Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  Ari and Bunny turn back to their wrapping, identical smiles on their lips.

  Mama continues to sit and stare. Her mouth is slightly parted, her eyes dazed, as though she’s just glimpsed the many heads of the Great Naga itself. Seconds pass. And then minutes. The only sound is the plop, squish, and crinkle of the egg-roll skins.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Mama says after Bunny and I have each rolled another three pieces. Ari, the show-off, has finished five. “I’ve been going about this all wrong, haven’t I?”

  Her voice is a strange combination of stunned and determined. We don’t respond—we don’t dare. My sisters, because they don’t want to push their luck. Me, because I’m desperate to keep Mama’s attention off me.

  Too. Damn. Late.

  Mama’s gaze snaps up. “You. Winnie,” she barks. “I want to hold a grandchild before I die.” Never mind that she’s in her mid-fifties and in perfect health. “Which means you can’t dillydally until college. You have to start dating now so that you can get your practice beforehand.”

  Wait. What?

  I jostle the blended raw egg that we’re using to seal the rolls, spilling the yellow liquid onto the table. Out of all the words she could’ve uttered, that was the last statement I expected. Other than giving me permission to get a body piercing. Or a tattoo. Or, you know, a hole in the head, which in her view is just as unfathomable.

  “That’s not fair!” Bunny shoots out of her seat, knocking into the table. The platter of egg rolls tilts precariously, and Ari grasps the plate before it crashes to the floor.

  “Really, Mama?” Ari whines. “I begged you to let Adam come over for dinner. To take me to the library, of all places. And you refused every time. Why does Winnie get to have all the fun?”

  Mama frowns. “Oh, this isn’t going to be fun. Winnie’s going to be practicing, not actually dating. You girls managed to score 1550 on your SATs with the adequate prep, and that’s exactly what Winnie will do. Only she’ll be scoring the perfect husband instead.”

  My pulse races. I’ve never dreamed that dating in high school was possible. I don’t care why Mama lets me date. The end result will be the same. I’ll be able to go to prom. Experience my first kiss. Maybe even have a boyfriend.

  Is my entire life about to change?

  Mama turns to me. “I’ll decide when, where, and how each date occurs,” she announces, dashing my hopes. Shoulda known such a concession would come with strings attached.

  “Also with whom. Especially with whom.” Her eyes glitter. “And I have just the right boy to be your first candidate.”

  Oh no. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. She wouldn’t torture me like that. She couldn’t.

  But then she goes ahead and does it anyway. “Mat Songsomboon,” she says, a pleased tilt to her voice.

  My heart falls like it’s been kicked down by a Muay Thai fighter.

  Mat Songsomboon is the son of my parents’ longtime friends…

  …and he also happens to be my sworn enemy.

  Chapter Two

  I look down the sight of my Zombie Sidestrike Blaster Nerf gun. When I fix on my target, I pull the trigger. Viciously.

  Pop!

  A foam bullet flies out of the gun and hits Mat Songsomboon right in the middle of his big, annoying nose.

  Well. It’s not his real nose, unfortunately, because it’s not the real Mat. Instead, my prey is a pencil sketch of his firm jaw and sleepy eyes, of the black hair that constantly falls over his forehead and of his distinctive nose—long and thin on top, flaring out at the nostrils.

  Just like a guava, I think as I let loose another bullet. This one rips the paper by his cheek. Good. A few more direct hits, and the sketch can join the other mutilated faces in my wastebasket. All of the same person.

  Have to say, my aim has improved significantly since my friendship with Mat dissolved into hate. Practice, as they say, makes perfect.

  I reload my Sidestrike. Maybe I’d feel guilty about the guava comparison if he weren’t so damn arrogant. Besides, he’s got enough girls—and a few guys—fawning over him. Pencil-sketch Mat can take it.

  I bring the sight to my eye again just as the door opens and Bunny pokes her head inside. My finger startles on the trigger, and a bullet hits her in the shoulder. Oops.

