The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic Read online

  For my students and colleagues at Vermont College of Fine Arts

  —U. K.

  Rose petal milk shakes to all those who read this in early drafts. You know who you are, and I love you all. Caitlyn Dlouhy, thank you for making it possible for my characters to dance again, and thanks to all at Atheneum Books for Young Readers.

  Chapter One

  KHSV

  DINI AND MADDIE, BEST FRIENDS forever, dance around the room in swirls of green and silver, silver and green. Green and silver scarves, skirts, pants, tunics, shoes, and sandals lie scattered all over Maddie’s room. Stripy notebooks and pens are heaped on the desk, along with a jumble of jewelry.

  Dini is a fan of Dolly Singh, Bollywood movie star extraordinaire, whose signature colors, as everyone knows, are green and silver, silver and green. Dini is a Dolly fan, so Maddie is with Dini. That’s how best friends are.

  Faster and faster they go. One. Two. One-two-three. One. Two. Back-two-three and forward-two-three and one. Two.

  A bangle clatters to the floor. “Oops,” says Maddie.

  “Just like Dolly,” says Dini. They laugh together.

  It’s true. Dolly does drip jewelry, literally, wherever she goes. She will shortly be scattering her fabulous baubles right here in the Washington, D.C., area when she and her own true love, Mr. Chickoo Dev, arrive for the American premiere of Dolly’s latest, greatest movie, Kahan hai Sunny Villa? or Where Is Sunny Villa? KHSV for short.

  Dini quits dancing to hand Maddie’s bangle back to her. “Maddie,” she says, “I’ve got something for you.” She flings the trailing end of the scarf over her shoulder and digs in her suitcase. “I meant to give it to you yesterday.”

  A shoe flies out, and a green stripy sock. “Where is it?” Dini says.

  “Where’s what?”

  “This. Look!”

  Maddie looks. Maddie screams.

  The door bursts open. It’s only Gretchen, Maddie’s mom. “Everything okay?” she says, looking around the room. Satisfying herself that no one has died, she exits.

  Maddie rolls her eyes. Dini shrugs. Of course everything is okay. Screaming is completely justified.

  Dini’s gift is a photograph, signed and inscribed in glittery ink by Dolly herself: “Salaam-namaste to Maddie, my dearest friend and fan. Hugs and kisses, Dolly Singh.”

  “Oh!” says Maddie. “Salaam-namaste! Am I saying it right?”

  Dini’s not always certain how to say things right in Hindi, but little things like language shouldn’t get in the way of enjoying a really good fillum, what true fans call these movies. “I knew you’d love it,” she says.

  “Is that your house?” says Maddie, looking closely at the picture of Dolly. She’s dancing in front of a house whose funny-looking shutters give it a blinky look.

  “Your house.” The words halt the moment and stretch it like a rubber band. The moment gathers itself and moves on, but it leaves Dini a bit stunned. “Um, yes,” she says.

  The different places in her life are mixing and merging instead of staying firmly on the ground as places are supposed to do. Here, for instance, is Takoma Park, Maryland, a hop and a skip by Metrorail from Washington, D.C., the nation’s capital.

  And there is Swapnagiri, the little town in the Blue Mountains of south India whose name means “Dream Mountain,” and Dini knows that it doesn’t disappoint. It’s where Dini now lives with her parents, and will live until Mom’s grant ends and they all come back to . . . to here.

  Here. There. Here. They swirl and whirl in Dini’s mind. She tries to shake off the dizzying effect. There is no time for dizziness.

  Maddie is talking about how she can’t wait to see all those amazing tea-gardens and houses and whatnot in the movie and how dreams can come true, never mind what anyone says, and isn’t that just soooo . . . ? She props Dolly’s picture up on her bookcase. “There, how’s that?”

  “Perfect,” says Dini automatically.

  It is perfect. It is. Dolly looks on top of the world up there, between a penny jar and a tangle of beads.

  Maddie dances some whirly-twirly steps that she ends on a sideways freeze with both arms stuck out. She looks like a person who has stepped out of an ancient Egyptian tomb painting.

  No-no-no, Dini thinks. That is not it. Not at all.

