Part 24 (1/2)

Being Govinda's kid sister is almost as bad as being Jim's ”kiddo.”

”Veda? We're going to play a game.”

Now Govinda's acting as if I am his kid sister.

”I'm not a kid.”

Or his sister, but I don't add that.

”I'm your teacher.” Govinda mimics my voice.

”Listen to me for once.”

He walks to a far corner of the study, sits in the chair by the writing desk, stretches his long legs out, and says, ”Stand on my feet.”

”Stand on your feet?”

”Place your feet sideways over mine, Veda.

Toes on the floor. Knees bent in the half-sitting pose.”

”Why?”

”Please?”

I position myself the way he wants, my toes touching the earth, my feet crisscrossing over his, my knees bent out to the sides.

He stretches out his hands and tells me to lay my palms on his.

We're touching.

The entire length of both my palms on both of his.

Music fills my ears-fast, high-pitched, like the buzz of a bee.

We're closer than I've been to any other boy my age.

And Govinda looks gorgeous, loves dance, and is an amazing, generous teacher.

He lifts his legs, his feet, and me into the air.

I shriek like a delighted child.

Govinda recites the words of a child's game: ”Mamarathilla yerade, mangaye parikade.”

Don't climb the mango tree, don't pluck the mango fruit.

I played this game with Pa, when I was little, my tiny feet planted entirely on his, his legs lifting me as high as they could, bouncing me up and down.

I'd feel like I was flying.

Govinda isn't lifting me nearly as high as Pa did, isn't keeping me in the air as long, but I'm older and heavier.

He must be so strong to bear my weight.

”Want you to enjoy feeling your body move,” Govinda says, ”thought it might help your sense of balance, too.”

”Again?” I feel my face flush with childish excitement.

Govinda grins. ”I thought you weren't a kid?”

I push my lips into an exaggerated pout.

We laugh and he lifts me once more.

His muscles tighten with strain.

I s.h.i.+ft from side to side, stretch, rock, reorient my body to my new sense of balance.

Give in to the thrill of almost-falling, secure in the shelter of Govinda's arms.

DEMONS.

I stand up after falling from my lunge- and say, ”Again.”

Govinda shakes his head. ”You dance like a demon, Veda.”

Is he starting another fight?

But he says, earnestly, ”It's a compliment.”

”If that's a compliment,” I say, ”I'd hate to hear your insults.”

”Your strength, and only your strength,”

Govinda clarifies, looking worried, ”reminds me of the demon whom s.h.i.+va fought, the demon whose strength doubled whenever he fell to the ground.”

”You have to work a lot harder on your compliments.”

”You inspire me to work harder,” he says, ”on a lot of things.”

”Such as what?”