  “Ouch.” My sister steps fully into the room, rubbing the red mark that’s sprouted on her skin. “The guests are here. Mama sent me to check on you.” She scans the pajama bottoms and tank top I threw on after my shower. “But I can see you’re very busy doing very important things.”

  “I can’t get dressed until I rip this picture to shreds.” The excuse doesn’t make any sense, and we both know it. I’m not a fan of parties, and I hate attention of any sort. But I’ll go downstairs eventually. I’m too much of a good Thai daughter to skip out entirely, especially when that’s the only thing I have going for me. As perfect as they are, Ari and Bunny aren’t always so good at listening to our parents. Who can blame me for seizing that role? Still, every minute I linger in my room is a minute I don’t have to spend making small talk.

  Bunny flops onto my bed, her hair billowing out like black silk. “Are you and Mat still mortal enemies?”

  “Yep,” I say darkly. “I bet he’s got a voodoo doll or ten of me in his closet. Remember the massive migraine I had last night? Pretty sure that was Mat. When I tripped over the threshold of our front door and sent the groceries flying? Also Mat.”

  Bunny props herself on her elbows, her lips quirking. “What about the cold front last week? Are you going to blame that on Mat, too?”

  “I can try.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t get it. You two used to be so close. What happened?”

  “No idea,” I say with a straight face. “I guess we just grew apart.”

  I’m lying, of course. I know exactly when and where our friendship evaporated. On a blustery Monday morning during the eighth grade. In the school cafeteria. With the painfully empty seat next to mine.

  Back then, Mat and I always sat together so that we could trade lunches. I loved the homemade meals his mom packed him—my favorite was bah mee moo dang, or wavy egg noodles and roast red pork—and he preferred the unique concoctions I assembled. That day, my family was out of bread. And cheddar cheese. And roast beef. So I made a bagel sandwich out of packets of mustard and mayo, stacking Doritos and sweet pickles inside.

  I was dying to see what Mat thought of my latest culinary creation.

  Except…he didn’t sit with me that day. Or the next. Or the next.

  What I did then was petty to the extreme. But I was mad and jealous and a little—okay, a lot—hurt. Mat had been crushing on Denise Riley since the beginning of the year, and I kinda, sorta let it slip that he carried around her yearbook photo in his binder. And then I possibly, accidentally, definitely knocked into that same folder, sending the picture sliding across the floor for the entire cafeteria to see.

  Mat’s face turned deathly pale…and so did our friendship.

  My actions crossed a line. I know that. To this day, it’s still the meanest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll go to my grave still ashamed of my betrayal. I wanted to apologize; I would’ve loved nothing more than to get down on my knees and beg for his forgiveness.

  But he never gave me the chance. He ignored my calls and blocked me on social media. When I approached, he would turn and walk rapidly in the other direction. After a while, I stopped trying.

  He finally spoke to me after a few months, making a cutting remark about my appearance. I retaliated, he responded in kind…and now, here we are, four years later. Enemies who ignore each other at school, only to bicker at Thai community events. It’s just as lovely as it sounds.

  Once in a blood moon, I wonder what would’ve happened if I had locked away my pettiness. Would we be friends now? Or would we have drif
ted apart naturally as we grew older and developed different interests?

  Doesn’t matter, really. Because I did humiliate Mat. So I have to deal with the consequences. Not just for the rest of this year but also for the next four. Lucky me, my enemy will be attending the same college as I will next year. Simply perfect.

  Bunny rises from the bed in one fluid motion and peers at the sketch on my door. “This is really good, Winnie. You’ve got an amazing eye for detail. Or maybe…” She slides a glance at me. “You’ve been paying more attention to Mat than you thought.”

  “Gross.” I shudder. “More likely, I’m just talented,” I say lightly, even though I feel pretty much the opposite. My art will never be more than a frivolous hobby. My parents’ words, not mine. They have a future doctor and lawyer in Ari and Bunny. All they need to round out the perfect trifecta is a future professor. In any academic area, really, but preferably economics.

  So a year from now, I guess I’ll be studying economics at Northwestern University. And not art.

