got tired of it and went away, eager to pick on the next victim, preferably someone who’d give them what they wanted—blood and tears. But this time she was striding right into the mouth of the beast. She was going to have dinner with them.
But you don’t know they’re really bullies, she told herself. Sure, they’d made that obnoxious comment about her face. But maybe . . . maybe they were having an off day.
Even as she thought it, she was annoyed at herself. No off day justified making fun of someone’s appearance or being as cruel or vulgar as they had been. She knew that.
I’m afraid, Dimple realized, with a bit of a start. This was new to her. She had no idea what would come of eating dinner with people like these, and in a way, it was terrifying.
She glanced down and saw Rishi’s feet clad in their black lace-up oxfords right next to her Chucks, and felt a thud of gratitude toward him. At least she wasn’t walking in there alone. And who knew? Maybe by the time tonight was done, she wouldn’t have anything to worry about with Evan and Hari.
CHAPTER 14
There was something different about her that sat uneasily with Rishi, like a scratchy tag against the back of his neck. He didn’t know Dimple very well, obviously, and yet tonight she was just . . . off, a faded print of her former vibrant self. It was like someone had left a photograph out in the sun too long. She was sort of folded into herself, arms crossed across her gray kurta tunic, curls hiding her face like a makeshift curtain.
Rishi clenched his fists against his sides and tried to breathe. Okay, so they were doing dinner with these dirtbags tonight. Fine. That didn’t mean he had to just sit there while they laughed at Dimple. If anything close to what he’d heard before came out of their mouths, he’d lose it. It wasn’t Dimple’s preferred way of handling things, but seriously. There was only so much you could take before you had to shut it down. Besides, he knew people like those Aberzombies; he’d gone to school—private school—in Atherton. And 99 percent of the time, they were all bluster and no balls.
He glanced at her again, worry niggling at him. He wished she’d just turned Celia down. Was it really worth it?
Anxiety’s cold fingers pressed against Dimple, trying to find a way in. She took a deep breath as they approached Elm. It had a super trendy exterior, she noted in surprise, the shiny silver letters glinting in the fading sunlight. The windows were covered with heavy gold fabric. Anxiety’s fingers became claws.
Turning to Rishi, she said, “Uh, is this, like, a fancy place?” She whispered the word “fancy” like it was something illicit, as a smartly dressed couple in their fifties walked by. Before he could respond, the twenty-five-ish-year-old hostess (dressed in a slinky black dress and gold high heels) who’d opened the door for the couple smiled at them. “Hello! Table for two?”
Dimple noticed the girl’s eyes hitch just slightly on her dark-rinse skinny jeans and Chucks before moving on smoothly. “We’re actually meeting some people,” she said, her voice small. “Celia Ramirez?”
The hostess tapped something into her tablet and smiled. “Ah yes. Please follow me.”
Oh great. When they walked into the restaurant proper, it became clearer and clearer why Rishi was dressed the way he was. Everywhere, couples and groups who looked like they were either heading off to conferences or cocktail parties smiled and laughed over candlelit tables. On every gold clothed table was a glass bowl full of pale yellow flowers. In the center of the space, an actual fountain gushed. Dimple was the only person there in a faded kurta, jeans, and Chucks.
As the hostess wound deeper and deeper into the restaurant, Dimple turned to Rishi. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “I’m so underdressed. You said I was fine!”
“Sorry!” The anguish on his face from seeing her discomfort was clear. “They’re more casual in the afternoons, so I figured you’d be fine. I’ve never done dinner here before.”
Dimple sighed. “Celia said they did a mean mac and cheese. I was expecting some small, down-home kinda place.” Another thought occurred to her, and she paled. “Crap, I can’t afford this.” She could, but only if she used the emergency credit card Mamma and Papa had given her. Which she really, really didn’t want to do. The bill went straight to them.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rishi said immediately. “I got it.”
She turned to him, her cheeks burning. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“I don’t take handouts. Besides, I’m not going to be the only one not able to pay for myself, Rishi. That definitely will not help my case with the others.”
He sighed and, after a moment, nodded.
The hostess led them to their table, a large one in the corner that had its own carved wood chandelier hanging above. It was empty.
“First ones here,” the hostess chirped. “Please have a seat and your server will be right with you.”
“Thanks,” Rishi said.
Dimple sank into a seat and he took one next to her. She looked even more despondent than before. Her phone beeped, and she fished it out of her bag and looked at the screen. “Great,” she muttered. “Celia got stuck watching a movie with her grandma. She’s going to be thirty minutes late.”
“It’ll be interesting to see if the Aberzombies beat her here. At least she texted.”
Dimple smiled, a wilted thing. “Well, if they don’t come, that’ll be good for my wallet, at least.” She pulled the menu to her and opened it, scanning the items with what could only be described as fear.
Rishi cleared his throat. “Hey, um, I’m going to run to the restroom. Be right back.”
He walked quickly to the back of the restaurant, where the double doors led to the kitchen. A middle-aged waiter in a bow tie approached him, smiling. “Hello, sir. Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, hey. I’m at that table over there.” He gestured vaguely in the direction. “It’s a table for seven, reserved under ‘Ramirez.’ I’d like to pay for everyone’s food at that table.”
