When Dimple Met Rishi Read online

  She laughed. “So it’s like that?”

  Rishi grinned but didn’t respond. In another minute he’d finished the sketch. He ripped out the paper, folded it, and passed it and the pencil over to her. It was silly, but his heart beat faster. This moment felt more serious than it had any right to feel.

  • • •

  Dimple opened the paper. It was an amazing sketch, which, if she hadn’t seen Rishi do in about a minute, she would have believed had taken a lot longer. It showed a boy, hair flopping in his eyes and bulging muscles ripping his shirt sleeves—Dimple snorted—handing a fierce-looking girl a paper flower. He’d captured her so perfectly in just a few strokes—her oversize square glasses, her wild hair, the furrow in her brow. Underneath the sketch, he’d written:

  Will you go on a date with me?

  Yes

  No

  Dimple took a deep breath as an uneasy pulse beat within her. He was trying to make it official, and she wasn’t sure she wanted official. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, really.

  Underneath the “no,” she wrote in:

  Other

  And handed it back to Rishi.

  He studied the paper, and she could see the slight disappointment tint his features. But when he looked back at her, he had rearranged his expression to reflect just curiosity. “Care to explain?”

  Dimple reached over and turned off the flashlight app on her phone. Somehow it was easier to say things under cover of darkness. The foggy night worked as a salve, taking the sting out of words. “Rishi, I can’t be your girlfriend.”

  A beat of silence. “Why not?” He said it softly, not as a judgment but simply in an effort to understand.

  Dimple’s heart hurt. “It’s not why I’m here,” she forced herself to say firmly. She refused to be one of those girls who gave up on everything they’d been planning simply because a boy entered the picture. “You know I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

  “Even if the relationship feels right?”

  She paused, listening to the sound of some distant partygoer screech in laughter. “Especially if.”

  She saw Rishi nodding in her peripheral vision. In the quiet, she wondered if he was so hurt that he couldn’t bear to speak. Then, he turned to her, grinning. “Okay. So what? We don’t have to do the whole relationship thing. You can just go out with me, and we’ll call it a . . . a non-date.”

  Dimple arched an eyebrow. “Rishi . . .”

  “No, listen, it’s just like you and Celia going out, right? No strings attached. Neither of us has any expectations. We’ll just hang out.”

  Dimple looked at his eager, open face, at the optimism and cheerfulness there, and felt her resolve melting. Sighing, she said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Rishi’s grin broadened. He could taste the “yes” in the air, apparently. “You won’t. Just friends on a non-date.” He scribbled something on the paper and handed it back to Dimple.

  It now said:

  Will you go on a non-date with me?

  Laughing, she checked the “yes” and hoped to heck they knew what they were doing.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was the Friday after the Big Kiss, as Dimple and Celia had dubbed it.

  To her credit, when Dimple mentioned it, Celia had squealed in delight, ordered pizza from the twenty-four-hour place around the corner, and made Dimple tell her every single detail, ad nauseam, so she could help dissect everything. Dimple had tried to explain that she didn’t need to do that—that Dimple, in fact, was the one holding back in the non-relationship, but Celia seemed unable to grasp the concept.

  After a couple of minutes of silence she’d said, “You guys are like Raj and Simran.”

  Dimple had stared at her. “Raj and Simran? Like, in Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge?”

  Celia nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “How do you know that movie?”

  “When you and I began to talk on the boards, I thought I should watch a couple of Bollywood movies on Netflix, figure out how to be sensitive to your culture and all that.” Celia grinned, hanging her head upside down off the bed, her massive pile of curly hair brushing the floor. “Course, that was before I knew you were more American than me.”

  Dimple snorted. “Well, it was a nice thought anyway.”

  “You guys are just, like, fated to be together, y’know?”

  Dimple sighed and lay down. “I don’t believe in fate,” she said, although she and Rishi had talked about kismet at the party. “I believe in logic. And logically, I shouldn’t go out on this non-date with him.”

  • • •

  In class now, Rishi beamed. “This is what I have so far. What do you think?”

