by Pintip Dunn
“You thought?” he echoes.
“Um, yeah.” For the first time, doubt creeps in. I’d wanted to annoy him, but I didn’t actually intend for him to get upset. “If you don’t like it, I’ll clean her right up,” I babble as the guilt sinks in. Why, oh why is it so hard to deviate from being good, even with my mortal enemy? “Better than new. You’ll never be able to tell she once had a pair of luscious ruby lips.”
“It’s fine, Winnie.” He shakes his head, his lips pressed together. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying not to laugh.
But I do know better. Forget funny. He doesn’t have a mildly amused bone in his body.
“I suppose I deserve it,” he says, jingling the keys in his pocket. “The naked comment was over the line. I’m sorry.”
Wait—what? Kavya and I exchange confused glances. Since when does the guy who’s always right admit that he was wrong? Not in the last four years, that’s for sure.
He takes the keys from his pocket. “Let’s go. Kavya, do you need a ride, too?”
“Who, me?” she squeaks. She always gets the squeegee-on-glass effect when she talks to Mat. “Uh, no thanks. I’ve got my own car.”
I elbow her in the side. She’s supposed to save me, not abandon me. Either our silent communication skills aren’t as developed as my sisters’ or she just wants to live vicariously through my date.
Rubbing her side, she grins wickedly. “Have fun, you two. Please do something I wouldn’t do. And take lots of notes, so I can hear all about it.”
I shake my head. “You’re such a gossip.”
“One of the reasons you love me.”
I soften. “You’re right. I do love you.”
We hug, and then she scampers away.
Swallowing hard, I turn to the Jeep as though I’m facing the gallows. A particularly well-dressed gallows, with a pink bow and polka dots, but a structure for execution nonetheless.
Mat honks the horn and then sticks his head out the open driver’s side window. “Let’s go. The sooner we get this date started, the sooner it can be over.”
What every girl wants to hear before every first date, never.
When I finally get inside the car, Mat pulls out a composition notebook and a rolled-up measuring tape from his messenger bag. “How long should I leave on the decorations?” he asks. “Poor Mataline’s not used to this fuss.”
I snort. He calls his car Mataline? Why am I not surprised? The guy’s so egotistical that he used to dream about having a hundred wives, with a hundred kids, all of whom would live in a hundred-story house, with a wife and a kid on each floor.
“Don’t touch a thing,” I say. “I’ll change out the accessories every few days, until I’ve depicted all five emotions.”
I wait for his protests, for his exasperation. I may not want to hurt him, but that doesn’t mean I’m not looking for the teensiest, tiniest sign that I’ve gotten to him.
But—nothing. Nada. Suun. He opens up the notebook and starts scribbling inside.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask casually, even as I sit on my fingers to prevent from ripping the notebook out of his hands. Because, you know, I’m not ten.
“Oh, here.” He eagerly shows me the notebook, which probably hasn’t happened since we were ten.
I scan the categories written across the top of the page: Location. Topics of Conversation. Duration. Distance in Inches. Overall Grade.
My forehead wrinkles. What on earth?
Mat snickers, sounding like his old self, which is both comforting and disturbing. “Winnie, Winnie, Winnie,” he singsongs, taking back the notebook. “I had no idea your parents trusted you so little.”
I grit my teeth. “Spit it out, Songsomboon.”
“As you wish, Chicken Cacciatore.” He stretches the measuring tape between us and makes a notation on the page. “So the whole point of this dating thing is to improve your relationship skills. Your parents don’t want you going to college as hopeless as you are now. But how are they going to evaluate your abilities when they’re not here? That’s where I come in. All-around dreamboat, fake boyfriend…and spy.”
I blink as the categories float through my mind. I think I’m going to faint. Or vomit. Or both.
That’s why he didn’t care that I dressed up his car like Hello Kitty. He had bigger catfish to fry.
“I’m sorry. Are you saying that you’re recording the distance that separates us? With a measuring tape?” This has Papa’s fingerprints all over it. “And holy guacamole. Don’t tell me that you’re grading me.”
He grins. “Yep. Your parents asked me to keep a record of our dates. They even picked the categories. Kiss-up procedures commence…” He squints at his cell phone. “Right about now.”
“You wish. I’d rather kiss anything other than your—” I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to finish the sentence.
“You can say it,” he says encouragingly. “Pretty sure you’ve been admiring it.”
“Whatever, dude.” Leaning over, I bang my forehead against the glove compartment. “I know I’m the baby of the family. I know they barely trust me to wipe my own bottom. But really? How could they do this? Do they think so little of me that they’d take anyone’s word over mine? Even a person who would happily throw me overboard to make room for his pop?”
“For the record…” He turns on the ignition. “I would never throw you overboard to make room for my pop.”
I settle back against the leather seat. “Really?”
“Sure. I mean, I gave up pop a year ago. A Perrier, on the other hand? I’d have to think about that one. But if it were an ice-cold green tea? You’d be in the water before you could grab a life preserver.”
I roll my eyes. Mat tosses the notebook on my lap and backs out of the parking lot. We don’t speak. The radio blares the afternoon news. Only when the car beeps at me to put on my seat belt—and I obey—does Mat turn down the volume.
