Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The gloves don’t stay on for long. I peel them off thirty seconds into the ride, and by the time we pull into the parking lot at Lakewood High, the black leather is stuffed into my backpack, largely forgotten.

  “Got you here, safe and sound.” Taran turns off the ignition and directs his gleaming smile at me. “And no people even saw us.”

  “Oh, really?” I gesture at the clumps of students walking past our car. It’s still fifteen minutes before first bell, but the lawn is already crowded. “What do you call these creatures walking around on two legs?”

  “Those are people, all right. Just not the kind our parents like to invoke.”

  I give a mock gasp. “Don’t tell me these so-called people live in your world, too. I thought they were a pure invention of my family.”

  “Oh, sure. Any time I forgot to cut my fingernails or practice the piano—”

  “Any time I was late to class or stayed up past my bedtime—” I chime in.

  “What would people say?” we conclude together.

  Laughing, Taran turns to face me, his biceps brushing against the steering wheel. “When I was little, I was terrified of these people. I thought an army of spies was hiding under my bed and around each corner, waiting to leap out and catch me doing something wrong.”

  “And now?” I tease.

  “Now, I think people are pretty great.” He grins. “You just have to spend time with the right ones.”

  He lifts his hand, and his fingers hover in the air, inches from my face. “May I?”

  I don’t know what his intention is, but I nod.

  He smooths a piece of hair from my face very, very gently.

  I clear my throat. “That was…nice.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson, Winnie.” His fingers linger on my cheek. “I won’t touch you again without your permission. I know I’ve already apologized. But words mean nothing. It’s the actions that count.”

  I agree, in theory. I’ve heard this sentiment a million times. But I don’t think it’s wholly accurate. Words do count. They can hurt, and they can heal. Look how much a few words changed the relationship between Mat and me the other night.

  Maybe it’s neither words nor actions alone that have an impact. Maybe we need both.

  “Will you let me drive you to school again?” Taran asks, pulling away his hand.

  “I wish.” I make my tone light. I’ve already shot the guy down once. No need to do it again. “But I’m pretty sure this was a one-off. Papa would never let me be seen riding in the same guy’s car on a regular basis.”

  He frowns. “Didn’t Mat give you a ride when I first started school here?”

  “That was the scene of our very first fake date.”

  “Ah,” he says. “That explains things.”

  “What?”

  Taran taps the steering wheel in a nervous tic. Rat-tat-tat. “That explains why he’s staring at us right now.”

  “Huh?” I glance up, distracted. My gaze flits from one corner of the windshield to the other, taking in the rack of bicycles, a group of giggly freshmen, and a football arcing high in the sky.

  And then I see Mat. He’s wearing his beat-up black jeans and one of the thermal shirts that I secretly like so much. This shirt is light gray, and the color makes his skin even darker, his eyes even deeper.

  I’d be hard-pressed to find anything wrong with his outfit. Back in the day, I’m sure I would’ve come up with something to criticize. But today, the clothes look pretty much perfect.

  A handsome outfit for a handsome guy. Too bad his handsome face is scowling at us through the windshield, ten feet away.

  My stomach drops to my knees. How long has he been standing there? Did he see Taran touching my face?

  Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and then Mat turns and walks away.

  …

  I finally catch up with Mat at his locker. I’m aware of its exact location—main floor, second corridor to the right, adjacent to the gym. Don’t ask me how, since I’ve never visited him here before. No doubt my sisters and Kavya would have a plethora of explanations.

  All I’m willing to admit is that I’ve been paying more attention than I thought.

  Around us, students jostle one another, apply lipstick in front of mirrors, and even make out against the central bank of lockers. It smells like gym class—old sneakers, slick floors, and overpowering perfume.

  But the scene and the scents fade in comparison to the boy in front of me.

  Mat’s head towers over his locker. His movements are jerky, his lips pursed in fierce concentration.

  I don’t know if I’m brave or foolhardy, but I go up to him cautiously, as one might approach a slumbering crocodile.

  “Good morning,” I venture.

  He turns to me, his eyes carefully blank. He’s not at all surprised to see me. Does he know that I’ve been trailing him since the parking lot?

  “You have a stain on your shirt,” he says blandly.

  I look down. Imagine that, I do. I’m not sure how he noticed the stain so quickly, but maybe he’s equally aware of every detail about me. “I dropped a piece of toast on my shirt this morning.”

  “Of course you did.” But he doesn’t snicker, and he’s not amused. There’s no light in his eyes. This exchange is neither our earlier antagonism nor our newfound teasing.

  This exchange is…nothing.

  “I don’t have an extra shirt.” Five-ray chula kites, the kind that Thai people fly in the annual competition, flutter in my stomach. “Otherwise, I would change.”

  “Take this.” He reaches into his bag and then tosses me a T-shirt. It’s light blue and emblazoned with the school logo, a shirt that he wears for gym class.

  At least it’s freshly laundered and smells like fabric softener.

