When Dimple Met Rishi

by Sandhya Menon

  Rishi laughed. “Fair enough. And yes, I can totally do aliens, since they seem so important to you.”

  “Awesome. Then we’re totally going to kick Insomnia Con’s butt!”

  They high-fived, and Dimple grabbed the sheet of paper and sat on the bed to look at it. “You’re an amazing artist. Will you do the preliminary artwork for the concept?”

  He nodded. “Of course. I don’t want anyone else coming in and stealing my vision, you know.”

  Dimple snorted. “Totally. By the way, do you have any samples of your comics? Like, your old work or anything?”

  Rishi immediately began to click around on his laptop screen, as if he’d discovered something of immense importance that had to be done right away. “Uh, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Hmm.” Interesting, Dimple thought. I think Rishi Patel is lying. She flipped over the paper he’d drawn the zombies on; it was a flyer of some kind. “Oh, cool. Little Comic Con. Are you going to this?”

  Rishi rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, I don’t know. It was just a thing I picked up on impulse.”

  “The thirteenth, from six to ten,” Dimple read. “Hey, that’s this weekend.” She looked up at him. “We can go together. I mean, if you want to. Since you were nice enough to come to the Aberzombie dinner with me.”

  Had Dimple Shah just asked him out on a date?

  CHAPTER 20

  “I mean, not like a date or anything,” Dimple rushed to put in. And then felt like a total jerk because his face fell, just the tiniest fraction of a bit. “But, you know, as a friend. Which is even better, in my opinion.”

  He smiled, though she saw it wasn’t his usual vibrant, full-on sun smile. “Yeah, cool. Let’s do it.”

  • • •

  They put in another two hours researching the market, designing the UI, and getting started on the wireframe and storyboard. The process frequently sent a frisson of excitement up Dimple’s spine. This was her idea they were talking about implementing. In six weeks it would be an actual thing out there in the world, about halfway to completion, not just an abstract concept. Key people would be looking at it, judging it. And if it passed muster, maybe Jenny Lindt would want to work with her to finish it. It would go on to save lives.

  Finally, around one a.m., Dimple stood and stretched. “I think I should head back to my room. See you in the morning?”

  Rishi stifled a yawn as he closed his laptop. “Yeah, sounds good. Want me to swing by and pick you up?”

  Dimple gathered her hair into a loose bun and looked down at her feet. “Might as well. We’re going to the same place, right?”

  It shouldn’t have, but it made Rishi’s heart lift. When would he ever learn?

  You’re setting yourself up for heartbreak, Patel, he told himself.

  But no matter how true he knew that was, he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading over his face.

  Dimple was so keyed up over all they’d accomplished—and, a tiny voice inside her said, from the fact that she and Rishi had a non-date that would let her see more of the comic book persona he liked to keep hidden—that she didn’t even notice Celia until she’d taken off her shoes and climbed into bed.

  Celia sat on her bed, propped up against her pillows, staring at Dimple reproachfully. Her phone lay facedown on her lap.

  “Oh, hey,” Dimple said, suddenly remembering in a mild panic that she hadn’t come up with any good responses.

  “What the heck happened at dinner?” Celia said, and it was more a wail than an angry accusation. “I thought you guys would hit it off!”

  Dimple sighed and climbed under the covers, turning on her left so she could face Celia. “That’s what I hoped too. But I think your friends and I are just too different.” She shrugged, like, c’est la vie. Celia didn’t have to know how much Dimple had been hoping for some kind of olive branch, even though Dimple wasn’t the one who’d done anything wrong.

  “And Rishi was kind of rude,” Celia went on, fiddling with her phone. “What was his deal?”

  Dimple thought of how Rishi had stuck up for her, over and over again. How he hadn’t been the least bit cowed by the rude remarks or digs of the night. She felt anger flash through her; she always did find it easier to stick up for people other than herself. “Sorry, Celia, but you missed about forty minutes of conversation while you and your grandma were bonding. Your friends deserved everything they got, and more. I mean, I know you think they’re cool and they get you and whatever, but let’s not try to force something that’s never going to happen.”

