When Dimple Met Rishi

by Sandhya Menon

  “So you have a brother?” Dimple asked as they strode across the chilly lobby and showed their IDs to the residence hall desk assistant, who barely looked up from the text she was furiously tapping on her phone. Dimple hadn’t really thought about Rishi having siblings. “Older or younger? Is he a lot like you?”

  She saw Rishi suppressing a smile and said, “Sorry. Too many questions.” She jabbed at the elevator button, knowing she should feel embarrassed. But somehow, strangely, with Rishi, she didn’t.

  “Not at all.” It sounded like he meant it. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms and said, “My brother, Ashish, is sixteen. You couldn’t find two blood relatives more different than we are. Sometimes I think Ashish wishes he’d been born into another family. He’s like a different species than the rest of us.”

  Dimple pulled a face. “Ashish and I would probably have a lot in common, then.”

  The elevator doors dinged open and a few girls got out, talking animatedly about some poetry reading they were going to for their summer literature program. Rishi and Dimple were the only ones going up.

  As the doors slid closed, enveloping them in solitude in that tiny metal chamber, Dimple’s mind somehow kept reverting back to that moment in the antiques store. When she’d tried to take the camera and they’d ended up so close together. The way the air had shifted.

  She tried to think about more important things, like the upcoming Insomnia Con prep they had to do in the morning, but her mind stubbornly kept interjecting that scene, playing over and over the memory of her pulse quickening, the way Rishi’s smile had slowly faded. . . .

  • • •

  He watched her surreptitiously. She was lost in thought, and the emotions on her face were sort of amusing. There was something dreamy, and then a flash of irritation, and then more dreaminess before irritation erased it again. His lips twitched; he wondered what she was thinking about.

  Rishi cleared his throat. “Hey, it’s, uh, only nine thirty. We could work on a little bit of the prep if you want. Or, you know, do it tomorrow morning too, if you have other stuff going on.” He didn’t want this night to be over. Which was ridiculous, because he was sure there were about a thousand other nights they could both name that would probably have ranked much higher than this one, thanks to the Aberzombies.

  Dimple glanced at him, her lips parting a bit, like he’d caught her out at something. Now he really wanted to know what she’d been thinking. “Um, no, yeah. That sounds good. I’m just going to go take a shower and change into some comfier clothes. I can meet you at your room, if you want. I’m not sure I’m ready to face Celia when she gets home.”

  He grinned, his heart singing that she’d said yes. To a study session, Patel, he reminded himself. To her, he said, “Yeah, that’s cool. I imagine I’m not her favorite person right now anyway, so she probably wouldn’t be too thrilled to see me in your room.”

  The doors pinged open on the fourth floor. Stepping out, he put one hand against the slot so they wouldn’t close. “So, say ten fifteenish?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Works for me.”

  And Rishi, gods help him, thought, I could look at that smile every day and never get tired of it.

  CHAPTER 18

  Back in her room, Dimple loaded up her shower caddy and took a quicker shower than she strictly wanted to. She didn’t want to be there when Celia got back. She hadn’t fully processed all that had happened at Elm, and she needed some time to do that. When Celia asked her why she and Rishi had been so hostile to her friends, she wanted to have a proper response. Dimple was excellent at arguing with Mamma, but when it came to confrontations with other people, her backbone somehow became jellylike. One way to fix it, she’d learned, was to take her time thinking of responses to various arguments.

  Sorry, Celia, but those Aberzombies can suck it.

  Nah, too confrontational without any constructive stuff in there.

  I’m sorry you thought I was unfriendly, but you didn’t see all the stuff they said before you got there.

  Too “telling Mommy on you.”

  Sighing, Dimple shampooed her curls, taking care to massage her scalp. It was something that could consistently lower her blood pressure and erase the crap out of any day. If she had the money, she’d just go sit in a salon and have them shampoo her hair for a full day.

