Part 2 (2/2)

Clutching s.h.i.+va to my chest, I thank the judges.

Strangers crowd around me as I exit the stage.

A tall, skinny boy elbows through the crowd, extends a hand toward mine, looking hopeful.

Behind him, two more boys gaze awestruck in my direction.

I whip around, expecting to see my best friend, Chandra, nearby, whose dimpled chin and sparkling talk inspire a love-struck longing in nearly every boy we encounter.

Surely, these looks are meant for her.

No one stares at me this way.

I don't see Chandra anywhere.

I once read an article about beauty in a magazine.

I measured my nose to see if it was long enough, if my eyes were large enough, if my lips were thick enough to be beautiful.

They weren't.

One of the boys stutters, ”Ms. Veda, you-you're -awesome.”

Behind him, another boy echoes, ”Awesome.”

I fight to keep my lips from breaking into a silly grin.

The eager pressure with which the boys grasp my hand tells me my graceful movements make up for my incorrectly proportioned face.

I can dance beauty into my body.

JOYS.

of

WINNING.

My best friend, Chandra, pushes through the crowd, slaps my back as though our team just won a cricket match.

She pulls my hand up into the air.

I let it linger there.

We were about eight years old and I was standing at the edge of the cricket field when Chandra's bat lofted the red cork ball in my direction.

Eyes scrunched up against the glaring sun, I raced after it.

Felt the ball's leathery hide in my palm.

Raising an index finger, I signaled she was out.

Chandra ran over. I was scared she was angry.

”Great catch, Veda.” She pumped my hand.

I couldn't believe Chandra- good at everything yet also popular- knew my name.

Chandra slid an arm across my shoulders.

”From now on,” she said, ”you're on my team.”

Playing cricket with Chandra, the sun baking my black curls until they feel as hot as a piece of fire-toasted chappati bread, I like the sweet swish of the ball landing in my hands, the crack of my bat sending the ball high into the sky.

But neither sound fills me the way dance does.

Winning at cricket doesn't compare with the joy of winning at dance.

A joy that makes my heart beat to a brisk, victorious tempo: tha ka tha ki ta tha ka tha ki ta.

A joy that makes rhythmic music swirl in my ears.

BLACK DOT.

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