If she didn’t feel like it’d make it worse (ha, as if that were even possible), she’d leave right then. Just tell Celia she felt sick and take off. But instead she forced herself to smile a little. “Nothing. You didn’t miss anything. So what movie did she rope you into watching?”
Celia handed her bags to the solicitous waiter in a bow tie and sat down, sighing mightily. As she launched into the trials and tribulations of watching Little Women with her seventy-two-year-old Dominican grandmother, Dimple allowed herself to tune out.
She glanced at Hari, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. He was on his phone, texting someone furiously. Isabelle was enraptured with Celia’s story, which was interesting. Maybe she really did like her. Evan was smiling politely, but Dimple could tell by the way he kept glancing at his cell phone screen that he wasn’t totally into the story. If she had to guess, they were probably here just as a favor to Isabelle.
Finally, she stole a look at Rishi—and felt her cheeks heat when she saw he was looking at her, too. Then she sat up straighter, remembering she was mad at him for what he’d said to Hari. She tried to show her fury through her eyes, but he just smiled at her. She shook her head at him, and he raised his eyebrows, like, What? But she saw the tips of his ears turning pink. Oh, he knew what he’d done.
The waiter, somehow intuiting the pause in Celia’s story, melted back into view. “Are we ready to order?” he asked, smiling around at them. Dimple would say one thing for these ridiculously expensive places: The service was impeccable. She couldn’t imagine this ever happening at Bombay Bistro, a tiny Indian buffet place that was her family’s idea of a fancy dinner out.
Once they’d all ordered (Dimple was the only one who’d ordered a cup of tomato basil soup, in spite of Rishi pressing her to order something more filling. What part of “I can’t afford this place” didn’t he understand, anyway? Dumb rich people.), conversation inevitably turned to where everybody “summered” when they weren’t doing peasantlike things like Insomnia Con. Isabelle swore by Boca Raton, where her family had a home, but Evan liked Prague, and Hari said the girls in Bermuda couldn’t be beat (eww).
Rishi glanced at her, and Dimple stiffened. There was something in his eyes . . . she could tell whatever he was going to come up with she wasn’t going to like. Before she could open her mouth to stop him, he was off, like some unstoppable rocket. “So, tell me, Hari, which part of India are your parents from?”
Hari looked up slowly to glare at Rishi, but Dimple saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was uncomfortable. “My parents are from San Mateo.”
Rishi nodded, unperturbed. “Right . . . so what about your grandparents?”
Hari raised both glossy eyebrows that looked like they’d been waxed and powdered. “I can print out a family tree chart for you later, if you’d like.”
Evan began his mindless guffawing, but Rishi cut him off, speaking loudly and clearly. “Let me tell you something—I’ll never forget last summer, when I visited my family’s ancestral home in Gujarat.”
Everyone was staring at him. But if Rishi felt the heat of their gazes, he didn’t show it. “It was amazing,” he said, beaming at them all as if he were totally clueless that they’d find this anything but amazing. “All of those decades—over a century!—of history. When you stood on the courtyard in the rain, you felt like the gods were singing in the heavens.”
Celia looked confused, like she sensed a strange undercurrent but didn’t know what it was or how it had come to be. Hari snorted, but he didn’t say anything. He looked a little embarrassed now—all the Aberzombies did, actually, Dimple noticed—like they didn’t know what to do with someone who was so obviously at home with his uncoolness. Someone who had the audacity to feel like he was the cool one when he so obviously wasn’t.
Dimple cleared her throat. “That’s really awesome.” She forced herself to speak up, firmly and clearly. Smiling at Rishi, she said, “I bet that’s a more meaningful vacation than going to Bermuda and sleeping with a bartender whose name you can’t remember.” She darted a glance at Hari and almost laughed out loud at his expression. He looked like he was choking on a fish bone.
The waiter came by with their orders then, and everyone’s attention turned to food.
