She slid out the sketch pad and began to riffle through it. The earliest sketches dated back three years, and as she progressed, Dimple felt like she was holding a guidebook to Rishi’s talent, of the time and effort he’d put into carefully and lovingly honing his craft. His characters became more lifelike, more real. Although he sketched a variety of things and people—buildings, his house, what looked like students in a posh school cafeteria—he kept coming back to Aditya. As time progressed, Aditya became more and more fleshed out, more substantial. His expressions changed, became more fluid and dynamic, more complex. In the most recent ones, Aditya had begun to fall in love with a girl with wild, curly black hair. They were dated before Dimple and Rishi had even met. Kismet?
There were fewer sketches as Dimple moved through the sketchbook, and she felt a pang. His art was disappearing. No one was telling him how good he was, how much he needed to keep going, and so he was letting it die. She saw the pain in the pages—when he did come back, he drew detailed scenes, every leaf on every tree vivid and trembling with life.
Aditya looked reproachful in these later sketches, his eyes beckoning the artist to stay with him for just a while longer, to not forget, to not relegate him to these empty pages. Dimple felt an actual lump in her throat. This was wrong. She couldn’t, in good conscience, just stand by and watch Rishi’s talent wither away like some poor plant in a dark basement.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Dimple pulled out her phone and began to take pictures of Rishi’s latest sketches, focusing on Aditya. She was about six pictures in when she heard Rishi’s and Ashish’s voices in the hallway, raised in argument. Heart hammering, Dimple slid the sketch pad back into Rishi’s messenger bag, crossed the room, and sat back down at the laptop. She slid the phone back into her pocket and took a deep breath, trying to rearrange her facial features into a not guilty of snooping or any other illicit activity expression.
She shouldn’t have bothered. When the guys burst in, they were in such a heated argument, they didn’t even look at her.
“You’re such a brownnoser,” Ashish said, thrusting his hands through his hair as he walked in, leaving it sticking up in every direction. “Did you seriously have to call them the minute I left the room? Tell me, was it like a physical impulse? Goody-goody syndrome manifesting itself?”
“Brownnoser! Really!” Rishi thundered, his eyes flashing with a temper Dimple hadn’t seen yet. “You can call me names all you want, Ashish, but our parents had no idea where you were. Do you know how worried Ma is about you? Does it ever even occur to you to think about anyone besides yourself?”
Oh God. She seriously should’ve just gone to her room. Dimple had a sinking feeling they had no idea she was there and that she was witnessing a very, very private fight. She would leave now, but the two of them were right in the middle of the room, blocking access to the door. Should she clear her throat so they knew she was here? Should she get up and leave anyway, just push right through them? Dimple decided on the clear my throat strategy, but the sound was swallowed by Ashish’s bitter laughter.
“Oh yeah, I’m so selfish for wanting to live my life! For wanting to have a modicum of space without my parents breathing down my freaking neck all the time! So sorry, bhaiyya, but not all of us can be self-sacrificing, dutiful sons who belong in one of Ma’s cheesy Ramayan sagas!”
“Have some respect!” Rishi roared. “Ma and Pappa are our parents! You can’t talk about them like that!”
“Says who?” Ashish said, and immediately, Dimple could see them as elementary school kids, having a very similar fight about whose turn it was to pick the cartoon they were going to watch. “This might come as a surprise to you, but you can’t control what I do!”
“This might come as a surprise to you, but I don’t want to!”
In the lethal silence that followed, both brothers glaring at each other, Dimple’s phone blared to life. “Crap.” She scrabbled in her pocket, aware that both Rishi and Ashish were now watching her, their faces slightly slack, like they’d completely forgotten her existence. Which they probably had.
“Sorry.” Dimple smiled sheepishly. “It’s my roommate.” She pressed answer. “Hello?”
“Hey! I realized we never actually set up a time for when we were gonna do dinner. Or, like, even figured out where we were gonna go get said dinner. You said the dining hall before, right? Is that still the plan?”
