Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  Even the smell is loud. Human sweat, tinged with sweetness. The origin of the first is obvious. And the scent of berry-fruit syrup? Must be from the reddish liquid that everyone’s carrying around in purple plastic tumblers.

  Taran’s parents, if they were ever here, are nowhere to be seen. They probably escaped as quickly as my parents did after they dropped me off.

  I move farther into the party. The girls wear cute dresses with heels or tight jeans with tank tops. Nobody, absolutely nobody, has on a sweater—and certainly not one as ugly as mine.

  And yet, conversation doesn’t come to a screeching halt like I feared. At most, a few eyes skim my offensive attire and then turn away, dismissing me. I guess I’m not that important. Which suits me just fine. As Mat is so fond of pointing out, I much prefer creeping along in someone else’s shadow.

  Now what? my mind screams as I stand alone. Desperately, I recall the advice from the video call with my sisters.

  “Get something to drink,” Bunny instructed, her eye makeup dark and dramatic. “Doesn’t have to be alcohol. A drink will give you something to do with your hands.”

  “Make sure it comes from a closed container,” Ari added, her features softer but just as lovely. “Drink straight from the can so no one can slip any drugs inside.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I make a beeline for the kitchen island, cluttered with cans of pop and an enormous punch bowl.

  I pick up a Coke Zero, my feet bumping into a couple of empty glass bottles under the island. A girl from my trig class smiles at me, her eyebrows arched curiously.

  “Winnie! You look so cute.” Is it just me, or was there a nearly imperceptible pause in Anjelah’s compliment? “What’s the occasion?”

  “Oh, the sweater’s an inside joke,” I say weakly.

  “Ah. Say no more.” She gives a sage nod. “Whoever they are, I hope they’re worth it.”

  Again. Like the salesperson, Anjelah’s assuming there’s a romantic motive behind my sweater. And that’s only maybe—hopefully?—true.

  “Nice bows,” a male voice says in my ear. It’s Steve from history. We’ve never actually spoken, but he leers at my chest now. How will he feel, come Monday, when we have to sit next to each other in class? Or will he not even remember that he ogled me, since he hasn’t bothered to look at my face?

  He stretches out a hand, as if to untie a bow, and I slip nimbly out of his reach.

  I walk through the party, searching for a friend—or at least a friendly face. My smile is beginning to feel like one of the wobbly Jell-O shots some guys are downing in the corner.

  This is awful. No doubt Kavya’s having a better time than I am at a wedding with people she doesn’t even know.

  And then I see him.

  Mat, magnetic and compelling in a simple black T-shirt and jeans. Playing Flip Cup with a bunch of his friends. He performs a successful maneuver, and the group around him erupts into cheers. A guy pounds him on the back, and Delilah Martin kisses him on the cheek.

  I freeze. The movement is easy and casual, as though she kisses him all the time. And maybe she does. As far as I know, they never dated after homecoming. But maybe they got together recently. Or maybe they don’t need to date in order to do…whatever it is they do together.

  Cheeks burning, I walk swiftly out of the room before he sees me or my ridiculous sweater. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. Not only is this top ugly as sin, but its heavy stitches are freaking hot. Shoulda worn the green dress. Maybe I’d still blend into the foliage—Taran’s parents have potted kaffir lime plants just like mine—but at least I wouldn’t be sweating.

  I retreat to a staircase at the back of the kitchen and sit on the darkened steps. The air is cooler here, but more importantly, I’m alone. I yank the sweater over my head, grateful that I’m wearing a black camisole underneath, and lower my flushed face to my knees. My parents are having dinner with their friends. How soon can I interrupt their evening to ask them to pick me up?

  I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually, I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs above me. I scoot to the edge of the step, hoping the person will sail right past. Instead, they sit next to me. Startled, I look up.

  It’s Taran.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt. “It’s your party. Shouldn’t you be in the center of it?”

  He tilts a purple cup into his mouth. “It’s terrifying out there,” he admits. His hair is neatly combed, his eyes glazed—but that only contributes to his vulnerability.

  “I don’t know anyone, outside of the million people who introduced themselves to me last week,” he continues. “I’m terrible at faces. Worse with names. I’ve already insulted three girls because I didn’t remember who they were. So I thought I’d take a break before I make anyone else mad.”

  My cheeks soften. I may not always feel like I belong, but I’ve been going to school with these people for years. I can’t imagine starting over a few months before graduation. “You’re doing great. Everyone is already enamored by you—by your charm, by your smile. You have nothing to worry about.”

  He tilts back his drink again, the ice cubes rattling against the plastic. And then he grins at me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Winnie. It means a lot.”

  “So you remember my name?” I tease.

  “You’re impossible to forget.”

  “Because I poured jalapeño vinegar on my shirt?”

  He bumps my shoulder. “Because you look really good without a shirt. Er, sweater. Er, what the hell is this thing?”

  He frowns at the Franken-yarn on my lap. Even balled up, the sweater is monstrous.

  “I thought you were going to wear a green dress,” he continues. “One that’s tiny and silky and looks like lingerie.”

  “I didn’t describe it like that,” I choke out.

