The Matchmaker's List

by Sonya Lalli

  “You lived with her growing up?”

  I nodded. “Mom’s in Philadelphia. But Nani is here.”

  “A family saga?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “I imagine it’s quite important.”

  I’d caught my breath, and I ducked through a tear in the metal fence and walked onto the court. Up close, in the shadows of the streetlights nearby, I noticed again how different Asher looked. His wide nose and lips. The slate gray of his eyes. And even though his beard was gone, there was still something wild about him.

  He caught my eye, and I looked away. I bent down and tucked my laces into my red and white socks. “What happened to your face?” I mumbled, standing back up. “It was quite the ecosystem.”

  He smirked. “I decided to shave it. Thought the kids would take me more seriously.”

  “They certainly won’t take your ball skills seriously. That last shot there.” I shook my head. “Just brutal.”

  “I was frightened. Thought I had a stalker.”

  I lunged forward and tipped the ball out of his arm, catching it with one hand. “I used to play, you know. Varsity.”

  “Really? I coach the girls’ team here.”

  “Oh yeah?” I dribbled the ball between my knees in wide figure eights. “And how are they?”

  “They play like a bunch of girls.”

  “So they’re much better than you.” I shot the ball. It arced too high and bounced off the backboard.

  “Someone’s out of practice.”

  I ran for the loose ball, turned back to him, and then sliced it into his chest. “At least I’m not out of shape.”

  “Is that smack talk?” He dribbled the ball toward me, and I crouched down, preparing to swat it from his hands. At the last moment, he jutted out to the left, and then right again, dribbling the ball around me and up to the hoop for a layup. He caught the ball after it swished through the net, planted it slowly on his hip, and winked.

  “Game on.”

  * * *

  Asher won—by a long shot. For every point I managed—a fluke toss from the top of the key, a blind hook shot from beneath the basket—Asher scored five. He had at least fifty pounds on me, and a good six inches. I had forgotten how much I loved the game when challenged.

  After I’d graduated high school, Nana hadn’t wanted me to try out for the university team; he wanted me to focus on studying. So instead, I joined rec leagues when it fit into my class schedule. Played pickup games on the weekend when the girls from the team—who’d gone off to play college ball all over Canada—were home for Thanksgiving or summer vacation. My skills stalled while theirs got better. And even though those games reminded me of what I could have been, or not been, I loved that feeling of having to work for something. Work at something, and having the motivation, the passion, to be better.

  After over half an hour of mocking each other, Asher overpowering me, effortlessly swatting the ball down whenever I tried to shoot, I was laughing too hard to keep playing. Panting, I lay down in the middle of the court and sprawled into a starfish.

  “That’s it?” In the shadows, I saw his smirk hovering above me. “Did I beat the infamous Raina?”

  After I nodded, he disappeared from my view, and a few seconds later reappeared. He sat down next to me and handed me a water bottle. I took a long sip, some of it spilling down my chin, and handed it back.

  “Good game.”

  I smiled. “Shut up.”

  “What?”

  “You’re being smug.”

  “I’m not being smug. I’m being civil.” He knocked his knee lightly against mine. “I think someone just isn’t used to losing.”

  “I let you win.”

  “Really? And here I thought I was teaching you a lesson.”

  “And what lesson is that, Mr. Klein?”

  “It’s not over yet—I don’t want to spoil it.”

  “Is there going to be an exam?”

  He grinned at me. Crooked, almost naughty, and I blushed. I could feel Asher’s eyes still on me as I sat up. I reached over him and grabbed his water bottle, and before taking a sip, aimed it at him like a sword. “Don’t think this means we’re friends.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “You and I are enemies.”

  “Sworn enemies.”

  “And besides.” He leaned in close, and I could smell him—like pepper and laundry detergent, and the sticky way boys smell after being outside. “I don’t think I can be friends with you. I don’t have any sparring equipment.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I see you’re still whining about that.”

  “I was attacked! Pushed into some desserts—delicious desserts, mind you.”

  “You were bruised for weeks, I’m sure.”

  “Me?” Asher smiled. “Or your ego?”

  I shoved him.

  “Ow!”

  “As if.”

  “You’re so physical.” He massaged his shoulder. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “Besides embarrass me at my best friend’s engagement party?” He didn’t answer, and I glanced toward him. He was looking at me, a plain expression on his face. The muscles in his cheeks and around his eyes were relaxed. Genuine.

  “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” I said after a moment, looking back at the pavement between my feet. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m under a lot of pressure from my nani right now.” I shrugged. “I’m not—I wasn’t in the greatest place.”

  “It’s okay. I could tell.” He smiled. “I can read you like a book.”

  “I didn’t know you could read.”

  He grinned, and then a second later, added, “Could that bartender read?”

  “Who?”

  “He looked a bit young.” Asher pressed his lips together, as if thinking hard. “Pass along my number if he needs a tutor, would you?”

  “Wait, what?”

  Asher’s mouth scrunched tight as if he was trying not to laugh, and when I caught his eye, something flickered. Then it hit me.

  Josh. The bartender I’d gone home with. Asher had seen us.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t wear that,” he said, glancing down at my socks. “Kids these days don’t understand fashion.”