  Celia raised her eyebrows, like, wowza. “Fine.” She picked up her phone, and there was a prickly silence in the room.

  Dimple pulled the covers around her shoulders. “But I still want to be your friend. I think we should still stick together and be each other’s moral support. But maybe it’s okay if we’re not friends with each other’s friends.”

  Celia continued to surf for a moment. Then she set her phone down again and looked over at Dimple. There was a smile in her eyes. “I like that idea.”

  The weekend came at a breathtaking pace. Dimple and Rishi had spent every day in between fine-tuning Dimple’s initial wireframe prototype, making sure they were ready to begin working on the backend of things.

  Rishi loved the way she seemed lit from the inside when she talked about her plan for the app, how much she wanted her Papa’s approval. Whether she liked to admit it or not, her parents were important to her, and Rishi respected that.

  He combed his hair in the mirror, pulling his fingers through the floppy part Ashley Sternberger in eighth grade had once called “adorable.” She’d batted her baby blues at him while she said it too, so Rishi knew it wasn’t the kind of adorable you think your baby brother is.

  His gaze fell on the Little Comic Con flyer on the dresser, and he felt a strange warmth come to his cheeks when he remembered Dimple asking if she could come with him. She’d asked about his comics so many times now, and each time he’d deflected. The truth was, he’d love to show her.

  He’d seen the fire in her eyes when she talked about developing that app; he knew she’d understand exactly what Pappa and Ma didn’t. She’d get how it made him feel, how the characters became an extension of himself, how he could lose himself for hours as he sat there, hunched over a sheet sketching in panels, watching the characters slowly begin to blink and breathe and laugh and live.

  Rishi walked to his bag, and digging behind the paperbacks he’d brought with him, he reached to the thing he’d packed at the last minute, without really letting himself think about it—his sketch pad. He felt that sense of love and attachment and warm familiarity envelop him as he pulled it out.

  The cardboard cover was falling apart, and the pages were bent and soft from age, especially the ones in the front. It was like a flip book of his talent—at the front were the sketches he’d done about three years ago, still a bit blocky and dull from their creator’s lack of experience. As the months progressed, they’d morphed into something warm and alive, liquid and vibrant. He’d gotten pretty good at keeping his characters consistent, at developing their unique characteristics and his own style. He smiled at the iterations of Aditya as the months went on. Silly and inconsequential as all of this was, drawing had always been a tempering balm. Art was a way to quiet his brain and lose himself in a place where he didn’t even really exist.

  Rishi slipped the sketch pad back into his bag and then slung the bag over his shoulder. Maybe going to Little Comic Con later tonight wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. He could figure out what people who went into this looking for careers as comic book artists actually did. His bet was that most of them ended up teaching in programs like this or working in advertising, neither of which appealed to him on any level.

  He wasn’t going to lie, though, he thought, as he grabbed his dorm key and let the door shut behind him—the idea of Dimple Shah accompanying him to the Con made it all that much more alluring. He had one more stop to make, and the
n he’d pick her up at her dorm room.

  The thought of seeing her again made his stomach flip in a very impractical way.

  “What are you wearing?” Celia said from in front of the dresser/vanity where she’d just finished slathering foundation all over her face and neck with a sponge.

  Dimple looked up from her computer and shrugged. “Jeans?”

  Celia groaned and clutched at her hair before meticulously smoothing it back down. Popping on a black headband with a big glittery bow on it, she said, “This is Little Comic Con. I’m guessing people dress up in costumes? Go all out?” It was Friday night, and apparently the Aberzombies had invited her to some party.

  Dimple chewed on her lip. She hadn’t even really thought of that. “You think so?”

  Celia began drawing on her face with what looked like a chubby brown crayon. Seeing Dimple’s quizzical look, she said, “Concealer. And yes, I definitely think so. Why don’t you Google it? See what they’ve done in the past? The flyer says ‘third annual,’ so I bet they have pictures online.”