  As the smell of coconuts and jasmine filled the shower stall, she thought about the anonymous donor who’d paid for the meal. She was 95 percent sure it was Rishi, though he’d never admitted it. He was different from what she’d expected. Rich but not showy about it. Goofy and easygoing, but with a backbone. Utterly sure of himself in a really comfortable way. There was something about people who were that secure; they made you feel better about yourself, like they accepted you for everything you were, imperfections and all.

  Dimple rinsed her hair out and got out of the shower, making her way back to the room in her gray terry cloth robe. She opened the dresser drawer and looked at her pajamas. All she’d brought were some ratty old T-shirts and sweatpants she’d had since freshman year of high school. For just a beat, she felt intensely self-conscious and considered going through Celia’s drawer for something more . . . girly. But then the rest of her brain caught up to her and annoyance replaced self-consciousness. Seriously? Rolling her eyes at herself, she threw on her Silly Boys, Coding Is for Girls T-shirt and plain gray fleece pants. They’d lost their drawstring eons ago and were baggy in all the wrong places, but whatever.

  Dimple was finger-combing her hair when her phone rang. Frowning, she walked over, hoping Rishi wasn’t canceling. But her parents’ faces flashed on the screen.

  She grabbed the phone and slid to answer. “Papa?”

  “Dimple?”

  She straightened up, gearing for an argument. “Mamma.” Papa had probably told her about their last conversation; that she and Rishi Patel weren’t going to happen.

  “Kaisi ho? I . . . miss you, beti.”

  “I talked to you this morning,” Dimple said, but she knew what Mamma meant. They’d barely talked. And Dimple had been too angry to have a real conversation.

  Dimple sank down on her bed, a lump forming in her throat. Mamma’s voice was soft, defenseless like she’d never heard it. It reminded her of being sick when she was little, how Mamma used to come sit on the edge of her bed, smooth her hair back off her feverish forehead, and give her milk with turmeric in it. Haldi doodh, Mamma’s magic fix for every situation. It usually worked. Dimple would kill for some right now. “I miss you too, Mamma,” she said thickly.

  “Did you eat dinner already?”

  Ha. If only you knew. “Yeah, I ate dinner. At a new restaurant, Elm.”

  “Kaisa tha? You liked?”

  Dimple blinked. No, I hated, she wanted to say. The people sucked. My roommate has new zombie friends, and they all think I’m a freak. But at least I didn’t have to pay. Swallowing, she said, “Eh, it was okay, I guess. Nothing like your prawns curry.”

  Mamma laughed, obviously pleased. “There is no cooking like home cooking!”

  Dimple snuffled a laugh. That was one of Mamma’s mantras. Anytime Dimple kvetched about wanting to order a pepperoni pizza because she was tired of eating something Mamma was cooking, Mamma would bust out with that. “Mamma, did Papa tell you about . . . Rishi?”

  She heard Mamma’s deep breath. “Haan.” A long silence followed. Dimple imagined little crystals of disapproval forming along the phone line.

  “I know you’re not happy. But honestly, I just—”

  “Beti.” Dimple stopped. “It’s okay. No problem.”

  But she didn’t sound convinced. There was something guarded about Mamma’s voice.

  “It’s not that I don’t like him,” Dimple said. “He’s nice. I just . . . I need some time, Mamma. To be by myself. To find out what I want from life.”

  Another silence as Mamma processed this. “Okay.” From the slow, heavy way she said it, Dimple knew what a Her
culean effort it must’ve taken.

  “Okay? Really?” Shut up, Dimple, she told herself. If the woman says okay, just run with it! “Thanks, Mamma.”

  She knew Mamma didn’t understand what time had to do with anything. In her eyes, women went to college just to make themselves more marketable to guys. For her to say that just showed how much she was willing to take into account the changing times. And her strange daughter.

  “Tell me, Dimple, are you remembering to wear makeup to class?”

  Dimple sighed and flopped backward so she was lying flat on the bed. And now that they were done with that, apparently it was on to more important topics. “Um, no? I didn’t even bring any makeup with me, Mamma.”

  “What! What about the contacts?”

  “Mamma . . . I’m here to learn.”

  “You can’t learn with lipstick? You can’t read with contacts? What, Dimple.” What, Dimple. The Indian way of saying, Get your life together, Dimple.