  I hid my face in my knees, and I felt Asher’s hand brushing the back of my head. “I like your hat. My dad had one just like it.”

  “Please. Stop talking.”

  “Oh, quit worrying so much. It’s really not a big deal.”

  My face was red-hot, and I was sure my entire body flushed. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m never talking to you again.”

  “What?” He laughed, moving his hand to my back.

  “Asher, I can’t believe you saw that. I never—”

  “Raina,” he said loudly. “Look at me.” Slowly, I peeled my face up from my knees. He straightened out my shoulders with his hands, waited until I was looking him in the eye. “I was just teasing you,” he said gently. “Seriously. Who cares?”

  “I care.”

  “Why?”

  I turned away from him, not able to say it out loud: Because Nani would care. She expects more from me.

  Asher dropped his hands to the pavement and leaned back, his legs outstretched in front of him. The sweat was starting to cool on my skin, and I shivered.

  “You know, I dated an Indian girl once. We were like—twenty-one, twenty-two, maybe?” He dug the heel of his sneaker into the pavement. “Her family was very traditional. And they put a lot of pressure on her . . .”

  “Is this an analogy?” I asked drily.

  “Anyways”—he patted his finger against his lip, shushing me—“even though she wasn’t ‘allowed’ to date, I convinced her to go out with me. As y
ou can imagine, she was conflicted about—you know—sex. Hugely conflicted. But then one afternoon after class she came over, and I thought maybe she finally liked me enough to—”

  “Get it on?”

  Asher laughed. “Yeah.”

  “And did she?”

  “Not even close. The moment I came near her she started crying—bawling, actually—and then left. She refused to speak to me for the rest of the term. And as I’m sure you know, I left university early and—uh, well, I never saw her again.”

  “You think my problems are about sex?”

  “No, Raina, my point is that she hated herself. I see so many kids raised to feel shame about who they are, what they want, who they love. And whether it’s about sex or identity—or even just making mistakes—when people grow up, sometimes, they screw up. Isn’t that the point?”

  I looked back at the ground.

  “This girl I dated—she was under so much pressure to do the right thing, she didn’t even know what it felt like to make a mistake. She didn’t have the courage to go out and try something new, something different, and know that she’d still be okay.”

  I could feel him looking at me, waiting for me to say something. His eyes bore into the side of my neck, and after a minute, I couldn’t handle his scrutiny. I jumped up and grabbed the ball.

  “Another game?” I turned to face him and dribbled the ball, hard, down and through my legs.

  He was biting his lower lip, and I turned back around. I lined up the shot and took it, and it swished through the net.

  “You see that?” I ran a lap around the court, pumping my fists in the air, and then ran back toward Asher. “Did you see that?”

  “Yeah. I saw it.”

  I extended my hand. He grabbed it, and I leaned back from his weight as he used my support to pull himself off the ground.

  “You know what we should do?” I asked.

  “What’s that?”

  I glanced around the empty field. “Smoke,” I whispered.

  “You’re a smoker?” He winced. “That would explain how easily I beat—”

  “No. I mean a joint,” I mouthed. “Let’s smoke up.”

  “You want to smoke up.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t in years.” I grinned.

  “You’re kidding, right? Shaylee mentioned you liked to joke around.”

  “No, I’m not joking.” I shook my head. “I’m kind of in the mood.”

  “Being here with me . . . puts you in the mood.”

  “Yeah.” I laughed, touched his arm. “So do you have any?”

  “You know what, Raina . . . No. I don’t have any on me right now.” He grabbed the ball from my hand. “Not today.”

  “Oh. Okay—”

  “Must have used it all up at work this week,” he said frowning. “Teaching children.”

  “Asher—”

  “Look. I’ve got to run. Dealers to meet. Things to blow up. Irresponsible stuff—you wouldn’t understand.” He grabbed a tuque from his pocket and shoved it on his head, and without looking at me, turned away. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Asher, wait, I didn’t mean—”

  But he was gone, already jogging toward the parking lot, his basketball tucked beneath his arm.

  MAY 20, 2007

  Raina turns eighteen and smokes her first joint. Before this day, she has never thought seriously about smoking marijuana. Even as it billows at the edges of the school parking lot, on back decks, and in the basements of parties, she has never considered it. Her coaches tell her to stay away, threats of slowness and sluggishness, and Raina listens. But on her eighteenth birthday, the season is already over. Basketball, volleyball, track and field—all the games are over. The scores tallied. In the muddy spring schoolyard, the one around which she has jogged thousands of times, there is no one left to race. In a way she is relieved, allows her body to slacken, but knowing graduation is less than a month away, she is also terrified.

  The final bell rings, and Raina rushes out of sixth period ahead of her friends. Shay told everyone it was her birthday, and they decorated her locker with dollar-store stickers and ribbons, tacked-on messages penned on hot pink construction paper. Raina tears it all down as she throws her textbooks into her locker, and then races outside the front door. She is greeted by the heat of a May afternoon, the air still fresh with spring. She can smell nothing but the green of the lawn, the clipped hedges running along the sidewalk, and she smiles as she takes a deep breath. She is about to walk home, and she is still smiling when, right in front of the school, she sees Manavi.

