Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  Chapter Five

  Three months.

  How am I supposed to survive three months fake-dating the most obnoxious boy in the entire world?

  I begged Mama. Pleaded with her. I even recruited my sisters to the cause, with their quick thinking and their sweet mouths (what Mama likes to call falang who tell you what you want to hear).

  But Mama stood firm. Her youngest daughter will practice dating in high school, and the candidate/boyfriend/victim will be Mat Songsomboon.

  There’s no crossing Mama when she’s made up her mind. Even Papa’s hard-pressed to sway her, though he has yet to weigh in on the situation. Ultimately, I acquiesced because I want to maintain my role as the good Thai daughter.

  “Remind me again why I agreed to do this,” I say the next morning, for maybe the fiftieth time.

  After cleaning up, my sisters and I stayed up the entire night, reenacting our childhood by snuggling on my bed with a couple of old-school flashlights—and Bunny’s smartphone. She’s so attached to that thing that she can’t even nostalgia properly.

  “Freedom,” Bunny answers me now as we hover in the foyer, grasping for those final seconds before they have to leave for college.

  “Study dates where your socked feet brush each other’s under the table,” Ari elaborates.

  “Getting a corsage from a prom date who isn’t your sister.”

  “A kiss or two on the darkened front porch.” Ari takes my hand. “For that chance, you can do anything for three months. Even date gorgeous but infuriating Mat Songsomboon.”

  I gag—and it’s not entirely pretend. I can feel our breakfast congee climbing my throat.

  Papa calls from the driveway that the Honda Odyssey is packed and ready to go.

  Oh no. No. My sisters can’t leave yet. It feels like they’ve been home for nine seconds, not nine days. They cannot travel three hundred miles away, relegating me to the last Tech sister standing.

  The only Tech sister left.

  The loneliest modifier in the English language.

  We reach for one another at the same time, in a three-way embrace of long limbs and silky skin. Bunny’s chin jabs into my shoulder; Ari’s hair is in my mouth. But I just hug them even more tightly.

  “We’ll miss you, Win-win,” Ari murmurs.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. She hasn’t called me that since we were kids. Wrapped up in those two syllables are all the laughter, angst, and tears of my seventeen years.

  My sisters were twenty months old when I was born, and they spent so much time holding me on a pillow in their laps, singing me “Rock-a-bye Baby” in their lisping voices, feeding me milk bottles warmed in cups of hot water, that when I said my first word—“Ma-ma”—I was looking right at Ari. Or maybe it was Bunny. Mama could never remember which, so she alternates between the two each time she tells the story.

  Maybe that’s where our closeness comes from. I’m not sure. All I know is that saying goodbye to them feels like yanking out a small but important organ. Not the useless appendix, but maybe a thyroid?

  Slowly, we pull apart, and Ari and Bunny tuck me in between them. We move forward, arms linked, and turn at an angle so that we can fit through the front door.

  By the minivan, Mama is stashing Ziploc bags of sticky rice and homemade beef jerky onto the center console. I don’t see Papa, so he must’ve stepped into the garage.

  Mama looks up, her cheeks softening at the sight of us. “I hate to break this up, but the day’s not getting any earlier. And Wash U’s at least a five-hour drive.”

  We shuffle to the edge of the car, and the twins fold in on me like an accordion.

  “Promise you’ll call,” Ari says, scrunching up her eyes. Even narrowed, they twinkle more than her statement necklace under the sun.

  “Text,” Bunny demands.

  “FaceTime. I’m going to miss these chubby cheeks.” Ari grasps my face, squeezing gently.

  “Initiate emoji wars,” Bunny says. “Smiling poop wins.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Ari scans me so carefully, she might as well be searching for enlarged pores.

  “I’m fine,” I say and hope they believe me. “Mama’s exaggerating, as usual, about me being lonely without you two.”

  “So you have friends?” Ari presses.

  “And you don’t eat lunch by yourself?”