  I hand Bunny the Sidestrike. “Best out of three? Whoever gets closest to his guava nose wins.”

  She smiles, taking the Nerf gun. When we were kids, I would always pick target practice when it was my turn to choose an activity. Probably because it was the only game in which I could ever beat my sisters.

  “What should I do?” I ask as she brings the gun to her eyes. “I don’t want to practice anything with that jerk, no matter what Mama says.”

  Defying Mama is pretty much unthinkable, but there’s got to be a work-around. I just haven’t come up with one yet.

  “Oh, come on, Winnie. You’ve got the best parts of senior year left. Prom. Senior Skip Day. Appease Mama now, and you won’t have to suffer the way Ari and I did, by ourselves and dateless.” She shoots, and the bullet goes wide, nicking the frame of the door.

  Making a face, she hands me the gun.

  I line up the sight. Boom. Direct hit on Mat’s left eyebrow. “The less we see of his features, the better he looks, don’t you agree?”

  “I really don’t think you’re appreciating the significance of this,” my sister says. “I mean, you may not have a crush now, but what about later? Just sayin’, dances are a lot more fun if you go with someone. You could have study dates! Attend parties at the lake! The possibilities are endless. All you have to do is play along, and before you know it, you could have the high school life we always coveted.”

  I fire off a succession of shots. Ear, cheek, upper lip. Boom, boom, boom.

  Behold the champion of the Nerf Gun Battle. I am unbeatable!

  Bunny puts her hand on the rifle, pushing it down. “Listen. You could be the first Tech girl to date in high school. An experience Ari and I never had.”

  This stops me. Not once in my life have I ever walked on territory that my sisters haven’t already trampled.

  “I’ll convince Mama to choose someone else,” I say. “There’re plenty of guys I could practice dating with. Every last one of them nicer, cuter, and more pleasant than Mat.”

  Bunny beams. “That’s the spirit! And if you need any more motivation, he’s waiting right down these stairs.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She grabs my black corduroy skirt off the floor and throws it at me. “Get dressed. And I’ll show you.”

  Chapter Three

  Ari is hardly ever wrong. It’s one of the most annoying things about her.

  But tonight, she is wrong.

  Because we haven’t met every Thai person in the greater Chicago metropolitan area. And the proof is standing right there, munching on an egg roll and talking to Ari.

  Holy wow, he looks good. He’s about our age—maybe five six, preppy clothes, angelic smile. And judging from his melty brown eyes, worthy of the heroes in every Thai soap opera, he’s about to break every teenage heart from here to the temple.

  Bunny and I creep along the wall, using the kaffir lime potted plants as cover. My sister bends at the waist, attempting to blend with the figure-eight green leaves. I do her one better and drop to my hands and knees.

  “His name’s Taran, and his family just moved to Chicago,” Bunny murmurs above me. “We think he’s a senior in high school, but Ari’s confirming.”

  I crawl forward. Interesting. What are the chances I can get Mama to replace Mat with this guy?

  “What the phuk tong are you doing?” a voice says above me.

  I freeze. I haven’t heard his voice in a month, since the last party I attended with my parents, but I’d recognize it anywhere. Probably because it makes a regular appearance in my nightmares.

  I look up, and sure enough, it’s Mat, a ridiculous smirk on his ridiculous face. Even worse, Bunny is nowhere to be seen. What did he do? Send her scrambling for cover by his mere presence?

  I rise stiffly to my feet. Ari insists that Mat’s profile is uncommonly attractive. All I know is that my feelings toward him are uncommonly violent.

  “Seriously? Phuk tong?” I roll my eyes. “Phuk tong” is the Thai word for pumpkin, and it’s pronounced—you guessed it—uncomfortably like the f-word. “You sound like you’re in the second grade.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ari and Mr. Short & Handsome retreat to the kitchen. Leaving me with Mr. Tall & Pukey.

  “You look like you’re in the second grade,” he returns blandly. “Your tights are torn.”

  I cross my arms. Do not glance down. Do not give him the satisfaction.