  “I wonder if we find just the right music . . .,” she says, trying to sound helpful and hopeful. She turns the volume up, so that Dolly’s voice comes pouring into the room. It’s a glorious voice, even in this demo audio cut from the movie soundtrack.

  “Haan-haan-haan, nahin-nahin!” sings Dolly in a catchy melody that underscores a stirring moment of decision. Dolly’s songs have a way of cutting right to the heart of Dini’s own feelings, yes-yes-yes all mixed up with no-no.

  Maddie circles around Dini waving a rainbow stripy scarf over her head with both hands. The gold accents on the scarf blur as the Egyptian person step turns into a belly dance of some kind. “How’s this?” Maddie demands. “Am I getting it? Close?”

  “Nahin-nahin!” Dolly sings.

  “Try it this way.” Dini shows her how to make V-shaped designs on the floor with one foot, then the other, before leaping forward with a hand extended, palm out.

  Then back and around

  and one more loop,

  and back and around

  and one more loop, and again

  and again, just

  one more loop

  and—hands together—

  sliiiide

  to a

  stop.

  “See?” She is breathless from it. “Want to try? You have to repeat and repeat and slide-slide-slide. It’s a pattern.” She has studied every single dance move in a dozen Dolly movies to come up with this combination.

  For a brief time, there is only the sound of ankle bells and bangles.

  This dance sequence needs to be exciting, and dreamy wonderful. But it also needs to be Dollyish, which means no Egyptian-tomb-painting steps.

  As they go down to dinner, help Maddie’s mom put plates out, pour juice, and pick a salad dressing, Dini frets. She can see that Maddie is worried too.

  “Did I do it wrong?” asks Maddie anxiously, blocking her mother’s attempts to add sunflower seeds to her salad.

  “No,” Dini says, although she wants to cry, No-no-no! Or does she mean yes-yes?

  It is possible that some of Dini’s confusion comes from traces of that odd feeling that travelers know as jet lag, which turns night into day and wakefulness into sleep. Maybe some of it is also because her family is scattered about like bits of Dolly’s flying finery. Dad came from India with Dini on that long-long-long flight, but he’s staying with a friend who runs a B&B a couple of blocks away. Mom, of course, is back in India taking care of the health and wellness of women in her little clinic.

  All of which makes perfect sense. So what’s the problem? Dini takes a moody bite of chicken salad and lettuce sandwich with some kind of mustardy spread that Maddie’s mom has made from scratch.

  She’s been looking forward to seeing Maddie again! To planning this dance. To being here for the grand premiere of KHSV. Nowhere in that looking forward was there even a hint of this mixed-up-ness. She tries to recover a squirt of mustard spread that has escaped from her sandwich, but it splats hopelessly onto the tablecloth.

  Chapter Two

  Worried

  THE MAIL SLOT IN THE front door jangles while Dini and Maddie are helping to clear breakfast away. A wad of letters falls with a thump onto the hallway tiles.

  “I’ll go get them,” says Maddie. She returns, waving a magazine at Dini.

  “Ooh!”

  They huddle togethe
r over the latest issue of Filmi Kumpnee: Your Magazine of the Stars.

  “I see that I’ll be putting the rest of this stuff away,” says Maddie’s mom.

  “There it is,” Dini says. “The grand opening of KHSV. I knew they’d have something about it.”

  From the “News ’n’ Views” column of Filmi Kumpnee: Your Magazine of the Stars (“now also online for your quick and EZ access”):

  Greetings to all our Dolly Singh fans! Our inside sources bring us word that fabulous filmi Dolly will soon be making her first American appearance, in the grand USA opening of—say it all together now—

  Kahan hai Sunny Villa? KHSV for short!

  Yes, we have word that this opening will be held at the Smithsonian Institution, an iconic place equal to the famous Starlite Studios in our own city of Bombay.

  But take heed, loyal fans. All is not well in Dollyland, because the word . . .

  Take a breath. The word is . . .

  Worried.

  Yes, we are worried about our Dolly. The marathon filming of KHSV has exhausted her. Now, on the brink of her important American movie premiere, she needs loving care. She needs pampering.

  She needs rose petal milk shakes.

  Do they serve them anywhere in America? Alas, no, our sources tell us.

