“Thanks,” Rishi said, “but I don’t—”
“We would love to,” Dimple said firmly, ignoring Rishi’s glare.
• • •
Outside, the air felt cool and revitalizing after the mugginess of Little Comic Con. Dimple inhaled deeply as they walked away, leaving the noise and the heat and the laughter behind. The world was dark and cold, the stars still obscured by fog. They walked in silence for a few minutes, the breeze rustling the leaves overhead and playing with Dimple’s hair. She pulled it up into a bun. “So,” she said lightly, “what’d you think?”
“I’m a little hungry. You up for some of that gelato we’d talked about?”
Dimple nodded slowly. “Yeah. But, um, are you going to tell me what happened in there?” She glanced at Rishi; she couldn’t read his expression. “I mean, if you want to.”
For a moment his expression stayed like that—stonelike and unyielding. But then he took a deep breath. It seemed to begin at the soles of his feet and travel up to his mouth, like he was carrying a weight he was glad to set down for a moment. But when he spoke, his voice was temperate and controlled, mild. “I just don’t see the point in wasting time—mine and other people’s—on something that’s never going to happen.” Rishi looked at her and said, almost defiantly, “I am never going to be a comic artist.”
Dimple wondered whose benefit he was stating it aloud like that for. “So what if it’s not going to be your career? You still love it, right? Why can’t you just do it as a hobby?”
“It’s too time-consuming,” Rishi said, but even he didn’t sound convinced. “And it all snowballs. You saw that—Kevin wanted me to apply there. Leo Tilden wanted to see my sketches. Much ado about nothing.”
“They’re excited for you,” Dimple said, shaking her head. “I think it’s great that there are people who want to see you succeed. You keep saying you’re not going to be a comic artist, but I think the point is that if you wanted to be, you could.”
Rishi laughed, but there was no joy in it. “It’s not that simple. I mean, it’s great for Kevin Keo that he just knows he wants to be a comic artist and feels free to pursue it. But I’m not like that. Do you know the odds of someone becoming the next Leo Tilden or Stan Lee? A million to one. I know what’s important to me—I want a life. I want to get married and have a family. I can’t support a family working as a waiter and hoping to break out as a comic book artist.”
“You’re eighteen.” Dimple looked at him, wondering if this were some weird universe where Rishi would turn out to be a two-thousand-year-old vampire instead. “You don’t have to worry about all of that yet.”
Rishi sighed and kicked a small rock in his path, sending it skittering off into the night. It lay glittering under a tree. “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. I’m never going to be that crazy eighteen-year-old party animal, you know? It’s just not my scene.”
Dimple smiled. She loved a challenge. “Really? Have you ever been to a party? Like, in high school?”
“Sure I have.”
Dimple raised an eyebrow. “Like, a legit party. One a parent didn’t organize.”
There was silence. She laughed. “You were thinking of Diwali parties, weren’t you?”
“Hey, they’re legit parties!” Rishi said, but he was laughing too.
“Okay, we’re totally going to this party.” Dimple held up the piece of paper on which Kevin had scribbled the address.
Rishi made a face. “Really?”
“Really. You don’t have to be a ‘party animal’ to go to a party and have a good time. I’ve been to a few small ones with friends in high school, and I swear they weren’t so bad. It’s a chance to hang out, that’s all.” Seeing him open his mouth to argue, Dimple rushed on. “Besides, just look at it as a social experiment. You have to go to at least one college party, right? It’s like a rite of passage. You can just get it out of the way now, with me as your guide.”
After a moment, he shut his mouth. “Oh, fine.”
Dimple jostled him with her shoulder. “Good. You might even have some fun.”
“This is insane.” Rishi and Dimple stood across from the house where the party was.
