Star Daughter(4)

The starry music sounded again, a command where before it had been an invitation. Dev’s laugh fell away; Radhikafoi’s warnings about staying off the radar faded. No matter how weird it looked, Sheetal had to answer. “Speaking of dessert,” she blurted, “I should find Dad. I’ll be back.”

Dev nodded, obviously confused. Before Minal could say anything, Sheetal bolted.

Keeping close to the walls, she followed the insistent strains of song to the exit. What was happening? The music had come and gone over the years, but it had never demanded her attention like this, adamant as an unfed cat, and definitely not when she was in public.

“Sheetal!” a familiar voice called, one that made Sheetal freeze. “There you are, beta. I was just thanking your papa for bringing the cake.” Radhikafoi hastened down the hallway, a category-three cyclone in a hot pink sari. “It looks—”

She broke off in midsentence, her eyes widening.

Before Sheetal could dodge, stubby fingers closed around her chin and yanked it down. She wanted to die. If Vaibhav or Bijal happened to be watching, they’d probably tell everyone at school she had lice.

Her auntie clucked her disapproval. “Dikri,” she whispered in Gujarati, “your roots—” Without pausing, she switched to English, as if that would somehow keep anyone who might walk by from understanding. “Your roots are showing.”

“What?” Sheetal wrenched away even as her pulse sped up. Not possible. She’d just dyed her roots. Radhikafoi was being paranoid. She had to be.

“This is no laughing matter!” Her auntie grabbed the dupatta from around Sheetal’s neck and tried to put it on her head instead. “If someone were to see—”

Sheetal barely evaded her. “Radhikafoi, people are staring.”

“Fine!” her auntie snapped, draping the dupatta back over Sheetal’s shoulders. “But you need to get your condition under control as soon as you get home. We have Maneesh’s engagement party this weekend!”

Sheetal nodded, two thoughts hammering through her mind. Had the dye really not taken? And had anyone else seen?

Oh, gods, had Dev seen?

He kept talking about wanting to hear her sing and writing a song for her. He was way too close to her secret as it was.

The secret that made her blood thrum in time with the heavens.

Maybe she should tie on the dupatta like a headscarf, even if it made her look like a village girl. If anyone saw—if they suspected . . .

This was why, as her auntie always reminded her, she couldn’t let herself be noticed at school, why she could never give anyone a reason to look too closely, why she would always have to hide.

Even though part of her wanted to let it all show.

Another guest came up to Radhikafoi, and Sheetal seized the chance to duck into the restroom across the hall. She met her panicked reflection in the mirror and stared. And stared some more.

It was impossible. She’d dyed her hair a deep, durable, normal black three nights ago. And yet tonight, right at her scalp, were the beginnings of roots.

Shimmering, sparkling, defiantly silver roots.

The fear she’d shoved down welled back up.

What was she going to do if the dye didn’t work anymore? White hair was one thing; some people turned to bleach to get that look. But shimmering silver? Not so much. Nobody’s hair glowed.

It was as if her hair was resisting being disguised.

The silver voices swept over Sheetal again, stilling her thoughts. Her heart leaped in response.

Like an invocation, the melody resounded within her, eerie and ethereal. Only a ceiling, at most a roof, separated her from her birthright. All she had to do was step outside, the music promised, and it would be hers. Her fingers grasped for phantom instruments, primed to dance over newly tuned strings.

Her voice bubbled up in her throat, so close to cresting over her lips.

Someone opened the restroom door. “Sheetal?” Minal called.

The sound of her name spoken over a flushing toilet, unwelcome as ice water, broke the spell, a brutal reminder of where Sheetal was and the roomful of people just outside. She clamped her mouth shut.

“You never came back,” Minal pointed out. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s the song again, isn’t it?”

Instead of answering, Sheetal hugged her. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking on me.”

The final chords of the silvery song lingered on her tongue like a layer of frost, and she rushed to swallow them. They would have to wait. As much as it hurt, she would have to wait.

She pressed her hands to her face, shutting everything out for the span of a couple of breaths. Then she rearranged her part to bury her pale roots, doused the light flickering at her core, and stepped out into the hallway, ready to play at being ordinary again. Just as normal and human as Radhikafoi and Dad and the whole world expected her to be.

Radhikafoi never talked about her sister-in-law, as though silence could scrub the memory from Sheetal’s heart and, more importantly, from her DNA. Her distasteful “condition.” As though what her auntie refused to accept didn’t exist.

But no matter how hard Sheetal tried to hide it, no matter how much Radhikafoi wanted to deny it, she would always be half a star.

Always.





2


An hour after fighting off Radhikafoi and faking her way through the rest of the party, Sheetal lay back on the cool grass behind her house. Alone at last—just her, an industrial-size bag of cheese puffs, a rolled-up hoodie for a pillow, a reading light, and a library book.