  Dimple looked at Rishi’s sketches, her excitement tempered by the nerves that had begun manifesting themselves every time she looked at him after that night. It was like her body immediately remembered he was the one she’d locked lips with, even though it had been a week, and tried to turn her into a gibbering, flirtatious idiot. Well, she wasn’t a gibbering, flirtatious idiot. She’d just have to remember that and forget the kiss had ever happened. Or the fact that their non-date was tonight.

  The butterflies in her stomach began beating their restless wings again at the thought, and Dimple tried not to groan. What the heck was wrong with her? “These are amazing,” she said a little too loudly, hoping to distract her own brain from its traitorous thoughts. And truly, Rishi had done a remarkable job. He’d sketched out a detailed layout for their app, using the placement Dimple had suggested. Every button was vibrant, humorous, exactly what she’d wanted.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Rishi said, leaning closer to point out something. Dimple got a waft of his cologne, something subtle but deeply male that reminded her of oak trees in the summer sun. Her head almost swam with the memory of their kiss, and she had to blink several times to get her thoughts back on track. “ . . . can do that, if you’d like?”

  He was looking at her now, those gorgeous honey-brown eyes warm and expectant. Dang. She had no idea what he’d asked. “Um, yeah, sure,” she said, itching the back of her neck.

  He smiled quietly to himself, like he knew where her mind had been, and put away the sketch. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Rishi folded his hands behind his head, a lock of shiny black hair flopping into his eye. “So,” he said, a mischievous flicker in his smile, “you ready for our non-date?”

  Dimple caught herself wondering again if this was a bad idea. It’s fine, she tried to convince herself for the millionth time. It was a non-date, and she wanted to go on it. That wasn’t a big deal. She wasn’t compromising any of her values. “Yep.” She fiddled with the wheel on her mouse. “Where do you want to go? I don’t really know this area too well. . . .”

  Rishi waved a hand. “I’ve got it all taken care of. I spoke to a few of the guys on my floor, and they recommended a couple of places. Then I Googled stuff, and voilà. Non-date is all planned out.” He grinned.

  Those stupid butterflies surged up again at his smile. And the way he was looking at her. And the fact that his hair was so sexy-floppy-messy. “Great.” Dimple heard the wobble in her voice and tried not to wince. “Can’t wait.”

  “Pick you up at seven?”

  Before she could respond, Isabelle—whom they hadn’t talked to since they’d eaten together at the restaurant almost two weeks ago—came over. Her presence was preceded by the smell of her perfume, something fruity and bubbly that threatened to choke Dimple with two hands. She muffled a cough.

  Isabelle stood in front of Rishi, hands clasped before her as she fiddled with one of many rings she wore. Her booty shorts barely covered her booty. Wasn’t she cold? It was foggy and damp outside. But Isabelle’s midriff looked tan and happy beneath the sheer white tank top she wore. Before she could stop herself, Dimple found herself glancing at Rishi to see if he noticed. She also couldn’t stop the surge of vindication when all she saw was annoyance splashed across his every feature
.

  He looked at Isabelle for only a brief second before he looked away, as if he had much more important things to get to.

  “I, um . . .” Isabelle tucked a wavy lock of blond hair behind one ear and looked from Rishi to Dimple and back again. “At Elm, the guys . . .”

  Dimple waited, curious. Rishi had his casually bored expression on.

  But whatever Isabelle had started to say, she obviously decided she couldn’t finish. Instead, she cleared her throat and said to Rishi, “My dad knows your dad.”

  “Okay,” Rishi said, still seeming less than enthused.

  “You never said your dad was the CEO of Global Comm. My dad, like, totally wants to invite your parents over for dinner. He says Kartik Patel’s a total legend.” Isabelle said this last part wonderingly.

  Dimple could see her trying to fit the two pieces together: The respect that Rishi’s dad obviously garnered combined with the fact that Rishi was absolutely the dorkiest guy she’d ever known. There were cracks in her perceptions, and she was trying to make sense of them. It was almost fascinating, like watching the part of a wildlife documentary when the gazelle realizes it’s being stalked by a lion. How will it respond? What will it do next? Dimple thought, in a documentary narrator’s deep, polished voice.