  “I must’ve ripped them during the travel here,” I say breezily, my standard excuse for torn pantyhose.

  “We’re at your house,” he says incredulously. “You tore them while walking down the stairs? More like, from crawling on the floor.”

  What if he has a point? I’ll never admit it. “Surely you’ve got better things to do than stare at my legs.”

  “Um.” He coughs into his hand. “At the risk of pointing out the obvious…that fault line is probably visible from the moon.”

  I can’t resist any longer. I look down. Chib-peng, he’s right. The rip starts mid-thigh, winds around my knee, and then explodes in a starburst pattern.

  “It’s the new look,” I say. “Kinda like fishnets. The holier, the better.”

  “Sure it is.” His expression is knowing, superior. I wish I could punch him in the stomach. Maybe then he wouldn’t be able to eat the five or six egg rolls he’s piled high on a plate.

  As if reading my mind, he dunks an egg roll into the pool of sweet chili sauce and shoves it into his mouth. He then grins at me with his mouth closed, the egg roll bunching out his cheeks.

  My anger builds. Just think, I could’ve wrapped that appetizer with my very hands. (Okay, so probably not, since the egg roll’s too neatly sealed to be one of mine. But still.) I did not spend precious minutes this afternoon preparing food to feed the likes of Mat Songsomboon.

  “You’re one to criticize my wardrobe,” I say, gesturing at his boring khaki pants and button-down shirt. He wears the exact same thing at every party. So predictable. “Where did you get dressed, in the dark?”

  He smirks, the light in his eyes settling into a warm and familiar arrogance. “Been dreaming about me…undressed…in the dark? Let me help out your imagination.” He lowers his voice seductively. “I wear boxers.”

  My cheeks burn. I would never, in a million years, have imagined him in his underwear. Now that picture will be imprinted in my mind forever.

  “Ugh,” I groan, grabbing my temples. “Get me some bleach, quick, so I can scrub away that image.”

  His lips quirk. “You’re so dramatic, Winnie.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re…you’re…” I falter, grappling for an appropriate comeback. I’m not like Mr. Perfect here, who always knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

  At least he doesn’t seem to have heard about Mama’
s scheme.

  “I’ve left you speechless,” he murmurs, way too pleased with himself.

  “You’ve left me nauseated,” I shoot back. It’s not the most original insult, but at least I can string a sentence together again.

  “You should channel all that passion into something useful, like getting out from your sisters’ shadows.” He shakes his head. “I almost feel sorry for you. It can’t be easy to get the new guy’s attention when he’s met your sisters first.”

  I flush. “Who says I want his attention?”

  He looks pointedly at my legs, scanning them from ankle to thigh. “Were you—or were you not—crawling on the floor in an attempt to spy on him?”

  Damn Mat for being so observant. It’s one of the top one hundred most infuriating things about him. Believe me. I keep a list.

  “I was picking kaffir lime leaves,” I say haughtily. “Mama needs them for the green curry.”

  The lie is so pathetic, he doesn’t even bother to acknowledge it.

  “I suppose it’s not your fault,” he says musingly. “Ari and Bunny are so smart, so talented, that it would be hard for anyone to stand out next to them. Take this egg roll, for example. It’s obvious that Ari’s back home.” He takes a huge bite, chewing with his mouth open, even though his table manners are normally impeccable. I should know. Before his mother moved back to Thailand to take care of his sick grandmother, she schooled us both on proper etiquette. That was back in the days when we used to shape sticky rice into grenade balls—and launch them at each other.

  “I’ve missed your sister’s cooking,” Mat continues.

  If he’s trying to rile me, he’s picked the wrong tactic. First, I’ll be the first to admit that my culinary skills are questionable. I’m a way better taste tester than cook. More importantly, I will never be insulted by a compliment to my sisters. The competition among us has never amounted to a grain of rice. Their wins are mine and vice versa.

  I plaster on my best smile, coconut-milk sweet. “Don’t worry, Mat. I’m always here to prepare an extra-special dish, just for you. The way I did with that chili sauce.”