Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  “Shouldn’t Mat’s a-ma be dead by now?” I blurt. Oh, pra Buddha cho, forgive me. That was disrespectful. “I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “I didn’t mean—”

  He places a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “It’s okay.”

  But shame is a many-clawed crustacean crawling up my throat. The last thing I want is to hurt this kind man’s feelings. I’ve more than fumbled the etiquette; I’ve damn near obliterated it.

  “I’ve always liked that about you,” he continues. “The way you speak your mind. Saying the things other people are too scared to put out there.”

  “That’s not being brave,” I say miserably. “That’s called having no filter.”

  He shakes his head, as though I’ve insulted someone dear to him rather than myself. “One of these days, I hope you’ll recognize your true worth. I see your value quite clearly. And it appears my son does as well.”

  He gestures over my shoulder. I startle. Ten feet away, Mat is chatting with Kavya. I had no idea they were standing there. As I watch, Mat glances up and frowns. He’s probably wondering why his father is fraternizing with the enemy.

  What he doesn’t understand is that there are no lines in this sand. Our conflict has always been between the two of us. Not our friends, not my sisters. Never our parents.

  “I don’t know that Mat recognizes very much,” I say, smiling to take the sting out of my words. “But I’ve gotten the impression lately that he misses his mother. When is she—is she?—coming back?”

  “It seems that Mat is truly my son after all,” Dr. Song says gently. He gathers both of our plates and tosses them in a nearby trash can. “Turns out, we’re both liars.”

  With that odd statement, he turns and walks away, leaving me to stare after him.

  Chapter Twenty

  I’m still puzzling over Dr. Song’s words when Mat and Kavya approach. He said they were both liars. What does that mean? What were they lying about?

  “Why were you talking to my dad?” Mat asks.

  “None of your business,” I say automatically.

  “Of course it’s my business,” he says. “He’s my dad.”

  “And it’s my conversation.”

  “Were you talking about me?”

  I roll my eyes, falling back into our usual pattern. Why do I do this? Why is it easier to be snarky, rather than risk being honest?

  Maybe I’m as much of a coward as Mat says I am.

  “Yes, Mat. Because the entire world revolves around you. I haven’t seen your dad in months, but instead of asking about his welfare, I decided to pump him for super top secret info about you.”

  Kavya winks at me. “Oh. I can get any info from Mat you want. He’s child’s play to crack.” Her short black bob bounces along with her feet.

  “She’s pretty devious,” Mat says grudgingly. “You know, she scored an invite to Jessica Tananunkul’s wedding reception tonight? Jess didn’t even invite us, and we’ve known her all our lives.”

  Wow. Jess is a decade older than us, but we’ve been in the same community as long as I can remember. When she got engaged, she announced that she would marry in a small, intimate affair. One that apparently includes vivacious strangers she meets at Songkran festivals.

  “I can’t wait!” Kavya twirls in a circle.

  Mat grins. How can I blame him? My best friend certainly follows her own path. She doesn’t linger in anyone’s shadow, no matter how large.

  “There’s going to be a live band,” she continues. “And dancing. The groom danced ballroom competitively in college, so he’s going to give a lesson during the reception.”

  And then the implication of my best friend’s spontaneity sinks in. “You were supposed to come with me to Taran’s party.” I fight to keep the panic from my voice.

  “Oh.” She wrinkles her nose. “You don’t really need me, do you? Practically our whole class will be there.”

  She has a point. But I’m not like her or my sisters. I can’t waltz into a party by myself. Those moments before I find someone to talk to are excruciating.

  “I know. Mat can take you.” Kavya turns to him. “You’re going to Taran’s party, right? Can you give Winnie a ride?”

  He startles. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, he looks like he might agree. But then he stiffens, like her words are a raw mango with a sour aftertaste. “What do I get in return?”

  “Forget it,” I say coolly. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself to the party.”

  Any further discussion is interrupted by a familiar Thai folk song piped through the loudspeakers. All around us, the people who were wandering the food stands pair up and organize themselves into a large circle. As if pre-orchestrated, they begin to dance, old and young, their hand movements and footwork more or less synchronized.

  Kavya’s eyes widen. “Holy crap. It’s a flash mob.”

  Mat grins. “Hardly. It’s the ramwong—a circle dance performed at festivals and parties. We all learned it as kids. They’ll definitely perform this ritual at the wedding tonight.”

  “Gotcha.” My best friend nods. “It’s like the stick dance we do at Indian weddings.”

  “Exactly. We might as well teach you now so that you’ll be prepared.” He looks at me, his eyes a little hesitant and a lot vulnerable. “Should we show her?”

  I swallow hard. The partners never touch in the ramwong, but the dance is extremely flirty. If I pair up with him, I’ll have to look over my shoulder and into his eyes every fourth beat.

  I’m just not ready for that level of intimacy. Not when my brain is stuck in the spin cycle. Not when I have no idea how I feel, much less what he’s thinking.

  “You don’t need me to demonstrate,” I mumble. “Go ahead. Partner with Kavya. She’ll pick it up immediately. I have to go.”

  I trip away. They stare after me, probably confused by my sudden departure. But my only thought is to leave them, to leave the awkwardness of the situation.