  Raina hasn’t seen her mother in over a year. Her hair is different than the last time she visited. It is now cropped short, light blond and browns like a patchwork quilt. She sits cross-legged on the hood of a cherry red convertible parked in front of the school, and as Raina approaches, she looks up from the magazine open on her lap.

  “Happy birthday, Raindrop.”

  Raina smiles. Now that she is older, she doesn’t know what to call her. Manavi. Manu. Ma. Raina has always just avoided addressing her directly, but this time, when she says hello, calls her “Mom,” she notes how natural it feels.

  Manavi slides off the hood and wraps her arms around Raina. She is a few inches shorter, slightly wider, and she beams as she pulls back. “Shit, when did you grow up?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s your birthday. Where else would I be?”

  She has missed Raina’s last three—maybe four—birthdays, but Raina doesn’t remind her of this. Raina throws her backpack into the trunk next to her mother’s worn-out duffel bag, and they get into the car. Manavi slides on a pair of cat-eye sunglasses and smiles at herself in the rearview mirror, pursing her lips together. Then, she opens her purse and hands Raina an identical pair.

  “Really?” Raina can tell they are expensive. She recognizes the brand from airport billboards. Department stores that don’t accept cash. She slides them onto her face. “Thanks, Mom. I love them.” Their eyes hidden, their noses partially obscured, Raina notes how similar their mouths are. Rosebud lips that bloom into wide, slightly crooked smiles, just a hair too close to their equally soft chins. Manavi starts the car, and Raina turns to face her. “Where are we going?”

  “C’est une surprise.”

  They snack on Dr Pepper and cheese fries Manavi buys at a truck stop outside Belleville, racing down the highway with the windows down, Top 40 music blasting through the speakers. It is dusk by the time they reach Montreal, and they drive to an apartment in Laval that belongs to a friend of Manavi’s. He isn’t home, and she lets them in with a key. The rooms are tattered—peeling wallpaper, blue carpets with zebra patches of brown. Slits for windows that peer into a back alley. Manavi drops her bag in the middle of the hallway, steps over it as she searches for a radio. They listen to French Canadian pop and get ready for the evening squeezed side by side in the tiny bathroom. Raina is wearing Manavi’s dress, sleek red and short, while Manavi has put on emerald green pleather pants, a black top that drips beneath her rib cage. Raina realizes with some surprise that her mother is thirty-four. Only thirty-four. Yet, as they stand next to each other, the same light brown foundation highlighting their faces, Raina can barely see the age difference; she can barely see a difference at all.

  “You always look tired, kiddo,” Manavi says, sorting through her makeup kit. Raina glances sideways in the mirror as Manavi applies black paint to her lids and lashes, erases the faint circles beneath Raina’s eyes with a beige pencil.

  “I stayed up late last night.” Raina notes Manavi’s bemused expression, and then shakes her head. “No, not that. I had a math test today.”

  Manavi rolls her eyes, and Raina, momentarily, feels embarrassed. She tries to think of something to say, wonders why it’s so hard, and then it occurs to her that she can’t remember the last
time she was alone with Manavi. No Nani hovering in the background, disapproving of whatever it was they decided to watch on television, or ordered for dinner. No Nana and Kris making sarcastic comments, sucking the air out of the room. No Shay, filling the void, whenever the silence became too much.

  While waiting for a taxi, Manavi sends Raina across the street to a liquor store. She is nervous when she slides her driver’s license across the counter, prepared to confirm out loud that she is eighteen and, in Quebec, finally legal. The man slides it back without looking, and Raina smiles to herself. She stuffs the bottle of vodka into her purse, the expensive brand with gold glitter floating in it like a snow globe, and with her chin up, she walks back across the road to Manavi.

  Raina is drunk by the time they stumble out of the cab in Montreal. Over half of the glitter floats in her empty stomach, and Manavi buys them both a hot dog from a street vendor on St. Catherine’s. Now, Raina feels like talking, and she natters pointlessly to Manavi as they eat—about the lights, the churches, the strip clubs they pass—and when a group of boys stop to talk to them, Manavi slyly wipes the crumbs off Raina’s lips, and winks.

  The boys take them to club, and once they are standing in line, Raina begins to waver, a flood of nausea passing through her every time she blinks, and she grabs on to the black metal bars stretched across the window for support. Manavi pulls her hands away, and a moment later, the boys are leading them to the front of the line, and Raina sees one of them shove a fistful of bills into the bouncer’s hand.

  Raina can barely walk. Electronica pounds through her ears. With her eyes closed, she stumbles around aimlessly, guided by hands, people’s breath like wet fog on her face. She can smell mold, the sweat on everyone around her, and soon she finds herself leaning on Manavi. She hands her a shot. Mindlessly, Raina drinks it, and then another—shiny blue liquid burning the back of her mouth, trickling down. Every time she opens her eyes, Raina thinks she might be sick, epileptic flashes of light, emerald green pleather, and clusters of faces she keeps pushing away. Raina is disoriented, and every time she hears her mother’s laugh, the blinking lights that blister her eyes, she thinks of her nani.