  I crush the cotton underneath my fingers. What does this mean? Plenty of students wear the oversize sports jerseys of their significant others, tied up in the corner with a rubber band, maybe even exposing a bit of midriff. Is that why he’s giving me his shirt? Or is he just implying that my stained shirt is worse than his old gym attire?

  Since the warmth emanating from him clocks in at about a negative two, I’m going with the latter.

  “No thanks.” I hand him back the shirt. “No one will be surprised to see me with a stain.”

  He shrugs and flings it into his locker. “Suit yourself.”

  He slams the locker door, and the finality of the sound makes me wince.

  “What’s going on here?” I ask. “Why are you mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad.” The slash of his gaze belies his words. “I just don’t understand you. After what happened, why are you riding in Taran’s car? Why did you let him touch you?” He shakes his head, although I’m not sure if he’s disgusted with me or himself. “Did I completely misread the situation on Saturday night? I thought he was harassing you. Was I wrong? Maybe you were having, I don’t know, a lover’s spat.” He pronounces the words as though they’re poison.

  My jaw drops. “Mat. Are you jealous?”

  He snaps his mouth closed. Straightens his spine. And then, instead of answering, he just leaves.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The warning bell rings. Mat’s striding in the opposite direction of my first class. If I follow him, I’ll be late. I’m never late. But if I don’t follow him… Well, we’ve already lost four years of friendship by not communicating. I don’t want to lose four more.

  I hurry after his imposing figure, but the sea of students prevents me from breaking into a flat-out run. He must know I’m behind him, but he doesn’t slow and he doesn’t pause.

  We’re halfway through a courtyard set between two buildings when he finally stops. “You’re still here?” he asks, leaning against one of the weathered p
icnic tables. A dozen of them are scattered across the green lawn. The open air means that the sun shines brightly overhead, providing a welcome shot of vitamin D for students during lunch and in between classes. “You have trig at the other end of school.”

  I reach the picnic table, dropping my backpack at my feet. I want to pant—because the pace he was setting was kinda brisk—but he hasn’t broken a sweat. He’s not even breathing hard. “How do you know my schedule?”

  “The same way you know where my locker is.”

  He’s got me there.

  We stand, looking at each other, as the courtyard empties, students disappearing behind the double-glass doors on either side of the open space.

  Brrrrrrrrriiiiiiing.

  It’s the sound that I’ve been both dreading and expecting: the bell that signals the beginning of first period.

  “Late,” Mat says mockingly. “You’re officially late.”

  “There are worse things.” To prove my unconcern (lie—already, I feel the sweat gathering in between my fingers), I sit casually at the table. Surreptitiously, I wipe my palms against my skirt. No cat heads this time but a perfectly unobjectionable plaid.

  He sits across from me. “Who are you, and what did you do with Winnie the Rule Follower?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s not, generally.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But in your case, it’s like you’re afraid to do something wrong so that no one will notice you. I bet that’s one of the reasons you’re friends with Kavya. Without your sisters to provide a shadow, you need someone else to draw the spotlight.”

  “That’s quite a speech,” I manage to say.

  He leans forward, his deep eyes bracketed by straight eyebrows. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I take a deep breath and release it, one beat at a time. It’s not easy to listen to someone’s assessment of you, especially when it’s critical. Not a simple thing to separate your feelings from the observation, to set aside the opinion from the objective truth.

  But those words sneak into my chest. They ricochet in my heart, ringing louder with each bounce. And so I try.

  “You’re not wrong,” I say slowly. “But you’re not fully right, either. There are a billion reasons why I love Kavya. She’s kind and loyal and fun—”

  “I’m not disputing any of that,” he says, his voice soft.

  “And I’m not afraid to shine.” I stop. My thoughts take another lap around the twisty track that is my mind. “I just don’t know how.”

  “Be yourself.” He shrugs. “That’s it. That’s all.”

  “How?” I look at him, my heart in my throat, and on my sleeve, and in the butter stain on my shirt.

  He considers me for a long time. And then he gets to his feet. “Good luck figuring it out. I have to get to class.”

  “Wait.” I rush around the table and put my hand on his wrist. He goes perfectly still. And I get an inkling of what it means to be myself. “Could you help me?”

  His eyes flash. “Why in the eighth level of hell would I want to do that?”

  The words should hurt. They should send me running to a quiet corner, as so many of his cutting comments have done over the years.

  But his voice shakes on the last syllable, and that’s when I know. I can see right through the walls he erected to protect himself. I can read the feelings that he’s not voicing.

  Most of all, I’ve figured out how to be myself.

  I just pray to the pra Buddha cho that I’m right.

  “Because you like me,” I say softly.

  The wood of the picnic bench bites into my thighs. The grass tickles my ankles, and the sun slants over the courtyard in long, lazy rays. I lift my hand from his wrist and place the pads of my fingers on his bare forearm. Slowly, I skim my fingers up his arm, over the bunched sleeve at his elbow, and onto his shirt-covered biceps. Here, I pause, feeling the solid rock through the waffle-patterned cotton. Holy hotness, this boy has muscles.