There was no mistaking they were at the right location. The front yard was decorated with what looked like a DIY glow-in-the-dark bowling set made from plastic water bottles with glow sticks inside them. People were trying to knock down the pins while screeching with laughter. What Rishi was pretty sure was a life-size doll sat in a tree like she was watching the proceedings, her lips, hair, and dress glowing from the black lights strung in the tree branches. The front door was open, and the music pouring out of it was so loud that the bass shook the ground under Rishi’s feet. “We can’t go in there. Those people look drunk off their butts.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t even see them from here. Besides, look at this place. This is a real college experience.” Dimple grabbed his wrist and pulled him across the street. Her eyes, Rishi saw, were glued to the bowling pins.
On the tiny front porch was a cooler filled with drinks, both adult and not. Dimple grabbed two Cokes, and handed one to Rishi.
“Was that beer in there?” he asked, shaking his head, as she shut the top.
Dimple gave him a look. “Yeah, some people here are twenty-one.” Seeing his unconvinced expression, she added, “You know, one beer won’t land a person homeless on the streets.”
Rishi popped open his Coke and followed her into the house. “Ha-ha. You know, I watched this documentary one time . . .”
Dimple walked in and peeked around the corner while Rishi talked at length about how addiction could wrap itself around you like a python and squeeze you dry if you weren’t watching out for it. There was a small kitchen, she saw, and people were bustling around, getting things ready for the party. A tall boy poured lemonade out of a carton into tiny plastic glasses on a tray. A girl with multiple piercings in her lips and ears and nose put a fresh batch of brownies into the oven.
Dimple smiled to herself, an evil thought taking root as the boy brought out the tray of lemonade and set it down on a table near where she and Rishi were standing. Glancing at Rishi, she confirmed what she suspected: He hadn’t seen any of this. He was still talking about the documentary and how heroin was the new drug of choice for suburban kids.
Her smile widening, Dimple reached out for the tray full of pink drinks and downed one quickly.
CHAPTER 25
“You don’t even know what was in that!” Rishi said, trying not to let his voice reach the crescendo it wanted to. Was she crazy? He’d never drink anything that he hadn’t made himself or at least seen someone pour. She didn’t even know these people!
Turning around, Dimple put her hands on his elbows and leaned in so he could hear her over the thumping music. It was dark inside, with just a few black lights and glow sticks strung up around the place, and Rishi found his heartbeat quickening just a bit. “Relax,” she yelled. “It was just pink lemonade, I promise.” Then, grinning, she picked up another pink lemonade and drank it. “I’m going to keep doing that until you drink something too. Loosen up!”
A throng of people came by hooting and hollering as they rushed outside to bowl. There were only three drinks left, and, raising her eyebrows, Dimple reached for another.
“Okay, okay,” Rishi said. He grabbed one of the little plastic cups and downed one. It was tart and sweet and slid easily down his throat. To be honest, it really didn’t taste like anything more sinister than strawberry lemonade. Maybe this party wasn’t as completely out of control as he’d thought. “There,” he said. “Happy?”
Dimple grinned. “It’s a start. Come on, let’s see what they’re doing.” She pointed to a bunch of people who were clustered around a redheaded boy and a girl in braids who sat on the couch across from each other, sketch pads poised on their laps.
Rishi followed Dimple as she pushed through the crowd, slipping easily between people who were much taller and bigger than he
r. Rishi followed with a few “excuse mes” and “pardons.”
“Okay, another one!” a tall boy who was clearly playing the role of MC said, looking out at the small crowd. The boy and girl on the couch switched to blank sheets on their pads.
“What’s going on?” Rishi asked a tall, thin guy standing next to him, and Dimple leaned in to listen.
“They’re having a sketch-off,” the guy said, grinning. “People in the crowd call out suggestions of crazy things for them to draw, and then they do it.”
“Miley Cyrus and Darth Vader’s child!” someone in the crowd called out, and someone else added, “With Gothic flair!” Everyone laughed and hooted their approval.
Both the sketchers put in a valiant effort. It was hard to see in the dim black light and whatever outside light filtered in through the windows, but on the pad of the guy nearest her Dimple could make out a hilarious rendition of Darth Vader’s helmet atop a sexy woman riding a giant ball. In an attempt to make it Gothic, the guy was drawing spires along the top of the page.
