I had the last of my summer’s coke supply in my pocket. I hadn’t touched the stuff since before things had begun with Anita, and I hadn’t made up my mind about whether I wanted to make use of it today. But I was weighing what that bump or two could bring me. I shoved my hand in my pocket. Help was just a trip to the bathroom away.
* * *
? ? ?
Prachi and I disembarked from the escalator on the third floor to find Anita power-stomping through a swarm of photographers. Girls posed in front of white backdrops. （“Toss your dupatta, now, it’s your wedding day, best damn day of your life, that’s it.”） Wearing a black pencil skirt and blazer and a black almost-pleather top, Anita looked like a candle wax, whip-wielding dominatrix. I was not opposed to the sartorial choices. She waved a walkie-talkie.
“Guess who demanded a location switch-up at the last second,” she said through clenched teeth. “The photographers wanted to be near the retail people, so girls could have their ‘pics snapped.’” （Air quotes, demarcating the fobby phrasing.） “Oh gosh, hi, Prachi.”
The former pageant rivals hugged.
Prachi glanced curiously at a square-jawed photographer cleaning his lens in front of a banner reading raja rani photos: be royalty on your special day. Behind him, so many people’s special days collaged on top of one another. Dark brown eyes and richly hennaed hands stroking bearded jawlines.
“Ooh, I’d love a photo.” My sister pointed.
Something sputtered on Anita’s walkie-talkie.
“Linda?” Anita pressed her lips to the speaker. “All good?”
“Ooh, honey!” came the voice. “Just playing around! These are so new . . .”
Anita lowered the device and rolled her eyes. “This event liaison I have to coordinate with from the convention center is a moron; anyway, I tried to leave her with the interns . . .”
“The raffle?” I reminded Prachi.
“Yes, have you got your ticket?” Anita said. “You don’t want to miss that.”
“I think so . . .” Prachi dug in her purse, then pulled out the ticket with her left hand, which allowed Anita to squeal: “Oh, my god—can I see the ring?” She gripped my sister’s palm gleefully, staring at the ticket rather than the conflict-free diamond, memorizing the fated-to-win numbers. “It’s elegant; he did well, your man. Hey. I’ll catch you guys in a little, yeah?”
The play, beginning. I had hoped that at this moment my mind would go suddenly clear, my stomach would stop flipping, and I would automatically slide into the script, which we had so carefully written, edited, and rehearsed. But instead, I felt myself rapidly reduced to some liquid approximation of myself. I was going to fuck it up if I didn’t do something—
“Prachi,” I said. “Can I leave you here for your photo?”
I veered away and met Anita in front of the black curtain cordoning off a temporary office for her on the margins of the event. She pulled me through the drapery and reached under the metal folding table she’d set up as a desk, extracting a tote bag filled with several jewelry-crammed Ziplocs. Chidi’s forgeries, which he’d dropped at her apartment en route to an investor meeting that morning.
“Divided by vendor, right?” I pulled one up. It was labeled in Sharpie with a private code in Anita’s bubble handwriting.
Several camera lenses fell on us: beady eyes where the walls met the ceilings. Black ringed by flashing dark blue, a cop car’s lights at night.
“The Wi-Fi interferer’s working already,” Anita said softly. “I had to bring it in before they turned on the metal detectors. And the security booth guy is a nonissue. I brought him a tray full of free chai and spilled it all over the controller.” I realized her corsety top was streaked with dark stains. She pressed the tote to my chest. Her eyes were wide and her limbs trembling. I kissed her dryly on her forehead and stuffed the tote into my messenger bag.
“Let’s go,” I said. “And congrats—this is a total shitshow. I never imagined you’d be able to plan something so disorganized.”
“Thanks,” she said. She sniffed. “It ought to keep the interns busy. But I’m not sure . . .” She seemed to be gripped by an atmospheric agitation. “I just need to know,” she said in a brittle voice. “Like, you’re okay here, right? You’re in control?”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t get pissed. I just need to know,” she stammered, “that you remember why we’re doing this. That it’s for my mother, first and foremost. And we can talk about whether it’s a good idea for you to have some later, but my mom—”