  “And you don’t mope around the house every Friday night?”

  I push them toward the car. “Get out of here. I had plenty of friends while you were around. Why would I suddenly lose them when you leave?”

  The twins exchange a look, but Mama’s already gotten into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition, so they just peck me on either cheek and hop into the car.

  “Miss you already!” Bunny yells through the rolled-down passenger window.

  “Miss you more,” I say as the Odyssey backs out of our driveway and speeds away. “I will always miss you more.”

  …

  Seconds or minutes later, I’m still in the driveway. Still staring at: a patch of dirt in our otherwise thriving lawn, whose grass Ari ripped up during one of her driving lessons. An overturned scooter in front of our neighbor’s house, complete with pink and blue tassels. The empty street, which used to hold a Honda Odyssey carrying the two best sisters in the world—and now doesn’t.

  “Ari!”

  Papa’s voice intrudes into my reverie, but if he’s looking for my sister, then he’s too late.

  “Bunny!”

  Yep, she’s gone, too. Hasn’t he learned after nineteen years that you can’t find one twin without the other?

  “Sophie!”

  My eyes widen. Okay, now this is officially strange, since our beloved miniature schnauzer passed a year ago.

  “Winnie. That’s right.” Papa strolls out of the garage, shaking his head. “One of these days, I’ll be able to keep you girls straight.”

  I gape. “Did you just call the dog’s name before mine?”

  “I’m not actually confusing you.” He jingles a set of keys to the Prius. Since Mama’s driving the twins to college, he’s taking me to school today. “I read this article. I’m only used to saying the twins’ names because they were home this week. And I was remembering how Sophie used to bark and bark whenever a car pulled out of the driveway.”

  I sigh. “Of course you read an article about it.” Although Papa is a cardiologist by profession, he prides himself on knowing a little bit about everything. The most densely populated island in the world (Santa Cruz del Islote); the relative speed of sound through solids, liquids, and gases (fastest to slowest, in that order); even how to dye his own hair ruthlessly black, like most of the men of the older generation in Thailand.

  “You missed the twins, by the way,” I say.

  “Oh, I said goodbye to them this morning,” he says as we both settle into the Prius. “I gave them each a jar of under-eye cream. To keep the wrinkles away.”

  I let go of the seat belt, and it snaps across my body. “You gave them wrinkle cream? As a farewell gift?”

  “I certainly did.” He backs out of the driveway. “Goodness knows, I don’t really understand all this beauty nonsense, but I heard some of your mother’s friends raving about it, so I picked up a few jars in Chiang Mai last summer. The formula’s all-natural. Made from a combination of twenty herbs.”

  “Papa! You can’t give your teenage daughters wrinkle cream! That’s so rude.”

  His eyebrows scrunch together, as though he’s genuinely confused. “Why not? I thought they would appreciate it. Aren’t you girls always watching those YouTube videos about skin care? It’s so hard for me to figure out what to give you as gifts, and Ari’s always putting on some sort of cream or another.”

  “But not wrinkle cream,” I say between gritted teeth. “That implies that they have wrinkle
s, which is just insulting.” I fumble with the seat belt again and finally click it in place.

  “It is?” He turns, surveying me innocently. “Would you like some, too? I have a couple of extra jars. Maybe your skin would benefit from an early start.”

  I sigh. “Thanks, Papa.” He means well, even if he can be a little clueless sometimes.

  “Speaking of early starts…” He flips the turn signal. “No kissing.”

  Huh? I struggle to recalibrate the conversation. Does he think I’m about to plant one on the leather seats…or is he talking about romantic entanglements?

  “No hugging.”

  Gotcha. Entanglements it is. This must be about Mama’s newfound change of heart, which Papa and I have yet to discuss. “No worries.” I shudder. “I have no interest in hugging overly tall boys with overly large egos.”

  Sweet, funny boys with angelic features, on the other hand? Different story. But Papa doesn’t know I’m giving Taran a tour before school. And he’s not about to find out.