“You should do that next,” Dimple said.
“What?” Rishi looked at her in alarm, his thick eyebrows almost disappearing into his floppy hair. She had a sudden urge to giggle. So she did.
“I think you should compete next,” Dimple explained. She pointed to the two artists.
“I don’t think so,” Rishi said, giving her an okay, crazy lady look.
“And—time!” the MC guy shouted, and the artists set their pencils down. One of them wiggled his fingers as people began to vote on who won, which consisted of them shouting out either “Vinnie!” or “Lola!” Someone, obviously too excited for his own good, said, “Lolinnie!” They counted that one as one vote for both artists. At the end Lola was declared the winner. Vinnie slammed his sketch pad closed and proceeded to disappear into the darkened rooms of the house with a girl from the audience.
Lola, a small woman with blue (or burgundy or yellow—it was hard to tell in the light) braids looked around at everyone, smiling too widely. “So? Who’s next?”
Dimple pushed Rishi, harder than she’d meant to, and he went stumbling forward so his shins knocked against the table.
“All right!” Lola said, looking up at him. “Have a seat!” She grinned wider. “And get ready to lose.”
Rishi tossed Dimple a baleful look over his shoulder, but he sat down and pulled out his sketch pad.
“Okay, contestants, introduce yourselves to each other,” the MC said.
“I’m Lola,” the girl said, holding out a hand.
“Rishi.” He shook her hand.
“Great! Now let’s hear some suggestions, guys!” MC boy looked around at the swarming, grinning, chattering crowd.
Someone in the audience yelled, “A sloth in a dress doing ballet!”
There were hoots of approval, so the two of them nodded at each other and began to draw.
Dimple had been to a magic show before. She’d been eight, and her elementary school principal had hired some dude named Amos the Amazing to entertain them. She remembered sitting in the auditorium with all the other sweaty second graders, neck craned to look up at the stage while Amos pulled out orange silk scarves from his sleeves, made a bunny appear out of thin air and then disappear again, and pushed a penny through his own palm. She’d been totally enthralled. For two weeks afterward she’d even decided she wanted to be a magician when she grew up. Her stage name would be Dimple the Dazzling.
But that complete rapture was nothing compared to what she was feeling now.
As Rishi sat there, hunched over his sketch pad, the stub of a pencil in his hand, the other hand curled around the corner of the paper, Dimple knew he wasn’t really there. He’d checked out; he was on some floating island made of graphite and paper where this reality didn’t exist. The only thing he saw was the bizarre ballerina sloth in his head, the one that was taking shape pencil stroke by pencil stroke on paper. His lines were confident and sure, the emerging picture comical and twisted and breathtakingly mesmerizing all at the same time.
Dimple noticed people nudging each other, leaning in to get closer, to really take in the little details. Like how the sloth was wearing a monocle. Or the fact that Rishi was drawing it with a perfect ballerina’s bun, except the bun happened to be a croissant.
A few minutes later, the MC called out, “Time!”
Rishi set his pencil down and flexed his fingers. His eyes searched for Dimple’s in the crowd, and when they locked gazes, he grinned, big and happy. Dimple felt something flutter in her chest as she smiled back.
It was almost unanimous—Rishi won. Lola stood. “Great work,” she said, nodding seriously. “You go here?”
Rishi shook his head. “No, I’m just here for a summer program.” He darted a glance at Dimple.
“Too bad,” Lola said as she gathered her sketch pad and adjusted her skirt. “You kick butt.”
“Who wants to go head-to-head with our new champion, Rishi?” MC boy asked, but Rishi stood up and shook his head.
“No, thanks, man. I’m done.”
People groaned and booed, but Rishi held up his hands—sketch pad and all—and made his way over to Dimple.
She felt suddenly shy. It was weird, but it was like . . . like she’d seen a part of him she’d never knew existed. Most people wouldn’t have this kind of reaction to a sloth in a monocle doing ballet, she knew. It was hard to explain, even to herself. Rishi had a gift. A serious gift that he didn’t seem to like to share with people. Dimple knew why now . . . it was so intimate. He became someone else, stripped down, unself-conscious, unaware. She’d seen what his soul was made of. And she’d liked it.
