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Nicole rolled her head toward Shanti. At least, she thought she rolled her head. It was getting hard to tell what was what. “You’re not that kind of Indian, Bollywood.”
“Whatever,” Shanti replied. “Hey. Did you just see a purple dinosaur? He was wearing a boater hat.”
“Nice. I love a stylish dinosaur,” Petra murmured.
“I had a dinosaur when I was little. A stuffed dinosaur named Mr. Wiggles,” Tiara said. “One night, I found him under the covers, down, you know, there.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think he did the nasty to me.”
Nicole patted her mouth. “My lips are spongy. Anybody else’s lips spongy?”
Tiara grabbed Petra’s arm. Her voice was low and urgent. “Mr. Wiggles. I put him in the back of the closet. I couldn’t look at him after that. He was a bad, bad dinosaur. What if he finds me? What if he finds me here?”
Petra held Tiara’s face in her large hands. “You’re safe. Ride the wave, my Mississippi flower. You’re on a smooth, pretty wave, just floating.”
“Okay,” Tiara said, settling back. “Okay.”
“Isn’t that nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you see the stars up there? Can you make out any shapes?”
“Yeah. I can.”
“What do you see?”
Tiara began to whimper. “A pervy dinosaur.” She leapt up and made a serpentine run for the jungle.
“Should we go after her?” Petra asked.
“Go after who?” Nicole asked.
Petra tried to remember, but her mind would not stay on task. “I don’t know.”
Shanti felt the blades of grass petting her ears. “I’m not sure what kind of Indian I am. I’m not really sure what I am at all anymore.”
“We’re not just sashes and states,” Nicole said on a sigh.
“Or gender,” Petra murmured. “Or bodies.”
“I’m sort of everything all at once,” Nicole whispered.
And then they were silent, lost to dreaming.
Shanti was a kite flying high in the sky. She’d never felt so weightless. At first, it was terrifying — where would she go? How would she get back? What if she were to drift away unnoticed? But soon she found she liked the feeling of not knowing. She was in control of her thoughts, and that was all she really needed. A strong tug brought her back.
Down below, Mrs. Mirabov held her string. “Comrade Singh, you are disgrace. Come down at once. We have work to do if you are not to be total failure like high-waisted, acid-wash jeans.”
“But I don’t want to. I like it up here.”
“You will fail, Shanti Singh. You need the winning. As yourself, you are not enough.”
Shanti the Kite wobbled and dipped. She feared that the wind might upend her and she would crash to earth and break into a million small splinters. Everyone would see. In a frightened voice, she called to Mrs. Mirabov. “Hold me up!”
“Only if you do as I tell you.”
“Okay,” Shanti agreed.
Mrs. Mirabov tightened her hold on both the string and the kite’s tail, and the kite went taut. Shanti felt it as a stabbing pain between her shoulder blades.