Dimple could hear Transviolet playing in the background, which meant Celia was probably moping about Evan, even though she wouldn’t admit it. She sighed and mouthed a “sorry” at the guys. Rishi gave her a tense smile, but Ashish just sprawled out on the bed with his own phone. “Um, yeah, I’m not sure. . . . What about sevenish? If you want, you can just come up to Rishi’s room. That’s where I am right now, 406.”
Dimple could almost see Celia perking up. “Ohhhh, you’re in his room? I didn’t know you were going to do that!” She giggled, obviously cheered at the thought. “That’s so cool! Are you guys doing it? Like, right now, were you in the middle of—”
Dimple felt her cheeks heat. She couldn’t even look at Rishi. “No, but I really need to go. We need to practice for the talent show, you know?” Speaking of which, Dimple still wasn’t sure what Celia was going to do. When they’d talked last night, she said she hadn’t decided, and she hadn’t really seemed interested in talking to Dimple about it. As far as Dimple knew, she and the Aberzombies weren’t even on speaking terms. “But come up at seven. Okay, gotta go. Bye.” She hung up, feeling vaguely guilty. Celia was probably just lonely. But Dimple had the awkwardness of Ashish and Rishi to deal with. “Sorry,” she said to them again, gesturing at the phone. “My roommate. She just wanted to know what our dinner plans were.”
“Cool,” Ashish said, barely looking up from his phone. His thumbs were flying over the keyboard.
Rishi glared at him. “You need to go back home. I’ll give you a ride.”
Ashish paused in his texting madness and looked up, thick eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “Are you serious? Like, right now?”
Rishi spread out his arms. Dimple had the sneaking suspicion that if he were the violent type, he’d wrap his hands around Ashish’s neck instead. “Yeah, I’m serious. Did you not hear me before? Ma and Pappa are worried sick about you. You can’t just walk out on them and think I’ll cover for you.”
“I’m not asking you to cover for me. I was gonna call them later.”
“Later? They could’ve been calling the police for all you know, but you were going to—” Rishi broke off and rubbed his jaw. “I can’t even—” He looked at Dimple like, Can you believe this BS?
She managed a weak smile.
“Well, I’m not leaving.” Ashish tossed his phone down. “And unless you think you can carry me to your car . . .” He shrugged.
Rishi lunged forward, and Ashish held up his arms defensively.
Not this again. Dimple stood. “That’s enough!” she said, more sharply than she’d been intending.
CHAPTER 41
Both brothers froze and looked at her, surprised.
“Look, I know you guys hate each other right now.” Dimple shoved her hands in her back pockets because they were shaking. This was so not her place. But she just couldn’t take the bickering anymore. And if she wasn’t going to be able to leave, she was going to take control of this weird situation. “But it’s obvious to me that we’re at an impasse. We’re not going to solve anything by, like, fighting and”—she gestured at them—“whatever you guys were about to do.” She took a deep breath. “So what I propose is this.” Dimple looked at Rishi. “We can go to dinner around seven, which is in ninety minutes. Let’s get a practice session in, really hone our moves. Ashish can give us his feedback if he wants. And then, after dinner, you guys can have another, calmer conversation about the plan for Ashish.”
“Really? You’d like my advice?” Ashish grinned triumphantly and looked at Rishi, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
> “Whatever,” Rishi said. “She’s just saying that to be nice. And fine. Since you’re being totally juvenile right now, I guess we’re going to have to do that.” He glared at Ashish, who was still grinning.
“I’m really not just saying that to be nice,” Dimple said, relieved that they both seemed on board. “We need a lot of help, in case you hadn’t noticed, Rishi. The talent show’s not that far away.”
Ashish sat on Rishi’s bed and spread out his legs. “So how much longer do you guys have left in this program anyway?”
Dimple felt something hot in her throat and blinked fast. “Um, just over three weeks.”
She saw Rishi shift in her peripheral vision, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe at the end they’d just . . . leave. Go their separate ways. She’d made it pretty clear she didn’t want anything too serious, right? So, why would he want to do anything but that? She should be fine with it. It was for the best.