CHAPTER 16
“So, just based on first day impressions, who do you guys think is going to win Insomnia Con?” Celia asked between bites of her $42 mac and cheese. Dimple couldn’t help calculating the value of each bite. There goes $2. And another $2. She didn’t even properly chew up that $2.
“Like it’s even a question,” Hari said. “It’s either going to be Evan’s team or mine.”
Dimple tried not to roll her eyes at that. Didn’t a partnership mean it wasn’t just either of their teams? “I think José Alvarez and Tim Wheaton have a good chance,” she said, slurping up a bit of her tomato basil soup. For $25, it tasted like tomato paste diluted in water. “They had spreadsheets of what they were going to do on what days of the week and everything. José had already even written a script for some stuff he wanted the computer to do at night, while they slept.” She’d never admit it, but Dimple felt a pang of jealousy at that kind of dedicated foreplanning. Why hadn’t she thought of it?
“Yeah, they’ve probably been planning for this since freshman year of high school,” Rishi laughed. “My money’s on Marcus Whitman and Simon Terrence. After Dimple and me, of course.”
“They’re solid,” Dimple agreed. “But they lack that single-minded dedication that José and Tim have. They, like, breathe this stuff.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Celia said. “I even heard they paid off their roommates so they could move in together to work on this stuff twenty-four/seven.” Deals like those were pretty common within Insomnia Con, and the organizers usually just looked the other way, probably because it was too hard to control.
“I wouldn’t mind moving in with Dimple,” Rishi said, laughing, and everyone whipped their heads around to look at him. And her.
Dimple felt herself turn bright red. “What?” she bit out.
The tips of his ears flamed, and his face slackened as he realized what he’d just said. “I meant because we could really kick everyone’s butts. If we had more time like that. If we were living together.” Rishi sighed when he saw that she wasn’t convinced. “Never mind.”
Celia giggled. “That is so cute.”
“Yeah.” Evan smiled a strangely plastic smile. “So . . . cute.”
Before it could get more awkward, the waiter came forward. “Would anyone like dessert?”
Dimple groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t they just give them their checks? Now she’d have to pretend she was all filled up on tomato water while everyone else ordered $50 desserts and ate them around her.
Celia looked at her. “The Nutella crepes are supposed to be good. Split one with me?”
The Nutella crepes. Those were $28. Half of that was fourteen, which meant her bill would be just about $40, plus tip. Dang it. She only had a twenty, so she’d have to put the rest on the credit card. Would it be weird to pay half in cash and half on a card in a place like this? Yes. It would. She’d have to put it all on the card and find a way to explain it to Mamma and Papa later.
“Excuse me, sir,” Rishi asked the waiter, who turned to him, beaming. “Can you tell me how much the Nutella crepes are?” He raised his eyebrows. “I want to make sure I’m not exceeding my budget here.”
What? Why was he saying that? Mr. Gucci obviously didn’t have a budget. He was doing this for her benefit, wasn’t he?
The waiter nodded and smiled. “An understandable concern, sir. But not to worry. An anonymous donor has very generously paid for all of your meals already. To include desserts.”
Dimple looked up sharply. “What? Who was it?”
The waiter held up his perfectly manicured hands. “Now, that wouldn’t make it very anonymous, would it, miss? The donor asked not to be identified. But please order whatever you choose.”
“Well, that is really cool of this donor person,” Rishi said.
Dimple glanced at him suspiciously, but he was studying the dessert menu with a renewed interest. The others looked dumbfounded.
“We can afford to pay our own bill,” Hari said finally, sounding mortally offended.
“Indeed, sir,” the waiter said. “The donor was simply attempting to do something good, I think. One of those pay it forward things.”
Isabelle was pink as she said, “Yeah. Or, like, it was a guy and he wanted to pay my bill and didn’t know how to do that without paying for everyone’s.” She looked at the waiter. “Did he leave a number?”
The waiter frowned. “No, miss. The donor left nothing except money. Do you wish to order a dessert?”