“So,” he said, smiling at her, tucking his sketch pad into his messenger bag and snapping it shut, “what do you want to do next?”
She rubbed her arm. “Um, I’m not sure. . . .”
“Dimple!”
They both turned at the voice to see Kevin Keo coming into the house, followed by three other artsy types. One of the girls, Dimple saw, was the one with the piercings she’d seen earlier, putting brownies into the oven. “You came!”
She smiled. “Yeah. Thanks for inviting us. This is a cool party.” She nudged Rishi. “He just won a sketch-off.”
“Really?” Kevin eyed him a little warily. “Great.”
The girl with the piercings set the plate of brownies on the table where the lemonade was. “You guys want one?” she asked, taking a square herself.
“Sure!” Dimple said, reaching for it.
Rishi grabbed her elbow. “Um, Dimple, are you sure those brownies are safe to eat?” he whispered in her ear.
She tried to ignore the tickle of his breath in her ear, or the way it sent a little delicious shiver up her spine. “Yes, it’s fine,” Dimple said, aware that her voice was two octaves too high.
Rishi didn’t seem to notice. “But you don’t know for sure,” he repeated, raising his eyebrows for emphasis.
Kevin Keo watched this interaction in interest.
CHAPTER 26
Stifling a laugh Dimple reached for one of the totally innocent brownies and took a bite. “Mmm. It’s good.”
“My favorite mix,” the girl said. “Made from scratch.”
“You’re a really talented baker,” Dimple said, and the girl flushed with pleasure.
Rishi leaned in to Dimple as Kevin and his friends began to disperse into the crowd. “How can you just eat and drink things in a place like this?” He looked around at all the people hooking up and shouting and laughing in near darkness.
Dimple took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Are you serious right now?”
He looked at her blankly.
“You need to relax and let go a little.” Rishi opened his mouth, and she said, “And please don’t say I need to watch out for the date-rape drug.” Because I already saw these were completely safe, she thought but did not say. She was enjoying watching Rishi worrying about her, though she didn’t want to admit it.
He snapped his mouth shut. “Okay, I won’t. But seriously, aren’t you worried? Didn’t you ever pay attention in any of those D.A.R.E. presentations?”
Dimple snorted and took another bite. “No. Did you?”
Rishi rubbed his jaw. “Th-that’s not the point. Look, you can’t just wander around a strange party drinking and eating from unattended containers. It’s not safe. People will take advantage—”
He stopped talking when Dimple leaned closer to him and brushed his lips with the rest of her brownie. “You know you want to. It’s delicious.”
Looking down at her, he shook his head and made an “uh-uh” noise in the back of his throat without opening his mouth. Oh my God, he was so cute. Dimple batted her eyelashes at him and said, in a sultry voice she had no idea she was capable of, “Please, Rishi Patel?”
Something glittered in his eyes at her words, and Dimple felt herself flushing at whatever was going on, practically rippling in the air between them.
After a pause, Rishi obediently did as she asked. Dimple felt a thrill that he’d actually listened to her. That somehow, some way, she seemed to have power over this boy.
It was important not to panic. So, okay, he’d just downed a brownie that might potentially contain something illegal. That he’d done it because of Dimple’s petite, chocolate brownie–scented hand near his mouth (and because she was standing so close to him he could feel her body heat) just made it worse.
But Rishi wouldn’t think about that. He wasn’t going to worry about the possibility of a SWAT team bursting through the door, throwing him to the ground, and handcuffing him either. He wouldn’t think about writing letters home from his prison cell while his somewhat flirty, six-foot-three-inch roommate, Bozo, watched.
Dimple giggled—giggled! A sound he’d never imagined leaving her mouth—and let her hand drop. Rishi was immediately bereft. “You should see your face.”
When Dimple Met Rishi Page 13