When Dimple Met Rishi
Page 29

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.”
“I bet it’s nothing compared to my brain waves. They’re probably crying out, spiraling into years of addiction.”
Dimple shook her head and sighed. “There’s nothing in that brownie except sugar and fat.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I saw them make it, okay? I peeked into the kitchen when you weren’t looking.”
Without talking about it, she and Rishi began to make their way to the sliding back door. The dark backyard beyond looked mostly empty. Rishi opened his mouth and feigned being aghast at her, his heart lifting when she trilled a laugh.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, lifting her hands in front of her. “You’re just too easy with your paranoia.”
“It’s not paranoia, Dimple. I think it’s idealistic to trust people so completely. That’s why I don’t like going to parties.” He could feel her watching him in that sardonic, Dimple way she had—eyes calculating, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Yeees?”
She stepped through the sliding door, and he followed, pulling it shut behind them, hoping to deter any wasted college students from following. They made their way to a grove of bushes off to the right, the breeze just cool enough to provide some respite from the thick, soupy heat of bodies inside. “Well, see, I don’t think it’s idealistic. People go to parties all the time to just kick back and chill. For me it’s about getting away from the constant pressure I felt at home to be someone I wasn’t. Didn’t you ever feel the need to let go of stress?”
Rishi laced his hands behind his head. There was a small bench beyond the grove of bushes, sheltered from the rest of the yard and the house. He went to it, and Dimple followed.