Page 46 of Devil in Disguise

“Are Indians good at chemistry? Sorry,” Dyma said as Pavani looked surprised. “I’m from North Idaho. There were maybe twenty people in my class who weren’t white, and they were all Latino, I think. It’s not exactly a melting pot.”

“Indians,” Pavani pronounced, “are good ateverything.Well, everything in a classroom, anyway. You want to know what real social ostracism feels like? Try being a finalist at the National Spelling Bee two years in a row, with your glasses and your braces and your dark arm hair. Almost all the finalists are Indian.Allthe champions are Indian. It’s, like, the ultimate nerd prize for Indians. White girls do cheerleading. Indian girls do spelling bees.”

“Why?” Dyma asked.

“Think ‘workbooks.’ There’s no such thing as a summer vacation if you’re a Desi kid. There are workbooks. Indian Americans have the highest per capita income of any ethnic group in the United States. Education, baby. It’s all about those degrees. You noticeI’mnot at Harvard, either. Disappointing, but I can redeem myself with a junior transfer to the Ivy League.” Another spoon-salute. “No pressure.”

“So I’m guessing you don’t play video games.”

“Nope.” It was chipper, though, and Dyma laughed.

“So what happens now?” Pavani asked. “With the roommates?”

“Oh.” Dyma tried to match Pavani’s breezy tone. “I had a meeting with the Housing Office today. I think they were going to kick me out of the dorms, because of the whole ‘hitting the roommates’ thing—which never happened—but I pulled it out.”

“So …” Pavani said.

“So,”Dyma said, “the guy told me that there’s not much they can do, not if nobody hit anybody—like, gee, sorry I didn’t escalate enough—because the dorms are full. If I can find somebody who wants to do a roommate swap, though, they’ll approve it. How do I do that? You can’t exactly post a personal ad saying, ‘Want to live with bitches? Here’s your chance!’ Maybethey’llask for a roommate swap, but I can’t exactly ask them to do it. Plus, there’s the fact that I don’t know anybody. Except my neighbors, who, as you’ve pointed out, are guys. They’d be down, but I doubt that’s what Mr. Greene had in mind.”

Pavani stopped eating and said, “Wait. Are you …”

“What?”

“You know.” Pavani moved her spoon in a circle. She had more spoon-moves than anybody Dyma had ever met. “Is it some kind of a … ménage thing?”

Dyma stared at her. “What are youreading?What, there’s no line between virginity and the full kink lifestyle? No. They’refriends.I told you, I have a boyfriend!”

“Oh. Sorry,” Pavani said. “I just thought, well … there are so many books with that, and I’m never sure how much is real. I get surprised all the time by what people do, so I just figure, big wide world out there, right?”

“Notthatbig,” Dyma said. “Also, I’m a virgin. Well, technically. I think. Depending how you count.”

“Oh.” Pavani considered that. “So the cattle rancher is …”

Imaginary,Dyma could tell she was thinking.

“Patient,” she said. “Long story. So anyway, if you hear of anybody who wants to switch rooms anddoesn’tmind living with bitches, hit me up, OK? What are your roommates like? Better than mine, I’ll bet.”

“I don’t have any,” Pavani said. “I have a single.”

“Really?” Dyma might be only four weeks into her college career, but she’d been here long enough, and seen into enough dorm rooms, to know that nobody had a single. “Why?”

“Not because of my foot odor problem or whatever you’re thinking,” Pavani said. “Because my best frienddidget into the Ivy League—Dartmouth.Justout of the top ten. And, of course, she was Indian, so—double whammy. My parents thought that anybody else I roomed with here, especially anybody white, would lead me into temptation. Drinking. Sex. Lack of focus on my studies. Possibly heroin. And you can’t ask for an Indian roommate, which they thought was shocking. I explained that it would be discrimination, and how would they like it if white people could request white roommates, and they still didn’t get it. But do you think—” She hesitated.

“What?”

“You might not want to,” Pavani said. “But if they said yes, you could move intomyroom. They’re all the same size, and it’s kind of lonely, honestly. Oh, wait. What are your grades? And what’s your major?”

“No grades yet, remember?” Dyma said, devoutly grateful that she hadn’t taken those midterms yet, given her disastrous study record thus far. “Aeronautical and Astronautical Engineering. And my grades are—were—pretty perfect. National Merit finalist. I got into MIT, if that helps. Couldn’t make it happen, though. Money.”

Pavani had sat up straighter. “Seriously?”

“Yep. How about you?”

“Bioengineering.”

Dyma’s heart had started to race. Now that she could see an exit ramp, she longed to travel down it, full speed ahead. “Do you think they’d go for it?”

“I have to ask,” Pavani said. “They’re not, like, the ‘ask for forgiveness, not permission’ type. It’s all about permission.”