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“You all know how I love art, right? Not that Impressionist crap but, like, truly abstract stuff, with a neocolonial lens that really speaks to me?” Hania seemed so earnest, Dina had to look away, lips twitching. Her sister’s idea of art was a good haul at a well-stocked Crate & Barrel.

Her sister continued, “Well, I was talking to my good friend, Jillian Pollock, granddaughter to the famous artist, and she told me that there was an exclusive auction somewhere I can’t name.” She leaned closer to the camera and whispered, “Soho House.”

The girls around her nodded, impressed by the name drop of the international members’ club in New York City, while Dina and Lisa simultaneously rolled their eyes. The story was entirely made up, of course. Also, Jackson Pollock hadn’t had any children, or grandchildren.

“So then I went to this auction, and this famous Bollywood actor came up to me and poked me on the shoulder and asked if I was available to shoot a film set in Switzerland,” Hania continued.

“It was SRK, Hania told me,” another A girl—Marya?—whispered loudly behind Dina, referring to Shah Rukh Khan, the international superstar.

“But I had to turn him down, and then he said actually his cousin’s roommate’s sister’s aunt is looking for a match, and would I be interested in meeting a nice, shy accountant in Chicago, whose parents just happened to own one of the largest construction companies in the country?” Hania’s smile looked like ghee wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “And I said yes! His mom loved me, and Samir and I hit it off, and now we’re getting married!”

There was a collective sigh, and one of the A girls looked like she was about to swoon. “Isn’t it romantic?” Leena said.

“If it were even remotely true,” Dina whispered to Lisa, though she made sure to keep her voice down.

Lisa shook her head. “Your sister is nuts. But she knows how to tell a story.”

“Yes, fiction was always her strong suit,” Dina muttered.

Hania wasn’t done. “And now for my Big surprise news!” she announced.

Out of nowhere, high-energy bhangra music started to blare from the speakers, and suddenly a lineup of six men dressed in shiny blue-and-red shalwar suits, crisp white turbans on their heads, appeared from the corner of the lounge, each performer holding a dhol drum hanging from their neck. They started to play, keeping up a raucous, deafening beat.

Dina clapped her hands to her ears. Lisa just started clapping.

“Awesome!” her friend said.

Get me out of here, Dina thought.

Someone was shaking Lucky. “Mmmm,” he said. “Five more minutes.”

“Lucky, everyone else is ready. Wake up!” It was his mother’s voice, and Lucky’s eyes flew open. He looked around, disoriented for a moment, before he remembered where he was—on a private plane, flying back to Toronto.

Back to Dina. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling of panic. Too late to back out now, he thought.

“Did we land yet?” he asked, still groggy. Huma shook her head and thrust something into his lap. A plastic-wrapped something. A white turban and scarf were dumped on top, and he blinked at them, confused.

“What’s this?” he asked before looking up at his mother. She had changed from her simple black shalwar suit into something shiny and luxurious and bright blue. She was smiling, a mischievous expression he hadn’t seen on her face since . . . well, a long time. Something in his chest loosened, even as he got the feeling he wasn’t going to like her answer.

His mother tugged on his shoulder. “You can change in the back. Hurry!”

“Come on, bro, you’ve got to get ready for our big entrance!” Samir called from the front of the plane. His dark pants and sweatshirt were gone, replaced with a bright-red sequined shalwar suit and matching red turban. He looked like the prince character in a cheesy Bollywood drama. “We’re making an old-school Bollywood entrance!”

If there was one thing Lucky hated, it was calling attention to himself. Except he couldn’t see any way out of this, and he didn’t want to bring down the mood of the group, especially when his mother looked so excited. Holding his packet of clothes, he disappeared into the back of the plane, where the flight attendants had set up changing stations. Fortunately, Samir had chosen a navy-blue shalwar suit for him, with minimal embroidery. With any luck, he would blend into the crowd while he made his escape from the big Bollywood entrance. There was no way he would be pulled into wedding shenanigans on top of everything else. The idea of coming face-to-face with Dina, for the first time in six years, while cosplaying as a bhangra dancer, filled him with squirming embarrassment. Absolutely not.

Fortunately, everyone else on board was excited about the plan, which made his hesitancy less noticeable. Samir, who was normally calm, and who disdained group activities as much as Lucky did, was bouncing on his feet in anticipation. He also kept glancing to the changing stalls, trying to catch Lucky’s eye, so he would have to be on stealth mode when he snuck out.

He changed just in time to take a seat at the back of the plane for landing, and then they were taxiing to an FBO terminal, where private aircraft landed at Pearson International. When the flight attendants informed them it was safe to gather their belongings, Lucky went to help his mother and Nisa with their baggage. The other guests pushed to the front, eager for the grand entrance. Outside, Lucky could hear the deafening sound of a six dhol drums rising in intensity, high-energy bhangra music blaring from speakers.

Samir looked back for Lucky one last time, but he gestured helplessly at the crowd in front of him before pulling a sad face. There was simply no way he could stand beside his friend. Samir gave him a wry look before his parents came to stand on either side of him. With a flourish, the flight attendant opened the heavy doors at the front of the plane, and the bharat party surged forward, toward cheers and flashes of photography, the high-tempo bhangra music swelling even more loudly.

Lucky took his chance and slipped out the back entrance of the plane, quietly hurrying away from the laughing, cheering, applauding crowd, straight toward the security line.

He had nearly made it when a gruff voice called out, “Excuse me, sir, where do you think you’re going?”

He turned around and met the suspicious gaze of an armed Canadian border security officer. Lucky’s heart sank.

Chapter Six