  Papa ignores me. “No touching, either.”

  “Seriously, Papa? If I’m going to practice date someone, there might be occasions when touching is appropriate. A handshake at the beginning of the evening, for example.”

  “You can wear gloves,” he says firmly.

  I snort. “Should I get the ones that go up to my elbows?” As he actually seems to consider this, I shake my head. “If you’re this worked up over me spending time with a boy I don’t even like, what are you going to do when I go on a real date?”

  “I don’t know,” he groans. His hands shake, and his skin is the color of wax paper.

  Uh-oh. How did I miss this? Papa and Mama are always so in sync. From the time we were kids, it was a nonstarter to go to one parent if the other had already said no. I had no idea he wasn’t on board with her new scheme.

  “Dating Mat wasn’t my idea,” I say slowly. “I’d rather stick a smoldering incense stick into my eye. But Mama insisted. If you don’t agree…” I lick my lips, not sure which outcome I prefer. If I date Mat, I’d be the good girl following my parents’ wishes. But in order to do so, I’d have to put up with the boy who told his father that I was dying to see photos of the tea leaves he took on his trip to Shanghai. All one thousand of them.

  “If you don’t agree with Mama,” I try again, “why don’t you just tell her?”

  He pulls into the lot in front of my high school. It’s early enough that there’s only a handful of cars parked in front of the red brick building and smudged stone pillars. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He sighs. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He turns off the ignition, along with the air conditioner, and the interior of the car is suddenly too quiet. “Mama never wanted to restrict you girls from dating in high school. She only enforced the rule as a concession to me.”

  My jaw drops. What is he saying? The only Mama I’ve ever known turns inside out like a hand puppet. And since wearing clothing inside out is a signal to the spirits that a person has passed, she would not be happy.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Mama didn’t marry me until she was in her mid-thirties,” he says. “That might not be a big deal here in America, but in Thailand, she was considered positively ancient. Let’s just say her family gave her a hard time.”

  I believe it. My relatives are boisterous, loving…and very, very direct. If they considered Mama to be on the shelf, then they would’ve reminded her, day and night.

  “She didn’t want you girls to suffer the same criticism. And so she was inclined to let you date in your teens. But I insisted. She agreed to try things my way.” His fingers toy with the raised, stitched seam of the steering wheel. “But then it backfired.”

  He looks up, his eyes quiet and thoughtful behind his glasses. It’s what I love most about Papa. He may be socially clueless and fixated on his articles. But he is a good person, with a thoroughly kind heart.

  “Now, it’s only fair for me to try out her way.” He lifts a hand and cups my chin. “Indulge her, will you, Winnie? All she wants is for her daughters to be happy. Because that’s the only way she’ll find peace for herself.”

  I nod slowly. Mama never talks about the past, before she had children. You’d think she sprang into being the moment the twins were born. She’s always made her priorities clear: a mother first. A doctor second. A wife somewhere below that.

  Her own needs, her own wants and desires? Nonexistent. After all she’s given me, the least I can do is go along with this scheme.

  “Fine. She didn’t really give me a choice in the matter, but okay. I’ll do it. I’ll date Mat.”

  Relief and panic simultaneously war over his face. “Good,” he says unconvincingly. He reaches past me and opens the passenger door. “Because your first date is after school today. We’ve arranged for Mat to drive you home.”

  Chapter Six

  I hurry across the neatly clipped school lawn, my mind racing. The sun is bright and booming, unseasonably warm for this late up north. But I’m too distraught to even appreciate my skirt, printed with cat heads across a burgundy fabric, unreasonably cute given my recent winter wear.

  I have a date with Mat. After school. That’s less than seven hours from now. I thought I had way more time to prepare for a forced entrapment with him. Such as a week. Or a month. Maybe even never.

  In a car, no less. What were my parents thinking? They must not have heard the rumors about Mat and Delilah Martin at homecoming. She lost her hoop earring, and he climbed in the back seat to help her search for it—for an hour.