The waiter smiled kindly. “Okay, sir. What we’ll do is bring you the check and—”
“No.” Rishi shook his head. “You don’t understand. I want to pay anonymously, in advance.”
The waiter stopped, his mouth slightly open, brows knitting together. “Anonymously?”
“Yes.” Rishi tried to keep his tone patient. Had no one ever done this before? Well, now that he thought about it, maybe not. “I’d like to pay now, and for you or whoever our waiter is to not mention that it was me who paid. Maybe you guys could just say someone decided to pay our bill. You know, like those pay it forward things. Okay?”
The waiter adjusted his bow tie, still looking totally lost. “But, sir, how will we know how much it’s going to be in advance?”
“Well . . .” Rishi reached in his wallet and pulled out a wedge of bills. “This should cover seven full course meals, right? Plus tip? Just keep the change.”
The waiter took the money and discreetly slipped it into a bill holder he pulled from the pocket of his apron. “Of course, sir. I shall be taking care of your table myself.”
Rishi grinned at him, and after a moment, the waiter grinned back.
Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.
Dimple heard and smelled them before she saw them. The Aberzombies. Instead of death rattle moans, they were known for their piercing laughter (girls), forced guffawing (boys), and excessive expensive perfume (both). She craned her neck and scanned desperately for Rishi, but he wasn’t visible. He’d left to go to the restroom only a minute ago, so she was just going to have to handle this on her own.
Dimple turned as Evan, Hari, and Isabelle sauntered up, laughing and talking loudly, impervious to the glares of the older diners. Evan was a paler, taller version of Hari, but otherwise they were dressed almost identically, in understated plaid button-down shirts with a little Ralph Lauren emblem on the chest, khaki pants, and loafers. On each of their wrists gleamed a heavy gold watch. Unlike Rishi’s, these were made to proclaim, Look at me! Evan’s watch caught the light and seared Dimple’s retina. Blinking, she looked at Isabelle. In spite of the chill outside, she was dressed in a barely-there strapless blue dress that complimented her tanning bed complexion. A thin white belt snaked around her narrow waist, and a small diamond cross glinted in the hollow of her neck. Her blond hair had been teased into curls that hung past her shoulders.
They all sat down without so much as a glance at Dimple, still engrossed in their conversation about some dude named Corey on their lacrosse team back home. Dimple sipped her water, trying not to feel small and irrelevant. I don’t care about them, she kept reminding herself. I’m here for myself.
Finally, a good five minutes later when the conversation began to peter out, Isabelle turned her blue eyes on Dimple. “Hi,” she said, smiling a tight-lipped kind of smile. “It’s Dimple, right?” She said “Dimple” with a slightly distasteful grimace. As if Dimple’s name were Pus Filled Cyst or Male Pattern Baldness instead.
“Right,” Dimple said, forcing herself to smile. “And you’re . . . Isabella?” she couldn’t help adding.
“Isabelle,” the girl said, in the tired manner of someone who’d said it a thousand times before, which, of course, was exactly what Dimple had been counting on.
“Right. Sorry.” She forced herself to turn to the boys, who were silently studying their menus. “And you guys are Evan and Hari, right? Celia’s told me about you all.” She pronounced Hari the correct way, rolling the r and saying it sort of like Hurry.
Evan just nodded and went back to his menu, but Hari turned to her with an orthodontically enhanced smile that made her feel sticky all over. “It’s pronounced Harry, actually.”
Evan snorted.
No, actually, Dimple thought. Why should he get to act all high and mighty when he was wrong? “But it’s not,” she responded, before she could stop herself.
Hari’s gaze was all ice and venom as he said, “Forgive me if I don’t want to take advice on names from someone called Dimple.”
Dimple felt her shoulders hunch into themselves even as she tried not to let them. She shouldn’t give someone like Hari so much power, but she couldn’t help it. She felt utterly dumpy and completely put in her place, which, of course, was exactly what he’d been going for.
Evan guffawed showily and said, “Dude . . .” into a closed fist that he held in front of his mouth.
Isabelle glanced at Dimple out of the corner of her eye. A slight flush was working its way into her cheeks. “Chill,” she mumbled. “She’s just interested in a connection with someone from her own country.” Dimple tried not to roll her eyes at Isabelle’s well-intentioned defense. She needed a sandwich board that said, America is my country too.
Evan grinned. “Yeah, don’t worry about Hari.” Harry. “He’s not as well traveled as some of us.”
Isabelle snorted and played with her cross, clearly uncomfortable. “Sailing around in your daddy’s yacht doesn’t mean you’re well traveled.”
Evan leaned back in his chair. “Excuse me. I’ve been to Manila, Bombay, and Haiti on missions. And here’s my proof: As soon as you hit the airport, you can smell the third world countries. That’s something they don’t tell you in travel books. Ask anyone. Ask Dimple here. Isn’t it true?” he asked, his green eyes wide. “Can’t you just smell them as soon as you land?”
