Chapter Eight

Ashna had once hidden in the trunk of a car when the chauffeur drove her home from school through a crowd of rabid journalists, just before she left Sripore forever. And now she was on Good Morning America. How on earth had this happened?

Well, she wasn’t exactly on it, she was in her room folding and refolding her laundry as Good Morning America played on the TV, with the hosts discussing her. The jolly bunch couldn’t stop cracking up about her expression when Rico walked into her kitchen. As if that weren’t mortifying enough, they zoomed in on her face and froze the frame. Her pupils were dilated, her mouth agape.

To Ashna, that face said: What the hell is this jerk doing here?

To everyone else, that face seemed to say: I’ve never laid eyes on a being this hot!

No, seriously that’s what the very chirpy blond person was saying. Those exact words. Ashna threw a bra at the TV.

They zoomed in on Rico on his knees in front of her, looking up at her with those damn eyes as though his heart were in his mouth, his hand gripping the knife like someone showing off some ancient dagger-wielding martial art moves.

Rubbing her knee, she avoided looking down at her toes. The digits were all firmly attached to her foot. Thanks to him. Also thanks to him, that foot was in her mouth for all of America to see.

“I’d drop a knife on my foot too if I saw that walk into my kitchen, if you know what I mean!” the dark-haired one said, winks flying.

Well, Ashna would be glad to lend her the knife.

The Misono people had sent her a new set of their best. The nerve! Apparently their sales had seen a sharp uptick. What was wrong with the world they lived in? They had asked her to model for an ad for them. She’d rather chop off her toes than feed into the madness.

It had been a week since that stupid clip had gone viral. Why was it still everywhere? Wasn’t this the age of overnight sensations and flashes in the pan?

She looked at her underwear drawer. Everything was rolled up and arranged in a warm-to-cool rainbow of colored silk, just like her closet. She adjusted one of the rolls so it lined up perfectly with the one next to it. When she had left for Paris after Baba’s death, Mina Kaki had insisted on her seeing a therapist there. He had diagnosed her with PTSD resulting in acute clinical depression and anxiety, triggered by losing a parent so violently. He had encouraged her to use her need for order to help ground herself. Usually organizing things did help her calm herself when the fear of panic loomed. Right now? No such luck.