  Dimple sat up. “Okay, I have to go now.”

  “Beauty sleep time, na?” Mamma said. “You have Pond’s cold cream?”

  Dimple paused, confused.

  “Hai Ram. I bought from Walmart for you, na? Dimple, Pond’s will make your skin soft. Just put it on at night and—”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. I, uh, already did that.” She yawned showily.

  “Okay, okay. Good night, beti. Papa already went to sleep, but I’ll tell him tomorrow you send your regards.”

  “Thanks, Mamma. Sleep tight.”

  “You also, beti.”

  CHAPTER 19

  At 10:19 Rishi walked around the minuscule space once again, making sure everything was in order. The thought of Dimple, here, made him feel strangely ebullient, like he was filled with champagne bubbles. Obviously he knew nothing was going to happen. He wouldn’t try anything anyway, not when he knew how she felt. It was his damn fool heart. Ever optimistic, always looking for a sliver of sunshine in a sky clotted with thunderclouds. He shook his head and fluffed his pillow.

  At 10:20 Rishi laid out a bowl full of sweet and sour khatta meetha, some baadam that Ma had packed for him, and water. He wiped the screen of his laptop with his shirtsleeve, then had to change his shirt because the sleeve turned gray from the dust.

  At 10:22 Rishi seriously began to worry that Dimple wouldn’t come. Should he text her? Nah, that would be too needy. If she wasn’t going to show up, then he’d have to give her some space. But who decides to just not show up? he thought in annoyance. At least she should text him. Or tape a note to his door. He glanced at his door. Maybe there was a note taped to the other side.

  At 10:23, as he was walking across the room to check for the note, there was a knock. He exhaled.

  She stood on the other side, hair somewhat damp, smiling. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. My mom called.”

  Wow, she smelled good. Rishi made a concentrated effort not to inhale deeply. “No problem.” He held the door open and spread his arm out. “Come on in.”

  Dimple walked in, her eyes sweeping across his room. “You don’t have a roommate? How’d you swing that?”

  He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, my parents insisted on springing for a private suite.”

  She looked at him, smirking, but when he raised his eyebrows in question, she just looked away, resuming her inspection of his dresser top, his bed, his desk. “Oh, khatta meetha! It’s my favorite.”

  He grinned. This fact made him irrationally happy. “Awesome. Help yourself.”

  “Did you bring it with you? Or did you find an Indian grocer?” she asked, stuffing a small fistful of the peanut and rice-flake mixture in her mouth.

  “My mother packed it for me. But that’s a good idea—we should find an Indian grocer. Stock up on some of our favorite snacks to energize us while we write.”

  Dimple nodded. “Good idea. We should find an Asian grocer too. I need some Pocky sticks. Those are, like, my go-to snacks during finals.” Apparently seeing Rishi’s confused face, she gasped and held a hand to her chest. “Do you not know what Pocky sticks are?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. No idea.”

  “We have to remedy that.” She grabbed a few baadam and tossed them into her mouth, playfully side-eyeing him as she chewed on the almonds. Rishi felt his heart lift; she seemed happier than before, like she’d managed to wash off the crap laid on her by the Aberzombies over dinner. Good. They weren’t worth a millisecond of her time.

  Dimple looked around for a second and then awkwardly perched on the edge of his bed, toward the foot, close to his desk. “Is it okay if I . . . uh, sit here?”

  He felt his cheeks heating. “Yeah, sure. I’ll sit here.” He plonked himself down on the cheap wooden chair at the desk. In this tiny room, it was about as far away as if he’d sat right next to her on the bed, but the distinction between chair and bed somehow felt safer, less scandalous.

  “So.” Rishi moved a finger across his trackpad so his laptop would come to life. “I know you told me briefly already what your idea is, and we’d decided to get into more details later. Where do you want to start?”

  “I was thinking we should approach this top-down. Let’s think about the high-level functions we want—what’s the heart and soul of the app? And then we can drill down from there. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Rishi opened up a Word document. “I’ll take notes as we talk.”

