When Dimple Met Rishi(8)
Rishi’s brow cleared. He could handle this. “Okay. You’re probably right.”
“One minute. Ma se baat karo.” A scratching sound as he handed the phone to Ma.
His mother’s voice was eager, bright. “Tell me, Rishi, what did you think of her?”
Hmm. What had he thought of her? To be honest, he’d been too crazy nervous to really process everything he’d seen. He’d gotten out of the parking garage and was thinking about getting a bottle of water at Starbucks. And then she was just there, right in front of him, like some sort of huge cosmic coincidence personified. Sitting on that fountain, face upturned, drinking in the sunshine like a flower, looking completely beatific. Her curls had been wild, desperate for a comb. She’d been dressed in a kurta top, which he liked.
But the way she’d looked at him—at first aghast, then hostile. And after that, totally and utterly murderous.
Rishi was really lucky all she’d done was throw iced coffee at him. She looked like she’d be capable of much more, like breaking his nose or a brutal fishhook. “Uh . . . she seemed . . . spirited.”
His mother’s peals of laughter traveled down the phone line. “Spirited! Good, good. Pappa would have said the same thing about me twenty-five years ago.”
Sure, Rishi thought. But Ma’s spirit had a soft, tender underside. Dimple Shah he wasn’t so sure about. Something about the way her brown eyes spit fire behind those huge glasses . . . “Yeah. Maybe I should go, try to find her at the dorms.” The prospect made him uneasy, but the longer he waited, the worse this was going to be. Maybe once he explained himself and showed her what he’d brought, she’d be flattered. Maybe they could have a laugh about the whole thing.
If this was San Francisco, Dimple would have to invest in some heavy-duty pepper spray. She’d barely been in the city fifteen minutes and already she’d been accosted by a predator. Maybe she and Celia could take some Krav Maga classes on the side, learn how to use their attacker’s size against them. Not that that dude had been very big. He was sort of built like Chris Messina, on the shorter side and slim, but strong-looking. She wondered what his deal was. In any case, iced coffee or not, Dimple could’ve taken him. She was no delicate flower.
Adjusting her messenger bag, Dimple made her way to the coed dorms. She supposed she could bring her small suitcase in at some other time; she was too tired right now. (Thank you, psycho mugger, for the lack of caffeine.) She could set her stuff down, look into getting a map of the campus, and then head over to that pizza place to wait for Celia.
? ? ?
The dorm was a tiny rectangular room, just big enough for two twin beds and two desks. The inexplicable scent of wood shavings hung heavy in the air. The walls were institutional gray-brown; the carpet, ditto. On the headboard of one of the beds, some past student had inscribed, with a Sharpie and a careful hand: ipsa scientia potestas est. Dimple loved it, all of it, instantly and with an unadulterated passion.
It was beginning. Her freedom, her independence, her period of learning—about herself, about the world, about her career. She was finally doing it. Here she wouldn’t be Dimple Shah, wayward, Americanized daughter of immigrant parents; she’d be just Dimple Shah, future web developer. People would judge her on her brain, not her lack of makeup. There would be no cliques like high school. Everyone was here of their own volition, to learn, to teach, to work together.
She sent a quick text to Mamma and Papa:
Got here safely! Dorm is nice. Papa, please take your medicine—and no more sweets today!!
Then, smiling, she shut the door behind her and made her way past chattering students, here for various summer programs, down to the main lobby.
Rishi spotted her again in the main lobby, looking at the rack of dusty campus maps. He hadn’t even checked into his room yet; he was so nervous he was going to miss her, he’d run to his car to get the gift and then run back here to find her. All the Insomnia Con students had been given rooms in the same dorm, so it wasn’t hard to figure out where she would be.
But now, standing in the somewhat empty lobby, he wondered if she’d freak out again. She didn’t seem to be holding beverages of any kind, which was good. This time, Rishi thought, he’d be sedate. Chill. Breezy.
Rishi smoothed his hair back, adjusted his shirt collar, and started forward.
The maps all looked ancient, but Dimple supposed they would have to do. She grabbed one at random and turned around.
And there he was again, mouth open, staring at the back of her head.
“What the heck?” Before she’d even fully thought about it, Dimple had reached out and sliced him with the edge of the map.
“Ow!” Clutching his forearm, the psycho staggered backward a few steps.
Huh. Not much of a predator if all it took was a paper cut to deter him. “Why are you following me?” Dimple took what she hoped was a menacing step forward, map held out as a weapon.
The boy eyed it warily, letting his arms drop. He was dressed pretty sanely for a psychotic attacker, Dimple thought, in a button-down blue shirt (sporting a wet patch still; her coffee, she guessed proudly) with the sleeves rolled up and well fitted jeans. His eyes, the color of deep caramel, were almost innocent-looking. It just showed, you could never trust appearances. “Well, I was about to explain that when you attacked me.”