“In all seriousness, I don’t think it’s you,” he says quietly. “It’s just the way parents are.”
I frown. “They would never treat Ari or Bunny this way.”
“Maybe not, but your sisters probably had to endure situations you didn’t. My dad’s always saying, since I’m his oldest and only, that I get to suffer his mistakes without benefiting from the wisdom that comes with multiple children. Poor guy doesn’t even have my mother around to help him out.”
“Yeah.” I’m quiet for a minute, thinking it can’t be easy with just the two of them, father and son. Does Mat miss his mom? Or have they both just accepted their new life? “I still wouldn’t call my parents’ actions wise.”
“People don’t always get it right the first time. And this situation? Definitely a first,” he says wryly.
I peek at him. The sun’s on its descent, dappling his face with shadows. I have the strangest sensation that he’s not the boy I’ve hated all these years. It’s almost as though he were someone new and yet familiar…
“You actually sound reasonable.” I shake my head. “I’m going to do something I never dreamed possible—”
“Kiss me?” He smirks.
And the sensation evaporates.
“What? No.”
“You’re right. What am I saying?” He signals the turn for my street. “My kisses probably figure in your dreams on a nightly basis.”
I gag. “Excuse me. I just threw up in my mouth—a lot. I was going to say thank you, you world-class, insensitive, thoughtless, arrogant—”
“Go on,” he urges. “You can curse, you know. I won’t tattle on you in the notebook. I triple-bear dare you. Say it!”
“Donkey,” I say primly. “You’re a donkey.”
He smiles. “It’s not a bad word. Especially when you define it like that.”
He pulls into my driveway and turns off the car. His eyes swe
ep over my face, and he leans forward ever so slightly.
My breath catches. What is he doing? He wouldn’t kiss me, like he threatened. Would he? No way. But he’s so close…
He leans even farther—and then plucks the notebook right off my lap.
Right. That’s what he was going for. The notebook.
“So what are we going to write in this thing?” He peers at me over the cardboard cover. “Pretty sure you don’t want your parents knowing we discussed them.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I can’t believe he’s willing to cover for me. Even more surprised the gesture even occurred to him.
“How about our hopes, our dreams?” he asks when I don’t respond. “Parents love that serious career stuff. Are you going to major in art at Northwestern? I’m going there, too, you know. So you’ll have four more years of my magnetic personality.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I say, avoiding the question.
“I’ll be premed. But you were always different from the rest of us. I remember how impressed I was when you told me you wanted to be an artist in the fourth grade.” He shakes his head. “At that age, I never dreamed such a career choice was possible. Still can’t, if I’m being honest.”
“People change,” I say stiffly. “They grow up. I’ll probably major in economics.”
He blinks. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Well, you don’t actually know me, do you?” I bite out. “You don’t have the first clue who I’ve become, so don’t pretend like you do.”
I want to take back the words as soon as I say them. I wish I could rewind the conversation. But it’s too late. As I watch, he packs away his open, friendly expression. All that’s left are tight lips and granite cheeks. His aloof face. The one that he seems to reserve especially for me. The one that forms a wall so impenetrable, I haven’t been able to break through in the last four years.
“You’re right. I don’t know you.” I can hear the full stop in his words. In our conversation.
He moves the pen across the page. “We talked about school. My Jeep. The new boy. That’s more or less true.” He glances up, his eyes opaque. “Your sisters might advise you not to bring up another guy when you’re with me. But otherwise, you were average.” The pen slashes into the paper so violently that it rips. “B-minus.”
I bristle. “B-minus? I think I deserve at least a B-plus, since I brought the decorations—”
“This date has been thirty minutes long,” he interrupts. “You can go now.” His tone clearly implies that he can’t tolerate one more moment of my company. I could say the same thing.
“I hope I don’t see you later,” I snarl as I hop out of the car.
He raises his eyebrows. “Have a terrible day.”
“Bad-bye,” I say childishly. I can’t help it. Being with him brings out the toddler in me. “Because you don’t deserve a goodbye.”
His lower lip trembles, as though he might laugh. At me or with me. I don’t wait to see which.
Instead, I slam the car door and run inside my house.
Chapter Nine
I lean back against the heavy oak door, breathing hard. My heart’s racing a mile a minute, and my brain’s doing its best to catch up.
I haven’t been this flustered after an interaction with Mat since…well, ever, really. But we also haven’t actually talked for four years. Sniped? For sure. Snarked? Most definitely. But the actual content of our conversations wouldn’t fill an earbud. I’ve never even asked how he’s adjusted to life without his mom.
Our fake-dating changes all that. Instead of insulting each other and walking away, we’ll now be forced to spend long entire minutes together. What will we even discuss? I can’t imagine. Like it or not, we’ll have to dip below the surface. In that process, we might accidentally get to know each other—as the people we are today, not the kids we used to be.
Weird.
I’m not naive enough to think that he’s the same guy who dove in front of me during a particularly creepy scene of The Ring, as though he might be able to protect me from what was on the screen. At the same time, I don’t know whom to expect, either.