  “No,” he agrees. “But that’s how I imagined it. Doesn’t matter. I like this little thing, too.” He turns his attention to the thin straps of my cami. “You could rock anything you decide to wear.”

  He slips his hand around my neck, warm and enticing, and leans forward so that our lips are inches apart. Goose bumps pop up along my skin. Is he going to kiss me? Holy macaroni. This is just like my dream. I’m about to have the first kiss of my life.

  Even if it’s not with Mat. A small, secret part of me wanted my first kiss to be with him. But he’s busy playing Flip Cup with Delilah, and for all I know, my former enemy loathes me as much as ever. Mat Songsomboon has wrecked a lot in my life, and I’m not about to let him destroy my chances with this perfectly cute guy, too.

  Taran moves even closer, and I wonder if I should ask him to slow down, so that I can take better mental notes. My sisters are going to want every detail.

  Let’s see. One hand cradles my neck, while the other one is splayed on my hip. My hands are still hanging by my sides. Should I leave them where they are? Or put them on his body?

  He licks his lips, as though he knows exactly what he’s about to do with them. I shiver, and his breath wafts across my bare skin, hot and…alcoholic? Huh?

  I jerk up my head, narrowly missing his chin. All of a sudden, I remember the empty bottles underneath the island. Not just any old bottles, I realize now. Containers of hard liquor, whose contents were probably poured into the punch bowl.

  “The punch,” I say. “I think it’s been spiked. How many cups have you had?”

  He scrunches his forehead. “Not sure. Maybe five, six cups? Thirsty tonight.”

  For the first time, I notice his words are a little slurred. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it sooner.

  “You’re drunk.” I’m not such a prude that I don’t know that teenagers sometimes drink alcohol at parties. Especially when there’s a big punch bowl, just inviting people to add their own contributions. I’ve even had champagne with my parents once, du
ring Chinese New Year.

  I’m not judging him, but I can’t help the disappointment that flows through me. I want my first kiss to be genuine–and that means I’d like it to be with someone who hasn’t had too much to drink.

  “I’m only a little buzzed,” he assures me. “Just enough to lower my inhibitions so that I can approach pretty girls who would otherwise intimidate me.”

  He begins to lower his lips again, but then he stops. “I thought I asked you to wear your hair down.”

  “I like ponytails.” The dangerous tone in my voice doesn’t seem to penetrate his haze.

  “You have such beautiful hair,” he says. “I want to run my hands through it when I kiss you.”

  Without warning, he threads his fingers through the loop of my ponytail holder and pulls it out.

  I leap to my feet, outraged. “What the hell? You have no right to do that.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He blinks, the black elastic dangling from his hands. “Did I hurt you?”

  No more than a vigorous brushing—and I’m used to that. It’s how I attack my thick, wavy hair every day. “That’s not the point. You have no right to interfere with my hairstyle. With my body.”

  He frowns. “But in the movies—”

  “The movies are wrong!” Too late, I realize I’m yelling.

  Rapid footsteps thunder toward us, and someone pokes his head through the open door into the stairwell. He takes one look at my arms crossed defensively across my chest, and he tightens his hands into fists.

  “What is going on here?” Mat growls. “If you laid one unwanted finger on her, I’ll kill you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Relax, dude. It was just a misunderstanding.” Taran holds up his hands in the universal gesture of peace. Too bad he’s still holding my hair tie.

  “That’s mine,” I snap. “Give it back.”

  “Take it.” He pushes himself off the step and flicks the black elastic at me. I catch it and gather up my hair in a sloppy ponytail. The jumbled mess is a far cry from the sleek ’do I achieved earlier—but at least the new hairstyle reflects the chaos roiling my insides.

  Taran looks from me to Mat and then back again. “I was leaving anyway. I was supposed to meet Julie Kwa in one of the bedrooms. She was quite eager to…get to know me. But I got sidetracked when I saw you sitting here, looking so dejected.”

  I thought my anger had peaked, but there it goes, soaring to new heights. “You were on your way to see another girl, but you made a move on me?”

  Mat shoves forward so that he’s blocking Taran’s path. “You made a move on her?” he repeats, his voice low and threatening.

  “I wasn’t successful, so does it really matter?” Taran neatly steps around Mat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go.” He turns, seeking out my eyes in the darkened alcove. “I really am sorry, Winnie.”

  He ducks through the doorway, leaving Mat and me together. And alone.

  “I didn’t need your help,” I say stiffly. “I had the situation handled.”

  Mat raises his brow. “I’m sure you did. But you don’t really think I would hear your voice raised in panic—and not do anything? Not many people could ignore a cry of distress. Least of all me with least of all you.”

  I slump, the tension flowing from my shoulders. I didn’t realize until now how tightly I’ve been holding them. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just taking out my anger on you. Thanks for coming to my rescue, even if I didn’t need to be rescued.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, his lips twitching. “Thanks for validating my decision, even though you don’t want me here.”

  “We’re good at that, aren’t we? Willfully misunderstanding each other?”

  He looks directly at me. His expression is so steady, his eyes so clear, that I know he hasn’t been drinking from the punch bowl. “I don’t want to be,” he says quietly. “I don’t want us to misunderstand each other anymore.”

