When Dimple Met Rishi(79)
She swallowed and turned to Rishi in the wings. “I don’t think I can do this.” She clenched her hand around her tote bag that held her costume and makeup. “Seriously. Maybe we should just back out now.”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just say ‘no’ to me?”
He looked sheepish. “No?”
That made her smile. For a second. “Look, maybe we can tell Max I’m sick. He can’t dock points for that, right? It’s, like, an act of God or nature or something. Even insurance companies realize those are—”
Rishi put both hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath. She copied him without even thinking about it and felt instantly slightly calmer. “We’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice low and rumbling and soothing. “I promise.” His honey eyes didn’t lie.
She nodded, and, hand in hand, they walked to the dressing rooms in the back.
? ? ?
If backstage had been heavy with hushed silence, the dressing rooms were mirthful, dizzying chaos. The smell of hairspray and cologne was like a physical presence, pressing itself between people, wrapping its arms around Dimple. People peered in mirrors that had big, round lightbulbs studded around them, putting off enough heat so that the light hoodie Dimple wore began to feel like a snowsuit. She unzipped it and took it off, looking around at the various stages of costumed finery. “Wow.”
“No kidding,” Rishi said, looking around. His eyes sparkled in the lights. “It looks like a bunch of theater majors in here.”
A boy dressed like a mime—his face white with makeup, lips done in rosy red—turned to them from the next chair. “Hey.”
It took Dimple about ten full seconds to realize it was José. She laughed. “Hey! Nice costume.”
He grinned, his teeth slightly yellow against the white paint on his face. “Thanks. This is nothing, though. Apparently some of our classmates got the hookup from some theater camp peeps. That’s why some of the costumes are so amazing.” He waved his hand over at a brown-haired girl, Lyric. She wore a long-sleeved leotard, with a big plume of peacock feathers fanning out from her butt area, studded with glittering blue and green sequins and trailing black-sequined feather boas from her wrists. She looked ethereal.
Dimple looked around. Celia wasn’t anywhere; none of the Aberzombies were. She wondered what was going on. Then she was distracted—some of the guys had whole cases of professional-looking makeup and actual rolls of makeup brushes. Dimple had her Covergirl stuff she’d had since ninth grade, when Mamma had forced her to buy some for the Diwali celebration. She looked in alarm at Rishi. “How do they even know how to use this stuff?”
He leaned toward her. “We don’t need that,” he said confidently. “We have sheer talent. They’re obviously overcompensating.”
One of the übercostumed guys passing by threw them a dirty look, and Dimple pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “Well, I guess I’d better get started.” She sat on the stool nearest her, setting her bag on the table. Rishi took the stool next to hers.
They were already wearing most of their costumes. Luckily, Anushka Sharma and Shah Rukh Khan wore pretty simple outfits in the official “Dance Pe Chance” video—athletic clothes for her, pants and a jacket and shirt for him. It was just another reason Ashish’s idea to use the song had been so genius. Now Dimple could focus on not blundering the steps and falling off the stage.
“Celia isn’t here,” Rishi said simply.
Dimple didn’t answer the question he wasn’t asking. “Nope.” She concentrated on plugging in her hair straightener—which she’d borrowed from a girl down the hall who was going to be wearing a wig tonight anyway—and laid out her makeup. Powder foundation, eyeliner (not kaajal; Mamma would be so disappointed), and lip gloss. She tried not to think about what was probably happening out there: The show didn’t start for another forty-five minutes, but some of the early birds in the audience would be filtering in. Each segment was supposed to be no longer than five minutes, and Dimple and Rishi didn’t come on till the middle, so they probably had close to two hours of waiting left. Urrrrgh.
“I heard the audience is supposed to be a mix of art and theater students attending summer camps,” Louis, a quiet, blond boy said. He was sitting on Dimple’s right, dressed in a suit with a red handkerchief poking out from his pocket. A black top hat, white gloves, and a bouquet of colorful plastic flowers sat on the counter at his elbow.
“Magic?” Dimple guessed, nodding toward his accoutrements.
He nodded. “I’ve been doing it since I was seven.” He nodded toward his partner, who was sitting beside him, playing on his phone. “Connor’s my assistant. I’ll saw him in half at the end. I think we have a real shot at winning.”
Dimple’s spreadsheet said otherwise. Magic was a notoriously poor performer. “Cool.”
“What about you guys?” he asked, glancing over at Rishi, who, totally unself-consciously, was practicing a few moves in front of the mirror.
“We’re doing a dance to an Indian song,” Dimple said, feeling a flurry of nerves in her belly.
Louis’s eyes drifted to Rishi’s gyrating form. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Good luck.”