When Dimple Met Rishi(14)
“Look at them,” she whispered to Celia, refocusing her attention on the dozens of other Insomnia Con students milling in the same general direction as her and Celia, 98 percent of whom were male. “We can totally take them, right?”
Celia made a sort of grunting noise from behind her Starbucks that sounded like “toma,” but Dimple was fairly certain was meant to be a “totally.” It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and the girl was barely awake. Dimple got the impression that Celia was even less of a morning person than she was. Celia blinked and looked around, a little bit more animatedly. “Hey, I don’t see your friend Rishi.”
Dimple didn’t want to admit it, but she’d noticed that too. “Me either.”
“Huh. Maybe he dropped out.”
Dimple wondered why that thought sat like a ball of lead in her stomach.
He’d watched her go out the front doors with Celia, waited five minutes, and then headed out after them. He didn’t want to be a pain in the ass; Rishi knew when he wasn’t wanted.
Ma and Pappa had called for an update, and it had been so difficult to tell them the truth: that it probably wasn’t going to work out with him and Dimple. She just . . . wasn’t where he was. He could tell they were disappointed, but they’d tried to put on a brave front. And when they’d asked if he wanted to go back home, he’d seriously considered it. But then he’d decided to stay. It was too late to get a refund anyway, and besides, he didn’t want Dimple Shah to think he’d come all this way simply for her. Even if in a way he had. So his plan now was to go to Insomnia Con, learn a bit about web development, and then head off to MIT. He had nothing to lose.
He walked in the weird misty fog listening to the students around him chatter like mockingbirds. He wondered how it could be that he just never fit in with his peers. It had always been that way; apart from a few friends in the comic book fan community, he’d never really been able to relate.
And it wasn’t just that he took things so seriously when it came to being a good son or following the path his parents had so carefully laid down for him. It was something inside him that felt different. Off. Like he never truly showed the world who he was except when he was making art.
But he’d known since the beginning that being an artist was a phase. It had to be. Creative pursuits had no place in the practicalities of real life. That’s just how things worked, and Rishi was fine with it. Perhaps it was the burden of being the first son; Ashish certainly didn’t have similar compunctions about his sports. But the thing was, there was already a framework for athletes to make it. Ashish could use his skills to put himself through college, to really make a name for himself, to open more doors. He was that good. Rishi was good too, but who really took comic book art seriously? People didn’t tune in en masse to watch comic book artists sketch on TV, did they? They didn’t have Super Sketch parties. Exactly.
Rishi looked up—and blinked. Was this some weird conjuring of his imagination? But no, up ahead was a giant banner on which someone had drawn the manga characters Madoka and Sayaka from the anime Madoka Magica as students with SFSU T-shirts and satchels. SFSU ART DEPARTMENT, it said underneath. At a table in front of the banner, students with hipster glasses and uncombed hair hung out, talking about whether Ferd Johnson was really the genius behind the 1920s comic strip Moon Mullins. Rishi blinked again. As if by some weird art law of attraction, he found his legs carrying him forward.
The male student, reedy and tall with a healthy smattering of acne across both cheeks, looked up and smiled. “Hey, man. Interested in a degree in art or graphic design?”
No, Rishi thought. Absolutely not. “Maybe,” he found himself saying instead. “I’m into comic book art.”
“Cool, me too.” The reedy guy grinned in a now we can be pals way. “Hey, you should come to Little Comic Con. SFSU art students put it on, and it’s open to the public. Some of our professors will be there too, and we’re going to have a few big names.” He thrust a flyer at Rishi. “My name’s Kevin Keo. Just look for me at the manga booth.”
Rishi raised his eyebrows. “Cool.” He looked down at the flyer. Little Comic Con was a week away. “I’ll try to be there.”
“Great. I think you’d really enjoy it. That’s what convinced me to apply to SFSU’s art program.” Kevin smiled.
“Thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “Crap. I gotta go.” Rishi hurried toward the Spurlock building. Argh. He was going to be late.
Dimple was having a crisis. The good kind, if such a thing even existed.
All around her, people sat, waiting expectantly for the man at the front of the lecture hall to begin talking. Some of them looked cocky—like that group over there, with the two boys who looked like they’d stepped out of a hipster clothing catalog, and the blond girl who wore a perpetual sneer as if she were too good for all of this. One of the guys, the Indian one, caught her eye and made a creepy-gross gesture with his tongue, then burst out laughing when she looked away, heart thumping. Others, like the group of boys in the very back, all about her height or shorter and some with their baby fat still intact, looked terrified.
Dimple glanced over at Celia and wondered how she and Celia appeared to others. She felt electrified, ready. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said for the sixth time since they’d sat down. The instructor at the front, with a full beard and dressed in a colorful vest, was fiddling around with the mic on his podium. There must be about fifty people in here, easy.