  And then what Isabelle had said sank in. Dimple glanced at Rishi sharply. CEO of Global Comm? They, like, provided Internet services to basically the entire nation. And his dad was the freaking CEO? When she’d asked before, he’d only said his dad was “a corporate executive.” But the CEO was the big boss, basically. Of a multibillion-dollar company.

  Dimple studied him closer while he talked to Isabelle, but couldn’t see it. She’d always assumed the ultrarich kids were like Evan or Hari, but Rishi was so . . . Rishi. Goofy and funny and talented and sweet and so serious about his culture. Rishi seemed so much more like Dimple than like Isabelle and the rest of them.

  Immediately, before she could stop it, that famous Emily Brontë quote popped into her head: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Dimple blushed and coughed to hide her embarrassment at having had such a gooey, stupid thought.

  “I’ll pass on the message,” Rishi said nonchalantly, and then turned to Dimple, effectively dismissing Isabelle. “So, I heard about this movie playing at the IMAX theatre . . .”

  Isabelle hesitated, looking from Rishi to Dimple and then back again in a slightly frustrated way. As if there was more she wanted to say. But, like before, she decided against it. Dimple watched her walk away before turning to Rishi.

  “What movie?” she asked, since Rishi had never completed his sentence.

  “Nothing. I was just done with that conversation.”

  Dimple laughed. Really, it was sort of refreshing to have a boy prefer her company to a girl like Isabelle’s. That literally had never happened before.

  Rishi smiled and shrugged. “So, about tonight. Pick you up at seven?”

  “Sure.” Dimple reeeally hoped he didn’t notice how weirdly high-pitched her voice sounded.

  CHAPTER 30

  Dimple pulled at the hem of the kurta she’d bought with Mamma. The thing had frayed in the wash, so the silvery gray now just looked gray, a total noncolor, like something she’d washed and worn for a decade. She almost wished she’d taken Mamma’s advice and bought something a little more colorful.

  Almost. Times weren’t that desperate yet.

  And anyway, Dimple thought, straightening her shoulders and adjusting her glasses, she didn’t need to look pretty for this . . . non-date. It was irrelevant what she looked like, really.

  When Dimple turned around, Celia was sprawled on her bed watching, chin propped up on one hand. “You need something sexier.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be sexting Evan?” Dimple grumbled.

  It was Celia’s new thing, sexting Evan at all hours of the day and night. When Dimple asked why she didn’t just go to his dorm room, she always said, with a sparkle in her eye, Pour cultiver le mystère. Whatever that meant. From what Dimple had heard in the bathroom and elevators from other girls, Evan was developing a reputation as a player. She’d tried to broach the subject with Celia, but Celia just changed the subject, as if she willfully didn’t want to know. Was she so desperate to fit in with the Aberzombies that she was ignoring the fact that Evan was playing her? Or was she really cool about Evan seeing other girls in a way Dimple could never imagine being?

  Mainly Dimple tried not to be jealous that not only was Celia smart and glamorous and rich and beautiful, but she also spoke passable Spanish, excellent French, and fluent English. While Dimple struggled with both her Hindi and her Serengeti-wild hair.

  Celia sighed dramatically and dropped her head to the mattress, pressing her cheek against the sheet as her curls cascaded adorably all around. She could be the main character in a children’s book series, Dimple thought. “That’s a little complicated right now,” Celia mumbled, her words muffled by her hair. “He’s being . . . difficult to read. And I’m not sure I want to read him.”

  “Oh.” Dimple picked awkwardly at a loose thread on her sleeve. She was awful at dispensing romantic advice, being so inexperienced in the field herself. “Sorry.”

  “Ah, whatever. I’ll figure it out.” Apparently filled with a sudden surge of energy, Celia hopped off the bed and pranced over to her closet. After a minute she pulled out a sheer . . . something and held it out to Dimple, triumphant. “Wear this.”