  What-what-what? No rose petal milk shakes? How will Dolly cope with this deprivation?

  We may be worried, but we are also watchful. You be watchful too. Watch this spot for the latest revelations in the thrilling saga of Dolly’s conquest of the USA.

  “I never thought of that,” Dini says. “I’ve never seen rose petal milk shakes in restaurants here. Have you?”

  “Will she really fall apart without them?” Maddie wants to know.

  “I don’t know,” Dini has to admit. Who can tell what will make Dolly fall apart? A rattle in a car did the trick once. Who can tell what things, present or absent, might set off an earthshaking reaction in the mind of a sensitive star?

  Chapter Three

  A Dancing Effect

  DINI’S DAD HAS DONE CHAUFFEUR duty this morning, driving Dini and Maddie to Thurgood Marshall Airport, which everyone still calls Baltimore-Washington International, BWI for short. Now he stands with his arms folded, staring at the arrivals monitor as it gulps and fixes itself, no doubt in acknowledgment of Dolly’s imminent arrival.

  “There they are!” Dini cries. “Hi, Dolly! Dolly!” The sight of her erases doubt and worry. She is fine. Yes, Dolly is just fine!

  Look at her tripping along in her silver strappy sandals, valiantly shouldering an outsize purse. Her feet must be cold in those sandals.

  Dolly’s own true love, Mr. Chickoo Dev (a.k.a. Chickoo Uncle), follows in her silvery footsteps. He has on his usual charming yet absentminded smile, and he is pushing a cart across the gulf of gray carpeted floor between the Immigration and Customs counters.

  Dini and Maddie wave madly, but Dolly is still too far away to see them. If this were a movie, she’d be in close-up by now. But real life, alas, like a badly executed dance, often has pacing problems.

  That is one loaded cart. It looks a bit tippy. Dini longs to rush under the ropes and through the customs X-ray scanner and past the form-stamping people. She longs to run to Dolly and Chickoo Uncle so she can offer them a hand or two, and Maddie could run up with her, so that would be four hands in all, a good amount of help.

  But there is a counter and that big expanse of floor and the rope. And a forest of forbidding signs saying things like NO ENTRY and TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY.

  And now Dini has a jiggle in her toes and a wiggle in her feet and she can’t, can’t, can’t stay still because Dolly’s getting closer. She’s smiling at the Customs man and uh-oh! There goes an earring.

  Dini clutches Maddie, who is staring at Dolly as if she has seen a vision, which, of course, she has.

  “Wow,” Maddie whispers. “She’s so small.”

  “I know,” says Dini. That fact surprised her, too, when she first met Dolly. It is, of course, unreasonable to expect a movie star to arrive in real life floating across a theater-size screen.

  “Whoa!” Maddie cries as a necklace rips loose. “Airborne!”

  The Customs man picks up the flying jewels and hands them back to Dolly. He is not smiling.

  Kaching! Papers get stamped. Kachack!

  “That guy’s scary-looking,” Maddie says, rolling her eyes toward the Customs guy. He is frowny. And big. He towers over Dolly. He is now going through her suitcase, comparing its contents to a list of items on a form.

  Dolly taps her feet with beautiful impatience. Chickoo Uncle pats her arm.

  “I hope everything’s okay,” says Maddie.

  Dini has been hoping this very same hope. Now, for the first time ever since they became best friends in preschool, she wishes Maddie didn’t have this knack for knowing what she, Dini, is thinking.

  “I heard they’re really tough about security stuff at airports these days,” Maddie says. A few people in uniform begin to drift toward Dolly and Chickoo Uncle, there by the Customs scanner. A small, fearful knot ties itself up inside Dini, climbs into her throat, and settles there.

  Chapter Four

  “Don’t Arrest Her!”

  WHAT’S WITH ALL THE PEOPLE in uniform? They’re all milling around next to a sign that says in big letters SECURITY LEVEL: ELEVATED.

  Dini does know the meaning of the word “elevated.” It has something to do with being up high, like mountains. But what do they actually do when the security level elevates itself in this mountainous manner?

  “You don’t think . . .,” says Maddie, still in mind-reading mode, “that they think Dolly’s a threat of some kind?”