  Instead, I run directly into Taran.

  …

  “Hey there.” Taran’s smile is bright and immediate, making me feel like I’m the center of his universe—even though I’m pretty sure I didn’t enter his mind until I almost knocked him over. “Afraid the ramwong will start without you?”

  “Afraid you’ll find another partner before I could grab you.” Um, wow. Did those words really come out of my mouth? I’m never this brave. Never this flirty. But my thoughts aren’t with him but with the boy from whom I just walked away.

  A dimple peeks out of his cheek. “You’re the only partner I’d ever want.”

  Smooth words. Maybe too smooth. But his manner is light, easy. After the morning I just had, I could go with pleasant right about now.

  We assume the position, his front to my back, his arms outstretched around my body. We begin to dance, falling into step with the line that circles around the food stands and proceeds inside the wat for the official dance performances.

  I look over one shoulder, catch his eye, and smile prettily. Four beats later, I look over my other shoulder, finding his gaze once more.

  I have never, ever danced the ramwong with a cute boy before. Usually, I pair up with Papa or one of my sisters. There’s even a long-ago photo of five-year-old Winnie and Mat dancing together. Our mothers swore that they would display the photo at our wedding someday.

  Of course, that was before we grew up. Before our hormones had our parents shaking in their pha thung chang kben that wraps around the lower body. Before romance became a danger, rather than an aspiration and a dream.

  “That’s it,” I blurt as I meet Taran’s eyes for one electrifying moment.

  “What is?” To his credit, he doesn’t even blink at the fact that I’m picking up a conversation I’m having inside my own head.

  “Why my mother is the way she is,” I explain. “She went
from not allowing my sisters to date to expecting them to be engaged in the span of six months. It’s because she wishes she could fast-forward through that part of our lives. The hurt, the angst. She’d like nothing better than for us to get to happily-ever-after without enduring the heartache.”

  “Sounds like a caring mother to me,” he remarks.

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “She is.”

  Mama didn’t institute her practice-dating scheme because she’s irrational. She’s not a caricature of a controlling Asian mom. Rather, she only wants to protect me.

  All of this flashes through my mind in the span of four beats. And when I turn my head, supposedly to meet Taran’s eyes, I glance past him. I sweep my gaze over the next five couples, and when my eyes meet Mat’s, I don’t think either of us is surprised.

  The look we exchange is so intense that it makes me stumble.

  Our eyes hold for half a beat, and then I’m turning once more.

  And yet…and yet…I don’t think I’ll ever forget that look for as long as I live.

  …

  After that one glance, however, I lose track of Mat. The ramwong turns a corner, and the next time I glance over my left shoulder, he’s not where he’s supposed to be. A few beats later, Taran and I enter the wat and proceed to a hall where a raised platform has been erected.

  “Now, let’s see how the real professionals do it.” Taran smiles sweetly as girls with tall chadas and long fingernails take the stage.

  Each girl wears a lavender blouse and sinh, a printed tube skirt. Ornate gold jewelry circle their biceps, and necklaces cross their torsos like armor.

  I try to curve my lips. I should smile. Taran’s being cute and funny—but his remark reveals that he doesn’t know me at all. He doesn’t understand that I should be up there, too. That I would be up there, if it weren’t for my unquestioning obedience to Mama’s opinion.

  Of course, it’s not Taran’s fault that he just moved to town. I haven’t given him the chance to get to know me. So I just nod, and we both turn to watch the performance.

  The beautiful fabrics rustle and the gold fingernails flash as the dancers execute their intricate movements. My mind is so cluttered, however, that it’s hard to pay attention.

  Taran touches my arm. Maybe he’s taking advantage of the dark, but I’m surprised at his boldness. Our parents are not only present, but there are spies everywhere, in the form of their friends.

  I turn and look into his dark eyes. His smile holds a secret that only the two of us share. “Are you coming to my party tonight?”

  “I bought a dress,” I confess. “The first new outfit I’ve had in ages.”

  He lifts his brows. “Deets?”

  “Green. Silky. Swishy.”

  “Stunning,” he says gravely.

  “What, the color?”

  “All of it.” Heat passes through his eyes. “Especially the person wearing the dress.”

  My lips wobble. There’s got to be an appropriate response to his blatant flirtation. I just don’t know what it is. Maybe Mama is on to something with this practice dating. These skills sure as hell don’t come naturally. At least not to me.

  We continue to watch the dancers. He doesn’t touch me again, but I can feel the warmth of his presence against my bare skin. When the performance ends, he turns me to face him and lifts a hand to graze my ever-present ponytail. “Wear your hair down tonight.”

  He beams—always handsome, ever angelic—and then strides away. Good thing, too. My parents might tell me what to do, but I don’t appreciate being ordered around by anybody else—not even cute and flirty boys.

  Tamping down on my annoyance, I wander back outside the wat. But my irritation flares once more when I notice that some of the food stands have already packed up—including the khanom krok station.

  Chib-peng. I can’t believe I missed my favorite dessert. Who knows when I’ll have the chance to eat it again? That winding line was long for a reason: because that crisp and melty goodness was worth the wait.