  “Good idea.” Dimple pulled up the website for the art department and groaned. “Oh no.” She clicked from picture to picture. People didn’t just go all out—they went freaking crazy. There was a write-up on a guy who’d actually built his own Iron Man costume out of junkyard parts and then spray-painted them an amazing iridescent pink. Another student made her own Predator costume, and it took her an entire year of hand-sewing everything. It was Oscar-worthy. Or, you know, whatever the award was for costumes. There were group costumes, and costumes made out of interesting materials, and eco-friendly costumes, and glow-in-the-dark costumes. . . . Dimple stared. “Why the heck didn’t Rishi tell me?”

  “Um, maybe he doesn’t know? You should probably text him.” Celia smoothed a mermaid-hued eyeshadow on her lids. It looked amazing with her hazel eyes; even makeup averse Dimple could appreciate that.

  She grabbed her phone.

  Did you know everyone is going to be wearing costumes? Really elaborate ones?

  Her phone beeped a few seconds later. Yeah, it’s like Comic Con, no? Only smaller.

  Dimple groaned. Did everyone know stuff like this automatically?

  Her phone beeped again. But you don’t have to dress up. You’re my guest.

  Well, what are you going as?

  Aha. That’s for me to know and you to find out.

  Dimple rolled her eyes. Great. She looked at Celia. “Do you have anything in your closet I could wear that would pass as a costume?” Celia had brought virtually everything from her closet back home. She was actually using part of Dimple’s closet because all her stuff wouldn’t fit.

  She made a face as she applied a pale gold lipstick using a brush. Who applied lipstick with a brush? No one Dimple knew. “You can look. All I have is regular clothes though. . . . Who are you planning on going as?”

  “I don’t know!” Dimple threw her hands up. “The only cartoon I even remember being interested in—” She stopped, a thought forming. “Celia, do you have anything green and long sleeved?”

  “Hmm . . .” Celia set her lipstick and brush down and turned to her closet. After a second she pulled out a long-sleeved hoodie with a zipper. “What about this?”

  Dimple smiled slowly. “I think that’ll do really well. And can I borrow a short black skirt too?”

  CHAPTER 21

  When Rishi knocked on her door at seven, Dimple wasn’t even nervous. She knew her costume kicked butt. He stared at her for less than half a second before he grinned. “I love Daria.”

  “Right?” She grinned back. Celia had even helped her straighten her hair. It hung shiny and long, well past her shoulders. “Who doesn’t? I think it would’ve worked better if Celia could’ve been here to be Quinn, though.”

  Rishi laughed. “Oh, man. Where did you get those ’90s combat boots, though?” His laughter faded as he saw that she was glaring at him.

  “Those are mine. I wear them sometimes.”

  “Oh, I, uh, those are really great—”

  Dimple smiled. “You don’t have to pretend to like them. I like them, and I don’t care that they’re not in style or whatever. So. Are you who I think you are?”

  He did a little manly twirl. “Yep. Aditya the Sun God/superhero, at your service.”

  “That is so cool! Where the heck did you get that gada?” She closed the door behind her and they began walking together to the elevators.

  “Well, you might remember our old friend Wanda. I went back there and told her the nature of my inquiry. It turns out her husband is quite the welder. So he helped me put this together out of some recycled metal parts in his shop, and I spent the afternoon painting on some of the finer details. Kevin Keo, this dude I met before from the art department, was cool about letting me go down there and use some of their supplies when I told him what it was for.”

  “That’s awesome,” Dimple said, looking him up and down in appreciation while also not letting him see just how appreciative she was. He was wearing a tight fitting kurta with his jeans, and every time he swung the gada, she could see his biceps flex through the flimsy material.

  • • •

  Outside, the air was warmish in spite of the fog, with the faint tang of perfume and cologne as college students made their way off campus to various events. Dimple loved the buzz of energy, a slightly drunken, heady thing. The twinkle of city lights barely broke through the fog, making the air look just gold-hued enough to be magical. She inhaled deeply—and sneezed. Stupid allergies.

  “Gods bless you,” Rishi said.