  Clearly, Mama was drawing inspiration from To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, which we watched together recently. I know how her mind works. Noah Centineo drove Lana Condor to school and back. Ergo, all teen dates should begin with one party schlepping around the other. Of course, in the movie, Lana was a bad driver. I don’t drive only because I don’t have access to a car.

  Still, how bad can the date be? It’s only a twenty-minute ride from here to my house. Add in the pleasantries—or ugly-tries, as the case may be—and the whole thing will be over in less time than an episode of Never Have I Ever.

  For now, I have more pressing matters. Such as: giving the most intriguing boy at Lakewood High a tour without tripping over my brown suede lace-up boots.

  When I arrive at the flagpole, however, no one’s there. I sit on the stone retaining wall, which surrounds a bed of mulch and shrubbery, and carefully arrange myself in a pose. Ankles, crossed. Face, tilted toward the sun. Attitude, oh-so-casual.

  Except…it’s colder than I expected. The wind bites into my bare calves, and I have to press my palms into the stone to keep from hugging myself.

  I hold the pose for ten more seconds and then grapple for my phone. With any luck, my best friend Kavya Pai—as close to me as a sister, if I didn’t actually have sisters—is just now fluffing her pillow, as her snooze alarm blares for the fifth time. Last night, I told her all about my upcoming tour—dare I say date?—and she’s obligated to provide some much-needed emotional support. It’s in the best-friend contract.

  Me: I’m at the flagpole, looking all sorts of cute, and he’s not here

  Kavya: Don’t tell me you’re wearing the cat skirt again. It’s the third time this week

  Me: News flash. I wear it among different people, so nobody knows I’m recycling

  Kavya: Except for me. I know. But you do look adorable this morning. What did you do to your hair? Hello, good hair day!

  Me: Awwwww…thank you

  Beaming, I send her a dozen kiss emojis before I remember that she can’t actually see me. Damn it. Can’t fault Kavya for not being a good cheerleader, anyway.

  Me: Ari let me use her special jasmine shampoo

  Kavya: Nice. Hope you stole it

  Me: NO. Sisters (and friends)
don’t steal from each other…even if they’re obsessed with my ruby lipstick with the gold glitter gloss

  Kavya: *cackle* You mean, my ruby lipstick?

  Me: Whatevs. Take it. Take all my worldly possessions. Just be here to pick up the crumbling pieces of my body because he is totally. Standing. Me. Up.

  Kavya: Now you’re offering up body parts? Relax. As much as I’d like a Winnie ear or a Winnie finger, it’s only 7:55

  Me: Oh. You’re right. I’m early. Does that make me desperate? Should I leave? Hide?!

  Kavya: Deep breaths, hon. Repeat after me. I am A-OK

  Me: I am A-OK

  Kavya: A-OK

  Me: Does that sound like a steak sauce? *presses hand to stomach* I’m hungry again

  Kavya: Of course you are. I mean, it’s been what? A whole hour since breakfast?

  A shadow falls over me. Finally. Panicked, I shove the cell phone into my purse, in case he’s got mad skills at reading upside down. My heart battering against my chest, I look up.

  But it’s not Taran. Instead, it’s another Thai guy, a whole lot taller, but in some people’s eyes—the ones who should probably get their visions checked—just as cute.

  I scowl. “What are you doing here?”

  Mat arches an eyebrow. He tried to teach me that trick once. For hours, we sat in front of my mirror, as the ten-year-old Winnie tried—and failed—to make her left brow rise in that smug, questioning way.

  When I admitted defeat, Mat consoled me by praising my tongue-rolling skills. He even went so far as to pretend that he couldn’t roll his tongue, a lie that I totally caught him in six months later. Still, it was nice of him to try and make me feel better.

  Too bad he hasn’t shown the same consideration since.

  “I go to school here,” he says. “Last I checked, you don’t own this particular patch of lawn.”