  “Hey.” Kavya materializes beside me and throws her arms around me. “You’re my best friend on the planet, you know that?”

  I hug her back. “I take it you enjoyed your first Songkran festival?”

  “Love. Pretty sure I’m coming back every year.” She shoves a paper-wrapped package at me. “A present for you. Well, it’s from Mat, not me. He was afraid that you didn’t have the chance to pick it up.”

  My hands shaking, I unwrap the package to reveal four perfect half-spheres of fried rice flour placed against one another, coconut pudding spilling from the sides.

  Khanom krok.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hurry, hurry. I urge the Prius forward. I was able to wheedle the car from Papa, after much begging, but it’s not doing me a whole lot of good in this Saturday afternoon traffic. Where did all of these cars come from anyway? What could these people possibly have to do? I need to get to the mall now, before someone else snatches up my prize.

  Unlikely. But you never know.

  I pull up to the final traffic light before the shopping mall. What Mat did—procuring my favorite dessert—just isn’t fair. We placed bets that we could get each other to fall and agreed that physical affection was off-limits. Emotional manipulation should be as well.

  Argh. I jerk the steering wheel, and it’s a good thing the car’s not moving. Mat’s a good-looking guy. I admit it. Doesn’t mean I liiiike him. Doesn’t mean I want to date him for real.

  Which makes the khanom krok even more inexplicable.

  I turn into the parking lot and wonder, not for the first time: did our friendship break apart so that we could come back together in a new and different way?

  That’s precisely what I intend to find out.

  After way too long in the lot, I finally find a parking space and rush, huffing and puffing, to a store in an isolated wing of the mall.

  “Oh!” the salesperson behind the cash register exclaims. “It’s you.”

  “You remember me?” I glance around, certain it’s because they don’t have many customers. And yet, several moms and daughters are surveying the new arrivals along the wall, and a group of teenagers is pawing through a pile of T-shirts. The place actually seems quite bustling for having such a terrible selection of clothes.

  But I can hardly fault their taste when I’m a returning customer, too.

  “Sure,” the salesperson says. Her name tag says “Anita,” and in spite of her blond dreads and light-blue eyes, she reminds me of Kavya. “You were here last week, trying on our ugly sweater collection with your boyfriend. Whew.” She fans herself. “If he were a few years older, I’d totally go for a hottie like him.”

  “Arghuym.” The sound that exits my throat is barely human. Not even close to English.

  “Don’t worry,” she continues, misinterpreting my reaction. “I wouldn’t make a play for him, even if I did see him again.”

  Even nonsensical noises escape me now. Instead, I look around wildly—and suck in a breath. Because it’s not here. The item I was after. The hideous yellow sweater with the strategically placed loops.

  “Oh no,” I whisper. “Don’t tell me someone bought it.”

  “What?” The silver ball piercing in her brow twitches. “You mean the green dress you tried on? Sure was a stunner. Didn’t you already buy it?”

  “I did. I meant the yellow sweater.”

  “The yellow sweater,” she echoes. “The one with the picnic baskets. And the unfortunate ribbons?”

  Her voice gets higher and more pitchy with each sentence. I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I nod.

  She lets out a whoop. “I won! Lindsey, get out here,” she calls into the storage area. “And bring the yellow sweater.”

  A girl, whom I assume is Lindsey, comes out, carrying an armful of loosely s
titched yellow yarn. I wince. The sweater’s even more hideous than I remember.

  “Please tell me this isn’t a false alarm,” Lindsey says.

  Anita gestures impatiently. “Quick, ring her up before she changes her mind.”

  Lindsey heads to the cash register, her movements quick and economical. “May I ask?” She pauses, as if searching for the least offensive wording. “Why on God’s green earth would you buy this?”

  I blink. I mean, they stocked the sweater. “There’s this boy…” I begin.

  “Always a good start,” Lindsey says enthusiastically.

  “If it’s the same delicious guy who came in with her last week, sign me up,” Anita chimes in.

  I let out a slow breath, trying to understand my own intentions. “Long story short, I bought the green dress to impress someone else. But now, I don’t know if he’s the right guy after all.”

  Anita shrieks, clutching her heart. “So you’re buying the sweater to show the first guy that it was him all along? Oh, that’s so sweet. It must be the l-word.”

  I blanch. No, not love. But definitely not loathe, either. Maybe something in the middle.

  “That will be $55.13,” Lindsey says to me.

  “Wha-at?” My mouth drops. “For this monstrosity? I thought we just agreed that it’s the ugliest sweater on the planet.”

  “It is.” Anita smirks. “But we don’t set the prices. Corporate does. No idea what they were thinking, but we placed bets whether anyone would actually buy one. I can’t believe I won.”

  “It was kinda a joke,” Lindsey adds. “I mean, what kind of fool would plunk down fifty bucks for that?”

  Me, I guess. I’ll raise my hand. I’m the fool.

  But it remains to be seen exactly how foolish I turn out to be.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Walking into Taran’s house is like walking into a wall of noise. Chatter roars around me, a dozen decibels higher than is comfortable. Rock music blares in the background, which makes people yell even louder.