  “I don’t see why,” Dini mutters. She grabs at the rope to calm down. This is real life, not a movie. There is some perfectly simple reason for all those uniformed people. She concentrates on thinking positive—a warm, fuzzy technique in which Dolly is a big believer.

  And perhaps, after all, the warm fuzziness works, because now Chickoo Uncle and Dolly turn and walk away from the Customs screening place.

  But this dance has only just begun. Dolly drops a ring. “Oh no!” cry Dini and Maddie together.

  Stooping to pick up the ring makes Dolly stop. Chickoo Uncle nearly runs into her. “So sorry, darling,” he says.

  “No problem, darling,” says Dolly. They pause a minute to burble at each other, which is what people do when they are in love. If this were a movie, they’d be singing songs, which is also a fine way to show such affection.

  Just then Dolly spots Dini and her face lights up. “Dini, darling!” she calls in her ringing-singing voice. She blows a bouquet of kisses and smacks Chickoo Uncle on the side of his head.

  He turns in alarm and lets go of the tippy cart. He tries to recover control.

  Too late.

  In

  slow-

  motion

  time,

  the cart rolls.

  It rolls at an angle along the gray carpet. Then it tips beneath the weight of its bags, spilling them right at the feet of a man who is in a tearing hurry.

  The man trips. He falls. He crashes to the ground. He lets out an agonized yowl along with words that make Dini and Maddie exchange quick looks.

  “You didn’t hear that colorful language,” says Dad.

  “What colorful language?” Dini says.

  Dolly, too, ignores the colorfully worded man. She pats Chickoo Uncle on the shoulder as he struggles to right the cart. Then, instead of walking past the security desk and out of the ticketed-passengers area as well-behaved ticketed passengers are meant to do, Dolly turns toward Dini and holds both arms out to her in an extravagance of come-on-and-hug-me-my-best-of-all-fans. Which Dini is, she is, and only ten feet of carpet now lie between them.

  Wait a movie minute. An entire crowd of uniformed people has now descended upon Dolly and Chickoo Uncle. The baggage lies unattended all over the carpet. Chickoo Uncle sputters and blin
ks. Dolly takes a step back.

  “Dini,” Dad warns, but she ducks beneath the rope.

  She can’t help it. It’s all too much. She runs to Dolly, just as a silver and green sparkly necklace lands on the floor with a chan-chan-chan.

  “Dini, wait!” Maddie calls.

  “Oh no!” says Dad.

  Oh, yes, yes!

  Dini does not look back. She runs headlong into the crowd. “Don’t arrest her!” she cries. “She’s a famous movie star! How could you think . . . ? You don’t even know who she is!”

  This is the way, the marvelous way, in which Dolly told off the villain in her last great fillum, Mera Jeevan Tera Jeevan, or My Life Your Life, MJTJ for short. Not the exact words, of course. But the mood, the feeling—Dini lifts them right out of that epic scene.

  Everyone turns to look at her. She’s frozen the lot of them. They’re standing like statues, staring. Some of them with mouths open. But life is not a movie, and the moment transitions to a loud outbreak of—

  Gunfire? Thunder?

  No, laughter!

  Why is everybody laughing?

  A slightly nauseating understanding dawns on Dini. All these people—ticketed passengers, uniformed Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers, random passersby—are laughing at her. Even Chickoo Uncle and Dolly are wearing mildly amused looks.

  And what’s Dolly doing? She’s signing a piece of paper for a Customs person. She’s signing another paper for someone else. She’s signing someone’s sleeve.

  Autographs? When did Dolly-as-security-threat suddenly become a fanfest?

  The story unfolds in tattered fragments. A restaurant worker, a fan, spotted Dolly walking out of the gate. He quickly spread the word. One of the Customs guys remembered seeing a picture of her in the Washington Post Entertainment section. Something about the movie opening.

  An airport may be big and confusing to travelers, but it is a small world for the people who work there. In this airport, being so close to the nation’s capital, they are used to bigwigs. Politicians, financiers, and diplomats are a dime a dozen, and no one pays them much attention. Movie stars are rare, however. The airport staff are not about to turn up their noses at someone who is obviously—just look at her!—the real thing.