  Dimple arched an eyebrow. “Gods?”

  He nodded sagely. “As a Hindu, I’m a polytheist, as you well know.”

  Dimple laughed. “Yes, and I also know we still only say ‘God,’ not ‘gods.’ We still believe Brahma is the supreme creator.”

  Rishi smiled, a sneaky little thing that darted out before he could stop it. “You got me. It’s my version of microaggressing back on people.”

  “Explain.”

  “So, okay. This is how it works in the US: In the spring we’re constantly subjected to bunnies and eggs wherever we go, signifying Christ’s resurrection. Then right around October we begin to see pine trees and nativity scenes and laughing fat white men everywhere. Christian iconography is all over the place, constantly in our faces, even in casual conversation. This is the bible of comic book artists . . . He had a come to Jesus moment, all of that stuff. So this is my way of saying, Hey, maybe I believe something a little different. And every time someone asks me why ‘gods,’ I get to explain Hinduism.”

  Dimple chewed on this, impressed in spite of herself. He actually had a valid point. Why was Christianity always the default? “Ah.” She nodded, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “So what you’re saying is, you’re like a Jehovah’s Witness for our people.”

  Rishi’s mouth twitched, but he nodded seriously. “Yes. I’m Ganesha’s Witness. Has a bit of a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  They cut across the lawn and headed west, toward the building marked by a star on the Little Comic Con map Rishi was holding. In the distance someone honked.

  “I can’t tell if you’re exceptionally eccentric or just really passionate about the cultural stuff,” Dimple said after they’d walked a little ways in silence.

  Rishi chuckled. “My brother, Ashish, and I have had that conversation many times.” He said it lightly, but something hard and dark flickered beneath the surface. “I don’t know how I can explain it . . . it’s just this need inside me. I guess I just feel it stronger than most people our age. I feel like I need to speak out, because if no one speaks out, if no one says, This is me, this is what I believe in, and this is why I’m different, and this is why that’s okay, then what’s the point? What’s the point of living in this beautiful, great melting pot where everyone can dare to be anything they want to be?” He shrugged. “Besides, haven’t you gone to India and just stood among your relatives and listened to their s
tories and felt like . . . I don’t know, like you wanted to tell more people?”

  Dimple fiddled with the zipper on Celia’s hoodie, avoiding Rishi’s eyes. “I don’t know. I haven’t been to India since I was twelve; the tickets are too expensive for my parents. But even when I did, the thing I remember most is feeling like I didn’t belong. I mean, I was already going through that phase at my school where I felt like my family was weird and different and I just wished they’d be like all the other parents. But then I went to Mumbai and realized that to all the people there, I was American. I was still the outsider, and still strange, and I still didn’t belong.”

  She tucked a curl behind her ear, feeling that pinch of realization again, just like when she was twelve. It had really been driven home when her cousin Preeti, who was the same age, had introduced Dimple to her neighborhood friends as her cousin from America. One of the girls, hearing Dimple’s accent, had laughed and called Dimple firang, which Preeti had explained, red-faced, meant foreigner. Preeti stuck up for her, but she could see it was halfhearted. Even Preeti thought Dimple was a firang. She just didn’t belong.

  “Interesting,” Rishi said, a small breeze lifting a tuft of his hair so he looked, adorably, like an Indian Dennis the Menace. “I guess I’m the opposite. I feel like an Indian American here, and when I’m in India, like just an Indian. I see them both as equal and valid for me.”

  “How are you so well-adjusted?” Dimple grumbled.

  Rishi snorted. “It’s taken time, I swear. I went through this whole emo phase in middle school where I played with the alias ‘Rick.’ ” He winced. “I’m just glad it didn’t stick.”

  Dimple laughed. “Yeah, I like Rishi much better.”

  “To be honest, even if I feel like I culturally belong, I don’t really feel like I socially belong. I mean, just like you were saying . . . I’ve never belonged with the private school crowd. I’ve never really had good friends in high school I wanted to keep in touch with. There’s no one I’ll miss.”