Miffed, Isabelle blew out a breath. “Well.” After a pause, she said grudgingly, “Yes. I suppose I’ll have a caramel brownie.”
• • •
The rest of the dinner wasn’t very eventful. Everyone mainly talked about the upcoming week, how they were going to position themselves going into Insomnia Con proper, and how difficult it was going to be. Some people, they’d heard rumors, even brought caffeine pills to stay up through the night.
Celia shuddered. “I couldn’t do that. Give me a Red Bull any day of the week.” Then she paused and looked around. “Seriously. Any day of the week, I’m willing.”
Everyone laughed, even Dimple, who laughed with a hysterical edge to her voice because she was just so glad this thing was winding down. She wanted nothing more than to go back to the dorm, take a scalding hot shower, and wash her hair. There was something about washing out her hair that calmed her.
Dimple and Rishi finished their desserts at the same time, and Rishi immediately threw down his napkin and stood. “Well, I’m off.” Dimple tried not to laugh; he wasn’t even pretending like he wanted to suffer their company a moment longer than he absolutely had to. With a hand on the back of her chair, he said, “Are you coming, or would you like to stay a bit longer?”
Dimple tossed her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back. “Oh no. I’m definitely done.” She smiled at Celia. “I’ll see you later.”
And then they walked toward the doors, leaving a heavy silence behind them.
• • •
Outside, the evening had turned even colder. The stars were erased by the fog, and Dimple felt a pang. That was one thing she loved about her backyard in suburbia—she could always make out at least a few stars.
“So,” Rishi said, buttoning up his jacket. “That was interesting, no?”
Dimple snorted but remained silent, cinching her hood tight around her head.
“Come on, Dimple Shah,” he said, gently hitting her shoulder with his. “What’d you really think?”
“Were you the donor?” she asked quietly.
There was an infinitesimal pause, just one tiny breath. Then: “You must think I’m way more generous than I am. Did you see how much those Aberzombie boys ate? And they didn’t even have brains on the menu.”
“Har har,” Dimple said, thinking, You didn’t answer my question. She wondered if it should bother her more, if she should challenge him. But she realized, even if the donor had been him, she was just grateful that Mamma and Papa wouldn’t be footing the bill.
She switched tack. “Okay, so answer me this, then: Do you really believe all of what you said? About your family’s ancestral home in Gujarat? Seeing all the history? Or was that all just for their benefit?” She rubbed her arms against the chill, and Rishi, seemingly unthinkingly, scooted closer so they were touching arms. She’d protest, but the boy put off an insane amount of body heat, even through layers of fabric.
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
Dimple laughed.
“What?”
She shook her head. “It’s just, my mom. She says the same thing. ‘No one likes a nosy girl, Dimple.’ ‘You’ll never land a boy with that mouth of yours.’ ”
“Huh.” Rishi cocked his head to the side and studied her face as she watched him in confusion. It was sort of hard to do while they walked, but they managed somehow. “I don’t know . . . I think your mouth is perfect the way it is.”
CHAPTER 17
The air between them felt suddenly charged somehow. Heat rushed to Dimple’s cheeks. Suddenly, she wasn’t so cold anymore, and she moved away from Rishi. His face went blank for a second, and then mortification overcame everything. Even his eyebrows looked embarrassed, somehow. Dimple felt a little bad for him. But not that bad, because he was the one who’d said it.
“I didn’t mean—I meant, your questions—”
Dimple waved her hand, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the sidewalk. “Anyway. Answer my question.”
“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which she found strangely endearing. “Yeah, I do. I totally believe that.”
“For real.” She raised an eyebrow at him.
He chuckled. “For real. When you think about it, our families are back in India, about eight thousand miles away. And they’re still so intricately connected to us. We have their names, their rituals, their traditions. Their dreams sit behind our eyelids. I think it’s beautiful.”