  The statement is so big, so packed full of meaning. And yet, it’s also incredibly vague. I don’t know what he means. Is he as sick of our game play as I am? Does he want to clear the air so that we can go back to being friends…or something more? Or is this just another strategic move to get me to fall for him?

  My head officially hurts.

  “Do you want to go outside?” I ask.

  He draws back, surprised. I’m just as taken aback by my words. This is about the first conversation we’ve had that hasn’t been loaded with insults or hidden meaning. It’s just me, issuing an invitation. Not because I have an ulterior motive. But because I want to.

  “Sure,” he says.

  A single word, a simple answer. I like that, too.

  He holds open the back door for me, and I walk into the night. The cool air wraps around me, fresh and inviting after the stifling heat. We cross the wooden porch and descend the stairs.

  Mat inclines his head, as though asking if I’m willing to risk another set of steps, with another boy.

  I am. At least with this boy.

  My pulse in my throat, I sit. He arranges himself a few steps below mine so that my head towers over him and his shoulders are by my knees.

  I don’t know if he’s putting distance between us on purpose, but I appreciate it. After the interaction with Taran, I need space, and Mat’s given that to me, without my even asking.

  When we were younger, he had an uncanny knack for anticipating my wants and needs. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he still has this same ability.

  A sudden gust of wind has me shivering, and I shake out my sweater and put it on.

  When my head emerges from the scratchy yarn, he sucks in a breath. “You’re wearing the sweater. You didn’t buy it that day at the mall. Did you go back?”

  “This afternoon, after you gave me the khanom krok,” I admit, suddenly shy. Am I revealing too much? It’s just a sweater. How can such a badly stitched pile of eyesore make me feel so bare?

  I lick my lips. “You remembered my favorite dessert. And it seemed to bother you that I bought the dress with Taran in mind. I, uh, no longer felt right wearing it, after you were so nice to me. So I went back and got the sweater.”

  His eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you returned the green dress.”

  “Um, no. You’d have to rip that dress out of my cold, dead hands.”

  “Good,” he says roughly. “Because that dress belongs with you. Although I’m glad that Taran doesn’t get to see it tonight. I hope he never sees it.”

  A thrill shoots through me, but I opt for the safe response. “Thank you for the khanom krok.”

  “Thanks for the sweater.” His lips quirk. “Although, if this big, bulky thing is part of your arsenal, your seduction routine could use some work.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Oh, really? For your information, big, bulky sweaters are plenty sexy. They leave something to the imagination. They’re begging to be taken off.”

  “My bad.” Mat’s eyes glow, as bright as the stars in the night sky. “Prove me wrong, Winnie. I need to be put in my place.”

  “Ha. You wish.”

  Our gazes meet briefly, and then we both look away.

  I don’t know how to respond to this Mat. The one who’s just as witty as my former enemy—except it’s not at my expense. The one who teases me, same as always—but because he seems to like me rather than scorn me.

  Because I can’t chance another collision with his gaze, I look up. I was both right and wrong. Mat’s eyes do shine, but they can’t compete with these stars, which twinkle like diamonds against a jeweler’s black cloth. I draw in a long, icy breath, and it feels like I’m swallowing the stars themselves.

  My senses flood with this moment. The music pulsing at our backs. The splintered wood under my jeans. The scent of pine mixed with booze. And last, but not least, those brilliant
, burning stars. Dazzling me with their beauty. Showing me that the world is bigger than my thoughts, my problems.

  In their starkness, I find the courage to voice the words that have been locked inside my brain, rattling against its bars, since this afternoon.

  “Mat, have you been lying to me?”

  He leans back on his elbows, as though to get a better view of the sky. But I can tell he’s just stalling. “What do you mean?”

  “This afternoon, when your dad and I talked,” I say haltingly. “He said you were both liars. I kinda thought, well…it seemed to be about your mom.”

  Mat studies his shoes, although I’m not sure how much of his black laces he can distinguish from the night. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t meet my eyes. Maybe this seating arrangement benefits him more than just giving me space.

  “It’s complicated.” He picks at the soles of his sneakers. “So many years have passed since she left. My dad has long since told his friends the truth. He was surprised that I had never cleared the air with you.”

  “You didn’t have much opportunity.” I don’t know why I’m defending him, but every minute we spend under these stars brings him closer to the boy he used to be. The boy my heart wants to protect. “Every time we were together, we were sniping at each other.”

  “Four years.” He yanks at a piece of rubber that’s become detached from his shoe. “I probably could’ve found an opening during that time. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “Hey.” I put my hand on his shoulder. It’s the first time we’ve touched since our Pretty Woman date. “I’m fairly sure we’re both responsible for being at odds.”

  He looks at my hand for so long that I begin to question. I begin to doubt. I start to pull my fingers away, but he reaches up and catches them with his own.

  His bare skin is a jolt to my system. I’ve held hands with guys before. There have been stolen dances at homecoming (where I of course attended stag). Harmless flirtations at parties. But the connection has never felt quite this warm. I feel like he’s touching not just my hand but also my heart.