Dimple turned to Ashish, trying to push the swirling thoughts out. “Just tell us what you think. Where can we improve? What looks too awkward?”
He nodded and held up his phone. “I can even video you guys if you want. Seeing yourself can really help. That’s what I do for my games.”
“Great.” Dimple smiled. She wasn’t thrilled about the idea of watching herself, but whatever. She needed the prize money. “Let’s do this.”
• • •
Thirty minutes later, when Dimple and Rishi had fallen on the floor in a big pile yet again, Ashish hit a button on his phone to pause the recording. “Can I give you guys some advice?”
“Yes, please,” Dimple said from under Rishi. He rolled off her and helped her up. She rubbed her arm—she’d banged it against his chin, which turned out to be surprisingly pointy and weaponlike.
“Okay, look.” He turned his phone so they could all three see it and queued the video to the part where Dimple had her three second solo. They all watched her thrust her hips this way and that, her arms waving through the air. Dimple flushed. Ashish paused the video and looked expectantly from Dimple to Rishi and back again.
“What?” Rishi asked, frowning.
“It’s pretty clear to me,” Ashish said, looking at them like they were idiots, “that Dimple is the real talent here? This isn’t working because bhaiyya—Rishi—has the majority part. We need a song where Dimple gets to do most of the stuff.”
“Um, no,” Dimple countered right as Rishi said, “Oh my gods, you’re right.”
They looked at each other. Dimple sharpened her look into a glare. “I’m not dancing on that stage by myself.”
Rishi put a hand on her arm; it was hot and sweaty. “You don’t have to. We’ll just get a song where I get a really tiny part instead.”
“That’s still people looking at me for most of it.” Dimple felt the beginning of stress hives breaking out on her face just from the thought of it. “I can’t do that. I can’t. I can’t.” She looked helplessly from Rishi to Ashish.
Ashish looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he smiled. “That’s okay. I have an idea.”
Rishi watched his brother choreograph the new dance, getting 360-degree video shots of Dimple and Rishi dancing. Ashish even kept the video running when they had stopped dancing to talk about the steps, to “capture this crazy experience,” as he put it.
When Dimple wasn’t sure she could do something, Ashish took on the role of coach, bolstering her confidence by joking with her, without even letting on that that’s what he was doing, until Dimple agreed without knowing she’d agreed—and all Rishi could think was, Wow. He hadn’t seen his little brother this engaged in something that had nothing to do with basketball in years. He’d never seen Ashish so pumped about something that would net him nothing. He was acting . . . selfless.
The thought caught Rishi so off guard that he stumbled, and Dimple, who’d been about to twirl into his arms, went twirling off into the room without him. “Oops, sorry,” he said, smiling in what he hoped was a winning way when she stopped and glared at him.
“Ah, maybe it’s time to take a break anyway,” she said, the annoyance in her eyes dimming. That was something he’d been noticing more—that he was able to soften her, to rub out those hard edges of hers, when he smiled. The thought made him deliriously happy, mostly because he hadn’t thought it possible for Dimple’s hard edges to be softened at all, let alone that he’d be the one to accomplish it.
Ashish paused the video. “Great. This is good stuff. We can go over it more later, but I think you guys are really close to having a finished dance on your hands. You just need to practice it a couple of times and you’ll be set.”
Dimple took a deep breath. “Aah, thank you.” She reached out and patted Ashish’s arm, somewhat stiffly. She was definitely not big on physical affection, so Rishi knew how much she must really mean it. He wondered if he should feel a stab of jealousy—Dimple bonding so well with his muscled, much cooler younger brother—but all he felt was this warm, almost gooey feeling in his chest. Like his heart was wrapped in microwaved Nutella.
Dimple checked her watch. “Okay, it’s twenty till, so I’m going to run down to my floor and take a quick shower before dinner. I can meet you both downstairs in the lobby.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Rishi reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed her soft and slow and then smiled, his forehead against hers. “Okay, now you can go.”
Grinning, Dimple floated off.