Dimple was silent as they rounded the corner to the stoplight. “I don’t know. I guess I think it’s sort of stifling. All those rules. You can’t date people who aren’t Indian. You can’t date, period, until you’re thirty.” She gave him a look and said, “Unless, of course, your parents are trying to set you up with a marriage partner. Girls can’t be interested in a career more than they’re interested in marriage. Wear makeup. Grow your hair out.”
When the WALK sign beeped, they began to cross. Rishi laughed. “That does sound annoying. I guess I haven’t been through those rules, except for the first and second. But the thing is, those are tangential things. I’m talking about the big picture. The idea that we’re connected by this thread to people who live in the place where we came from. Where our parents came from. We have a blueprint for our lives. I think that makes it all seem comforting somehow. Safe.” He pushed a hand through his floppy hair before stuffing it into his pocket, like he was embarrassed for all he’d said.
“I think having a blueprint makes life boring. Maybe I don’t want to get married or have kids or any of that. Maybe I just want a career and that’s all.”
Rishi looked at her, frank and open. “And that doesn’t sound lonely to you?”
Dimple paused, considering it. She’d never thought of it that way. With her relentless pursuit of freedom, she’d never actually stopped to think about what the day-to-day of it might be like. Eventually, she shook her head. “When you’ve had a mother who does a great impersonation of a helicopter, any kind of solitude sounds like heaven.” But saying it made her think of Mamma, at home. If Dimple were home, Mamma would be bustling around, cleaning the kitchen while Dimple sat at the counter nearby and drank her tea. They’d probably be bickering about something inconsequential. Dimple would be considering taping Mamma’s mouth shut. Mamma would probably be considering putting Dimple up for adoption. But they’d be together. It was their ritual, sort of.
Dimple wondered what Mamma was up to right now. She imagined her sitting in the living room, alone, doing her crossword puzzle. Or watching the Hindi channel by herself. And it made her sad. It made her almost miss home.
Almost.
“I guess we just look at it differently,” Rishi said. They passed a man ensconced in fog and playing the guitar. Rishi tossed in what looked like a twenty-dollar note. The man tipped his head at them and kept playing, something that sounded like the saddest love song ever.
“Why aren’t you like them?” Dimple asked.
“Huh?”
“The Aberzombies. Why aren’t you more like them?”
Rishi shrugged. “I don’t know.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I guess I never really got why the kids in my private school thought they were such hot stuff. I mean, it’s ou
r parents who did all the hard work. We were just born into it. It’s like being proud that you’re tall or have thick hair or perfectly spaced eyes. Absurd.”
Dimple laughed a little. “It’s neat that you were able to see that, though. So many people don’t. Obviously.”
Rishi grunted in response. Softly, he said, “I’m sorry if I overstepped in there. I just got really frustrated that they were talking to you like that. They’re just such little d-bags, you know?”
“I guess.” Dimple played with the zipper on her hoodie. “Don’t you . . . care that you’re making it worse? You’re not smoothing things over with them. They’re probably going to be even bigger jerks to us in class now.”
Rishi ran his hands across the leaves of some bush with brilliant blue-violet flowers as they walked, releasing that green plant smell. “I think they’re going to be like that no matter what. They’ll find a reason. If you smooth things over, it’ll be because they think you’re weak. If you don’t, it’ll be because their egos are hurt. I like to just confront it head-on.”
Dimple looked at him sidelong.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” A curl that hadn’t been contained by her hood blew into her eyes, and she pushed it away. “You surprise me, that’s all. I would’ve pegged you for a much more go with the flow kind of personality.”
“I am,” Rishi said. “Mostly. But not when it comes to people who try to step all over things that are too important.”
“Fair enough.” Dimple would never admit it, but she felt a grudging admiration for his kind of no-BS bravery.
They wound their way around the green to the dorms. Rishi held the lobby door open, and she chuckled.
“What?” he asked, looking self-conscious.
“You’re so chivalrous. Is that your desi breeding or your millionaire breeding?”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s my Patel breeding. We Patel boys are very well behaved, you know. Ma wouldn’t have it any other way.”
When Dimple Met Rishi Page 9