“Um…” I looked around the room. A weathered dresser leaned into one corner, a couple of sketchbooks stacked on top. The air felt warm, thanks to a buzzing space heater next to the futon. “I like your room,” I said, glancing back at Shanti, who was still just sitting, staring at me with something like amusement on her face.

“Thanks.” She threw her book to the floor. “So? Since you’re here and all…” She patted the space beside her on the futon. “Come on—it’s the only way I know how to contribute to these fundraisers.”

Right. Okay, you can do this. No big deal. “Uh… sure.” I sat down so we were cross-legged and facing each other. I placed my beer on the floor and pulled two dollars from my pocket, but she pushed it away.

“Wait till we’re done. Then you can decide if it’s worth the two bucks.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked.

“Hey, sometimes people don’t like what they hear.”

“That’s a bit doomy, isn’t it?”

She shrugged and held out her hands, her eyes never leaving my face.

I gave her my right hand, both anticipating and apprehensive of her touch.

“Are you right-handed?”

“Yeah.”

“Then give me your left.”

“What? Why?” I didn’t like the idea of letting anyone so close to my left palm.

“Because. That’s just how it works.”

My shoulders stiffened. This sounds like bullshit. Shanti had seen me slam my hand against the bike rack at the tryout. Had she noticed it was my left? Was this some kind of intervention? As I was getting more and more riled up trying to figure out her motives, she sneezed—three high-pitched squeaks that were so utterly absurd and adorable that my rising hostility and suspicion couldn’t sustain themselves.

I laughed and, without fully realizing it, unfolded my left hand in front of me.

As she placed her right hand beneath mine and her left on top, she cocked her head and asked, “Are you laughing at me?”

My hand was cold from holding the beer, but hers were warm. And soft. “Maybe.”

“Whatever. I suppose your sneezes are real rugged-sounding, huh?” The way she said “rugged-sounding” in what she thought was a rugged voice but was really just a semi-low voice made me laugh again.

But when her fingers grazed along the surface of my palm, creating a tingling so different from the sensation I was used to, my hand reflexively clenched into a fist and pulled away. Shanti held her hands palms out in front of her as though in defense and looked up at me, her face a mixture of surprise and question.

Don’t be a freak, Daya. “Sorry. It tickled. I’m ticklish.” Even though I wasn’t.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t want to add too much pressure—”