And that, maybe, is what’s freaking me out most of all.
Puffing out a breath, I take off my shoes and lay them in the shelves that my parents had custom-built for the front hall.
Underneath my boots, my socks don’t match—one is yellow patterned with bright green pickles, while the other is orange and purple striped. But that’s okay, ’cause there’s no one here to see them. Papa’s still at work. No doubt Mama’s on her way home from St. Louis, after dropping the twins off at college.
It’s just me here. Alone. Like I have been most nights for the last seven months.
I scan our great room, with the deep green leather sofas and the nearly black mahogany end tables. A chandelier hangs from the two-story ceiling, sleek sheets of wood arranged in rippling layers. The room is modern. Immaculate. There’s not an empty cup to be seen.
It’s as though last night’s party never happened. As though Mat and I didn’t bicker over egg rolls. As though my sisters never came home for a visit.
For all the evidence left behind, the whole night could’ve been a figment of my imagination. Ridiculous, I know. And yet, I shudder, feeling lonelier than ever.
Desperate, I grab my phone and video call my sisters. Ari, specifically, because she’s first in my contact list.
She picks up in approximately two seconds, and a close-up of her face appears on my screen. I can see the pores on her otherwise perfect nose.
“Winnie!” she screeches. Conversation buzzes behind her, but her face blocks every inch of the background. “I’ve been counting the seconds until you called. Tell me. How was the tour? Your ride home with Mat? Was Taran just scrumptious? How many times did Mat’s delicious eyebrow go up? Tell me everything, and don’t you dare skimp on the details.”
My lips twitch. Calling my sisters was the right move. I can always depend on them to make me feel better. “Oh, Ari, he was the worst. First, he told Taran that we had seen each other naked—”
Ari’s face suddenly falls away, as though the phone’s been knocked out of her hand. I see a blur of movement, and then the screen focuses on streams of pink ribbons. Plastic silver crowns. Bowls of candy gummies that are shaped like…penises? What?
Muffled laughter rings through the phone.
“Two hours, people,” an authoritative voice says. “Our bride-to-be arrives in two hours.”
“A little help with the streamers, please,” a second voice calls.
“Stop eating the penises!” another voice shrieks. “We won’t have any left!”
A moment later, Bunny picks up the phone. Even through the screen, I can tell it’s her. Her eyes are slightly narrower than Ari’s, her cheekbones a little higher. But it’s the dramatic black eyeliner that gives her away.
“Sorry ’bout that,” she says. “Ari was summoned, even though she was talking to our favorite younger sister. There was a pecker emergency.”
I blink. “A what? Where are you?”
“Oh, one of our sorority sisters is getting married after graduation, and we’re throwing a bachelorette party for her.” Bunny lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Pin the Pecker on Peter was my brilliant contribution. Here, take a look.”
She flips the phone around so that I can see a row of girls wearing cute athletic wear—sports bras and leggings and cropped tops. They’re lined up in front of a life-size cutout of a naked man, and they’re each holding a piece of cardboard that might be shaped like a penis.
I squint. The cutout is a handsome blond with blue eyes. And his nether regions are suspiciously blank.
“Is that a Ken doll?” I ask.
“Yes!” The phone flips back to Bunny. Her wide smile takes up half the screen. “Aliyah drew
the line at actually using her fiancé for the cutout. And Ken is oddly appropriate, since he never had a pecker. But now, she’s freaking out because she says the penises are too small.” She shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. But we gotta keep the bride happy, so Ari’s been drafted to draw bigger penises.”
My face flushes hot, then cold. I’m looking into my sister’s laughing eyes, but in the bottom corner of the cell phone screen, there’s a tiny image of my own face. Even shrunken down, I can see the red splotches on my skin.
“Now, what were you saying?” Bunny demands. “You were going to tell us about your date.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly. “It was nothing.”
All of a sudden, my desire to confide in my sisters has dwindled to the negative integers. I’m scandalized because Mat said we had seen each other naked…while my sisters are preoccupied with penises. Gummy ones, cardboard ones. Penises that may or may not be an accurate representation of the real ones. I don’t think I’ve even thought the word in the last six months. That’s how sheltered I am.
How young, how inexperienced.
Once again, my sisters have raced ahead to their next adventure. And this time, I’m not sure I want to catch up.
“Really, it’s not important, Bunny,” I say. “Go back to your friends.”
“It is important,” she insists, her eyes striking and mysterious with her taped eyelids. She’s so glamorous. Age has nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t be as sophisticated as her if I lived to be 110. “Anything that has to do with you is important to me.”
“I don’t want to interrupt—”
“You’re not interrupting.”
“I just…” I squeeze my eyes shut. I felt so happy when my sisters were home. Like life was returning to the way it was supposed to be. Like I was complete.
Little did I know that the visit home was just a break for the twins. A reprieve before they returned to their real passions, their real friends. Their real lives, of which I’m no longer a part.
“The date didn’t happen,” I blurt. I don’t usually lie—to anyone, least of all my sisters. But if this untruth helps me get through this moment, I won’t regret it. “Mat had car trouble. So his Jeep is in the shop. The date’s postponed to next week.”