  Dimple took an automatic step back. “Um, what is it?”

  Celia looked wounded and outraged at the same time, her mouth hanging open. “It’s a dress! It’s this season’s Elie Tahari!”

  Dimple wondered if she looked as blank as she felt. “Is that . . . a brand?”

  “Is that a—” Celia clutched the floaty dress/shirt contraption to her chest and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, in a remarkably on-point imitation of Mamma. Finally, looking at Dimple again, she sighed. “Trust me. You need this in your life and on your body.”

  Dimple picked up a billowy something that was probably a sleeve. “I don’t even know how to get this on.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Um, no. I’m not undressing in front of you.”

  “Oh, for God’s—” Celia turned abruptly to her dresser, rummaged in a drawer, and thrust a silky slip at Dimple. “Here. Put this on and you can wear the dress on top of that. Okay? Can I see you in a slip or does that go against your virgin sensibilities too?”

  Dimple snatched the slip and gestured for Celia to turn around. When she’d slipped off her kurta and jeans and put the wayyyy too short slip on, she said, “Okay.”

  Celia helped her, pushing her arms into certain holes and her head into another one. Then she smoothed the fabric over Dimple’s hips and stood back, smiling. “There. Look in the mirror.”

  Dimple felt a flurry of nerves as she spun around. And whoa. She didn’t even look like herself. The dress was snug across her waist and chest, but the slip kept anything too revealing from . . . being revealed. The bell-shaped sleeves hung loose around her arms, and the floaty hem stopped a few inches above her knees.

  “Here.” Celia came up behind her, and using the hair tie she always wore around her wrist, twisted Dimple’s hair into a messy-sophisticated bun, leaving some of her curls cascading down.

  Dimple stared at herself as Celia stood off to the side, smiling like a proud mom watching her kid go off to prom. She couldn’t believe she looked like—like this. She looked like a girl in a magazine, someone who should pose beside a vintage bike with pastel-colored flowers and balloons. She belonged on a greeting card.

  “I knew you’d like it,” Celia said, smug. “Now, do you want to borrow some makeup? Because I could do your eyes in, like, a soft mauve and your lips in—”

  “No,” Dimple said, firmly breaking eye contact with her mirrored self. “Definitely no makeup.”

  “But—”

  Dimple turned to Celia and pushed her
glasses up on her nose. “I’d like to look at least somewhat like me.” She was already afraid Rishi would think she was trying to impress him or something. Was she trying to impress him? The thought was mildly disturbing, but not enough to change out of this magical, someone-else dress.

  “Okay, fine. But that dress goes with these boots.” Celia reached into her closet and pulled out a pair of trendy, pseudo cowboy boots. “I mean, they’re like a set. You’ll wear them, right?” She looked genuinely concerned Dimple might say no. “I just want you to have a good time. And I know you’re going to rock his socks off as you are, but this would really complete the ensemble.”

  Dimple smiled, touched at the realization that Celia really thought of them as friends. This was her way of showing she cared; she was 100 percent invested in this non-date. Dimple had never had a friend quite like her before—a generous, glamorous fellow coder. “Sure, I’ll wear them. Thanks, Celia.”

  • • •

  Rishi smoothed over his hair. Did his floppy front bang things look better tilted to the right or the left? He flipped them one way and then another. Would Dimple even notice something like that? No, definitely right. Left made him look like an engineer. The kind with pocket protectors, not the cool kind. And for gods’ sake, why was he wearing this shirt again? He was fairly sure he’d been wearing it the first time they met, and, well, that wasn’t exactly the best association, was it? He was unbuttoning the top button when there was a knock at his door.

  “Who is it?” he called, moving on to the next button.

  “Um, it’s me. Dimple. Sorry, I know we said you were going to pick me up, but I got done early and thought . . .”

  Crap, crap, crap. She was here? She was here. Too late now. Rishi buttoned up again and pulled the door open, his heart in his mouth. But the minute he saw her, it thumped back into his chest, where it began thundering at warp speed.

  Holy hotness, Batman.