When she was gone, Rishi turned to Ashish, who was rolling his eyes at their public display. “We still need to talk about Ma and Pappa.” Ashish’s face closed off, and Rishi hurried to add, “But thanks. For helping us. That’s really nice of you.”
Ashish shrugged, that old defensive wall coming back up. Rishi tried to ignore the heavy stone of disappointment weighing him down. “Yeah. Dimple’s cool, so, you know . . . Hope you guys win the thing.”
He sounded like he was talking to an acquaintance, one he didn’t even like very much. Rishi swallowed and rubbed the back of his sweaty head. “Yeah, um, I’m gonna take a shower too. We’ll go to dinner, and then we can figure out when I’m going to drive you back.”
Ashish sprawled on the bed and began to text. He didn’t even look up to acknowledge what Rishi had said.
Sighing, Rishi got his shower caddy and towel and walked to the bathroom down the hall.
CHAPTER 42
It was 7:20 and Dimple was alone in the lobby.
Celia hadn’t been in their room, and Dimple hadn’t gotten a response when she’d texted her. So now she sat listening to the laughter and chatter of the other students, all getting ready for a Saturday night out (or in, in some cases—José and Tim had just had pizza delivered; they said they were gearing up for a marathon weekend coding session). She’d texted Rishi a minute ago, but hadn’t heard back yet. So it was probably now or never.
Dimple took a breath and opened the e-mail app on her phone.
She had a draft saved—she’d written it after her shower, but hadn’t had the courage to send it yet. The cacophony of voices faded to a dull hum as she began to read what she’d written.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: We met at SFSU Little Comic Con
Hi Leo,
I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met at SFSU’s Little Comic Con event a couple of weeks ago. I was with a boy, Rishi Patel, who was dressed in a costume you commented on—a thick brocade kurta, silk pants, and a hand-painted mace. You asked him if he had any sketches to show you, and he said no. He said he wasn’t dressed as anyone special.
But here’s the thing—he was lying.
You’ve been Rishi’s idol forever. He’s watched every single video you’ve ever made and pored over every single comic you’ve ever drawn. I’m a coder; I love everything to do with coding and technology. It’s a passion. But for Rishi, art is so beyond that—it’s who he is. It’s part of him; ink and blood flow toget
her through his body. And that’s what scares him. He thinks he loves his art too much. He’s afraid of it consuming him.
But I think for him to let it go to waste—to never share it with the world—is what we should all be really afraid of. Because I truly think his art could change the world.
Anyway, hope that’s not too melodramatic. At LCC, Rishi was dressed as Aditya, an Indian Sun God superhero he’s been working on since he was fifteen. I’m attaching some of his sketches here. I hope you’ll see what I see when I look at them.
Rishi’s e-mail address is: [email protected]
Thanks,
Dimple Shah
Dimple had already attached the pictures she’d taken. All that was left was to press send. She took a deep breath. Her finger hovered over the button. Rishi would freak if he knew what she was doing. But he needed help. He needed a tiny nudge over to the other side, to show him what he was missing, what he could have. His parents weren’t going to do it; Ashish wouldn’t do it. That left her. Dimple wasn’t doing Rishi a favor, she was doing the world a favor.
So she pressed the button and listened to the swoosh that meant it was on its way to Leo. Dimple sat back, trembling slightly, half afraid, half ecstatic, the background noises that had been muted fading back in and crashing over her.
There was no going back now. She’d just have to wait and see how this unraveled.
The line in the bathroom was long, everyone getting ready for the weekend, and by the time Rishi was finished with the shower and brushing his teeth, it was seven thirty. “Crap,” he said as soon as he walked into his room and saw the clock on his nightstand.
Ashish sprang up from the bed, stared at him for a moment, and then sat back down. “Dude, where have you been?”
“Did you text Dimple? Did my phone buzz?” Rishi speed walked over to where his phone was charging—as much as one could speed walk in a towel, anyway—and checked the phone. Besides one Coming down soon? text ten minutes ago, she hadn’t said anything else. “Crap, she’s probably mad.” He texted her quickly: Sorry, line in bathroom was crazy. Getting dressed now.
When Dimple Met Rishi Page 20