  “Okay, great.” Dimple hopped off the bed and began pacing, her T-shirt and pants hanging off her like she was wearing her big brother’s clothes. Rishi felt a tug of affection that he attempted to cover by scratching the back of his neck and looking away. “Let’s see . . . so I want to make sure that people know this is a serious product. You know? Like, it can be lifesaving. But that it’s also fun. Taking care of your health, taking your medication, or checking your sugar levels or whatever doesn’t have to be a drag. That’s always the main thing for Papa . . . he feels like managing diabetes is too heavy. I think he’d rather not think about it because of that. So if people could see the lighter side of it, maybe it’d help make it a little less scary.”

  “Okay.” Rishi nodded and typed up the gist of what Dimple was saying. “So we want to convey health care with a twist.”

  “Exactly. Serious but fun. It works, but it’s not scary to use. It makes you want to use it. You get points the more you track. And then, at the end of like, five sessions, you get to go to the store where you can buy stuff.”

  “Right.” Rishi tapped a pencil against his chin. “But maybe we could tap into that compulsion loop you talked about a little more. So people can go to the store if they keep tracking the times they successfully take their meds or whatever it is, right?”

  Dimple paused in her pacing and nodded.

  “But what about if they don’t track? What’s the impetus for them to begin tracking regularly in the first place?”

  “I guess just the points?” Dimple shrugged, frowning slightly. “But I see what you’re saying. That’s not a big enough push, is it? Not if they’re already sort of iffy about tracking that kind of thing.”

  “Right. It should be our job to make it an addictive game, to make it seem not at all threatening, so they actually want to open the app.”

  Dimple paused, thinking, her eyes bright and sparking as she worked. Rishi watched openly and perhaps a little too closely, intrigued. “Ooh.” She looked up at him, and he looked away, flushing, but she didn’t seem to notice, caught up as she was in her idea. “Okay, what about if it’s like something advancing on them? Like, the reward is that you get to stave off some big, bad boss guy coming for you the more you track. And if you get lazy or careless, you get killed.”

  Rishi grinned. “Yes.” He grabbed a scrap piece of paper and a pencil off his desk and began to sketch. “What about something like this?”

  He felt Dimple, standing behind him, observing. Instead of making him nervous like he usually felt when Ashish or Ma tried to watch h
im, he felt more confident. The more he sketched, the closer she leaned in, seemingly mesmerized, until she finally knelt down to be closer, the tips of her curls brushing his arm.

  Rishi forced himself to concentrate on his sketch, to ignore the tingling heat that was running up and down his arm. There was nothing but this sketch. Focus, Patel.

  Dimple let out a breath. “Wow.”

  Rishi moved his arm out of her way, shifting uncomfortably, and she realized she’d just breathed on him and probably grossed him out.

  “Oh, sorry.” She moved away a bit, but not so far that she couldn’t see what was going on. This was fantastic. Rishi had drawn a hoard of about seven zombies, all nuanced and gross in the goofiest way. Some of their eyeballs bulged out while others were missing teeth or had wavy lines of bad smell coming off them. Others oozed slime from between their toes. They were all advancing on a tiny circular fox with huge eyes and a bushy tail curled around itself.

  “See?” Rishi said. “So maybe there’s this huge gang of roving zombies, and your user gets to pick an avatar, and the zombies are going to eat the fox if they don’t track fast enough or regularly enough. You know? Kind of like ‘Plants vs. Zombies’ but with more tracking action.” He turned to look at her. “What do you think?”

  Dimple nodded sagely, her heart thumping in her chest. This was good. This was very, very good. She could already see that. “I do have one serious concern.”

  Rishi waited for her to continue, a small wrinkle between his brows.

  “Can we make them aliens instead of zombies? Zombies are so overdone.”

  “Aliens?” Rishi rolled his eyes. “You totally don’t have my artistic vision.”

  Dimple punched him in the ribs, lighter than she wanted to, but he still winced. “Ow. You know, most girls just slap guys playfully on the arm or something. They don’t actually hurt them.”

  “Well, maybe you need to expand your idea of how girls behave,” Dimple replied, grinning.