Sheetal wiped her oily fingers with a napkin. “Yeah, it probably wasn’t anything.”
“Admit it,” Minal said lightly, “the only song you really care about is Dev’s.”
“Maybe.” Sheetal laughed. Just thinking about Dev still made her all go mushy inside, like a toasted marshmallow.
“You’re doing that dorky smile thing again,” Minal said. She made a face. “How are you two not sick of each other yet?”
The bass-packed music abruptly shut off, and Radhikafoi’s voice boomed from the speakers. A microphone squealed, making everyone jump. “And now for your listening pleasure, a live number from Edison’s own Kishore Kumar, Dev Merai!”
Dev Merai, who was, for lack of a better word, really, really hot, with his longish hair and model’s cheekbones. Dev Merai, who’d only moved from Toronto at the beginning of sophomore year but always had one girlfriend or another—until the Tuesday in March he’d offered Sheetal a cordial cherry and asked if she read any webcomics, because he’d just finished a really good one.
She knew people like Bijal and Vaibhav wondered what he saw in her. But as Dev winked at her from the stage, she couldn’t care less.
He grinned at the crowd, then stepped close to the mike and launched into a Hindi song from a classic movie. It was a little unnerving how much he really did sound like Kishore Kumar, one of the old-time icons of Bollywood music. His voice was rich and melancholy, perfect for romantic lyrics about despondent poets and doomed lovers.
Sheetal closed her eyes and let herself slip into the song. Gods, his voice. It serenaded her, enfolding her until she started to melt like warm chocolate.
She fought to keep her expression neutral, in case Dad was watching—Dikri, no boys until you’re thirty-five! Or, gods forbid, Radhikafoi—Beta, I need to check his astrological chart and his family background and . . .
Dev sailed into the refrain.
It felt like starlight. . . .
No, that was the astral melody trilling in her ears again, beckoning her toward other wishes, other worlds.
Sheetal’s grin wilted. So much for having imagined it. The starsong was back.
It was hard keeping secrets when yours was much bigger than anyone else’s, with their latest crush or the test they’d cheated on or the party they’d sneaked out to or the weed they’d furtively smoked in the park. When your secret was as vast as the constellation you couldn’t help but stare at every night before you went to sleep.
Especially, Sheetal thought bitterly, her eyes open now as the distant strains of starsong grew louder, when that secret was you.
No one in the entire hall said a word, only listened to Dev, enrapt. Even Minal looked impressed. They were probably all pretending he was singing right to them, that his gaze sweeping the crowd saw something special in them everyone else had missed. His eyes were almost dark enough to be black, and if Sheetal hadn’t been trying so hard to ignore the starsong, she might have thought silly things about falling into them. Maybe even about kisses and stealing some.
But the starry melody remained, an undeniable undertone, and her thumb smarted where she’d ripped at the cuticle.
She had to get outside. Had to find out what was going on.
Even before Dev’s last note had died away, the party exploded into applause and cheers and calls for an encore. He shook his head and hopped off the stage, right into an adoring swarm of aunties and uncles.
Sheetal scanned the crowd. No sign of Radhikafoi or Dad. If she kept her head down, she might actually make it out of here without anyone stopping her.
Spice-laden aromas drifted toward them. “Oh, good, food time!” Minal said. “Come on.”
“But—” Sheetal began, just a second too late. A bangle-covered arm had grabbed hers and was towing her toward the buffet, where waiters had finished uncapping the steaming dishes. Even Dev’s admirers were abandoning him to get in line.
As Dev jogged up, Minal asked him, “So how much did you hate that? Having to sing on command like a trained parrot?”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it. You know how showing us off is basically the desi parent Olympics.” His voice turned falsetto with an Indian accent as he rolled his eyes, grinning at Sheetal. “‘Oh, my son, he will be the next superstar!’ Embarrassing, but what you are going to do?”
But Sheetal didn’t know. No one had ever shown her off. And with the astral song competing with the buzz of a hundred overlapping conversations and the thunk, thunk, thunk of the Bollywood bass, not to mention the thudding of her own heart, she couldn’t concentrate. The walls felt like they were getting smaller and smaller, or maybe it was her throat; the playful words she might have said got trapped there on the way up.
She widened her eyes in a way she hoped screamed for help. But Minal was too busy loading her plate with what had to be at least half the buffet to notice. Not knowing what else to do, Sheetal started filling her own plate.
“You really are good,” Minal told Dev, carrying her mountain of food to a nearby table. She grinned wickedly. “I thought you were just boasting.”
Sheetal sat down, too, staring at her meal of fluffy naan, vegetable biryani, aloo mattar, creamy dal makhani, and raita. She could still go chase down the starsong, but now, with Dev watching, all Radhikafoi’s old prohibitions strapped her to her chair as securely as a seat belt. Always blend into the background. Never let anyone suspect what you are.
“You even have your own fan club,” she teased instead.
Dev dropped down next to her, his smile crooked. Sheetal’s stomach turned a series of cartwheels, and every part of her was incredibly aware of his knee pressing against hers. “Some fan club—I can’t even compete with the food.” He found her hand under the table, driving all other thoughts out of her head. “I bet they would have stayed if you’d gone up there.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice how sweaty her palm was. She never should have told him she sang. “You, though—we should put you on one of those so you think you can sing shows where everybody sucks except for, like, five people, and even then, three of them are just okay.”
Great. Now she was babbling.
“Okay, enough.” Minal leaned forward on her elbows. “Save all that mutual admiration stuff for when I’m not around to barf everywhere. On to much more important things—like the great couch quest! Which, by the way, I’m going to win.”
“You just love funding my comic habit, don’t you?” asked Dev. “Out with it, Sheetal. What’d she say this time?” He shot Minal a sidelong glance. “I’ve got my eye on the new Kibuishi comic, you know.”
“That’s funny,” said Minal, all glittering makeup and arch attitude, “since you’re going to be buying it for me.”
Normally Sheetal would be giggling with them. Some people collected stamps or dolls, even cars. Radhikafoi collected couches. Well, sort of. She’d buy one, decide she hated it after a few days, and return it. And then she’d buy a new one. It was so predictable, Dev and Minal had started laying bets on the reason why three months ago.
But Sheetal still heard the high, sweet melody in her ears, airy as an enchantment, beckoning, beckoning.
“Well?” Minal pressed. “It’s too burgundy, isn’t it? The last one was too blue, so it has to be.”