Dimple tried not to let her anger show. “Um, I haven’t been to India since I was a little kid, so I don’t remember.” They were just dumb rich kids who knew nothing about anything. She knew that. And yet, somehow, it was amazing how conversations like these made her feel so other. Hands shaking a bit, she picked up her glass and took a sip of chilled water.
Dimple began to wish she hadn’t accepted this dinner invitation.
CHAPTER 15
As soon as he rounded the corner back to the table, Rishi saw the Aberzombies had arrived. He picked up his pace, wanting to get back to Dimple. And when he saw her, cheeks red, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip, he knew they’d already said something. And he’d missed it. Crap.
He sat down and smiled at Dimple. “Sorry I took so long. There was a line.”
“No problem,” she muttered, her eyes on her menu.
Rishi began to study his. “What looks good to you?”
“Um, hi?” a female voice said. “I’m Isabelle?”
Rishi raised his eyes, making sure to wear the “bored mask” he’d perfected at private school. “Rishi.” He didn’t acknowledge the guys before he began to study the menu again.
“Rishi,” Isabelle said, pronouncing it Ree-shee, even though he’d just told her how to say it. “You guys have such interesting names.” The way she said “interesting” made it clear she meant “weird.”
Rishi looked up, feigning confusion. “ ‘You guys’? You mean people at Insomnia Con? Because I haven’t noticed that.”
He heard Dimple’s sharp intake of breath and looked to see her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. His heart sang.
“No, not . . . I meant, well, Hari’s name is . . . but you . . . ,” Isabelle began, but clearly her upper-class manners made it hard for her to explain what she had meant.
• • •
They talked about inconsequential, safe things for about fifteen minutes. The guys were pretty silent except for perfunctory replies to Isabelle’s string of inane chatter about which sorority she wanted to join. She wanted everyone to know how her mom would just die if Isabelle wasn’t also a part of the Alpha Omega Toe Jam legacy like her grandmas on both sides.
Eventually, thankfully, conversation looped to Insomnia Con.
“Hari and I think we’re going to win it, don’t we?” Isabelle smiled and leaned toward him, and he rubbed her shoulder, his face slack as he stared down the front of her dress.
Rishi raised his brows and turned to Dimple. “I don’t know; I think we have a good shot. Your idea is really good. Innovative, just ambitious enough . . . I think we’re going to kill it.”
Evan looked up, his eyes showing the merest interest. “And what’s your idea?”
Rishi looked at him, forcing himself to feign a bit of surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed Evan perched on his chair like he was king of the table, the restaurant, and the world. “Oh. Well, I don’t want to give it away. You know, ‘inspire’ you guys inadvertently.” He laughed uproariously and watched in glee as Evan and Hari turned red. “It’s just that good.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, bro,” Hari said, glancing at Evan. “Our ideas are popping. Too bad we have to share them with a couple of girls. Can’t believe they split us up even after my dad made that donation.”
Evan, at least, had the decency to look slightly discomfited while Isabelle whined, plaintively and squeakily. “Heyyy. We’re just as good as you guys.” She stuck her tongue out prettily, but there was a stiffness about her that belied a deep discomfort. She looked so much like someone playing the part of spoiled rich girl that Rishi wondered if she practiced it in the mirror to fit in better.
Beside him, Dimple sat up straighter. “If anything,
having girls on your team will just make your idea better.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose, like she did when she was feeling especially fired up about something, Rishi had noticed. “Research shows that women are better coders—”
Hari yawned, loudly and long, cutting her off. Dimple’s cheeks felt like they were on fire; she fell silent.
Rishi turned to him. “Well. I guess that just goes to show you. All of Papa’s money can’t buy good manners.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw Dimple’s jaw just about come unhinged. Isabelle went strangely still, and Evan looked up slowly from his menu. Hari leaned forward toward Rishi, his tawny cheeks a healthy fuchsia. “What. Did. You. Say. To. Me?”
Rishi smiled congenially. “Oh, you heard me. If you have to be nasty to prove you’re better than others, then . . . well. Let’s just say breeding isn’t everything.”
Hari’s hand clenched into a fist on the table, and Evan put a hand on his forearm. “Chill, bro. Don’t let him get under your skin.”
A taut tension stretched over the table. Dimple sat, rigid in her seat, refusing to look at anyone, gazing into the middle distance. Rishi felt a beat of guilt. He hadn’t listened to her. She’d wanted to make this a reconciliatory thing, and he’d been the exact opposite of reconciliatory, whatever that was.
“I’m sorry I’m late! Once Abuelita begins talking, she doesn’t stop. And then she foisted all of this food on me; I don’t even know where I’m going to store it. . . .”
They all turned at the husky voice. It was Celia. She had two bags of stuff with her, including her purse, and her purple just for show glasses were pushed up, holding her curls back. She paused, looking at all of them in turn. “What’d I miss?”
Dimple wanted to die.
She couldn’t believe Rishi. What was he thinking? Hadn’t she specifically told him not to interfere? He was supposed to just hang out, not basically challenge Hari to a duel. Her fist itched with the urge to punch something, and his ribs were so close. . . .
When Dimple Met Rishi Page 8