  My neck is all of a sudden too warm, and I’m light-headed from the sensation underneath my fingers.

  Mat clears his throat. “Well, yeah. I mean, we used to be friends a long time ago.”

  “You like me more than just a friend, Mat,” I say.

  “I do?” His voice is gruff, approaching strangled.

  I run my hand over his shoulder, up his neck, and onto his face. He stands there, completely rigid, a bronze statue under the glow of the sun. I can almost believe he’s stopped breathing.

  I continue my exploration, tracing his jaw, chasing his warmth. The moment I touch his mouth, however, my world narrows to the single tip of my finger. I rub my index finger gently over his lips. Full, fascinating. I could stay here all day. The entire week.

  “Winnie?” My finger moves with his mouth, his hot breath moistening my skin. I stare at his lips, entranced. He could read aloud the entirety of Paradise Lost—what we’re currently studying in English lit—and I wouldn’t get bored. “Why do you think I’m interested in you?”

  I swallow hard. This is it. The biggest leap I’ve ever taken. Let’s just hope that if I fall, the pra Buddha cho has conjured up a net to catch me.

  I take away my hand. My fingers ache where they’ve been touching him, but I know that this separation is necessary. Hopefully temporary.

  “The reason I know,” I whisper, “is because of this.”

  And then I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him down, until his lips meet mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The moment that my lips touch his, I panic. What am I doing? How am I the aggressor here? I’ve kissed exactly nobody in my life, and he’s tongue-wrestled with how many? Twenty? What if he thinks I suck? Or worse yet, don’t suck. Are you supposed to do that in a first kiss? How the hell would I know?

  I jerk up, just as he moves forward. Somehow, someway, the top of my head bangs into his cheekbone, and I see stars. Not the good kind.

  “Owww!” he yells.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I gasp, shooting back. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He recovers enough to grab my arms, steadying me before I fall to the ground. “You don’t have to apologize. Just give me a second here.” He gingerly touches the bruise that’s already forming on his cheek, grimacing.

  “This is just perfect,” I moan. “My very first kiss, and I give you a black eye.”

  “It’s below my eye.” His tone is eminently reasonable. If he’s surprised at my admission that this is my first time, he doesn’t show it. No doubt he figured as much. “And really, can that even count as a kiss? You touched my lips for what? Point two seconds? Did you even feel anything?”

  “I remember every detail before it happened. And afterward,” I say stubbornly. “That has to count for something.”

  He sits down and pats the bench next to him. “Maybe we’d better try that again. I can’t have you thinking that’s a proper kiss.”

  I look at his hand. And then at his lips. I want more than anything to see if he’s right. To see if there’s more. But what if I mess up a second time? “Are you sure that’s something you want to risk?”

  “Hell yes.” He lifts his brows cockily. “My reputation’s at stake here.”

  I huff. “That’s why you want to kiss me? Because of your reputation?”

  “That’s right. My reputation,” he repeats. “It’s not because you understand me better than anyone else at this school. It’s not because your eyes always seem to be laughing, even when your mouth isn’t. And it absolutely, positively has zero to do with the fact that I’ve been thinking about nothing else since you tried on that green dress at the mall.”

  He beckons with his fingers. This time, I move forward to peer at his bruise. It’s going to need ice. But before I can say so, in a move as natural to him as walking, he scoops m
e up and lays me across his lap. My skirt hikes up a few inches. He glances at my bare legs and seems to stop breathing.

  The air electrifies. I’m aware of every movement, every sensation. The rough texture of his jeans under my thighs. The cool air flirting with our lips. His warm, large hand settling on my knee.

  He drags his gaze from my legs to my face, and I feel an almost tangible click when our eyes meet.

  “Did it hurt?” I ask hesitantly. I lay my fingers on his cheek, right under the discoloration.

  “Yes.” His voice is low and scratchy. “But it feels better already. If you’d told me all I had to do was get a bruise to get your hands on me, I would’ve beat myself up a long time ago.”

  “I really am sorry.” Before my nerves desert me, I replace my fingers with a gentle kiss.

  “Even better.” He taps his cheek, a couple of inches closer to his mouth. “How about here?”

  I comply, my lips aching from the rough texture of his skin. And then he taps again, this time on his mouth. “And here?”

  My heart is a caged bird, flapping its wings, almost too big for my chest. Each frantic and distinct beat thunders in my ears.

  Swallowing hard, I lean forward.

  “Winnie?” he murmurs. “Take your time, okay?”

  “Just promise me you won’t move.”

  His lips part, as though he’s about to protest. But then he just nods. “If that’s what will make you comfortable, fine.”

  I move closer. And then I press my mouth against his. And stay there. Oh my. This is nice. One thousand one, one thousand two. He must’ve misunderstood me, though. I meant no sudden movements to avoid any accidental black eyes. Not: stop moving altogether. One thousand three, one thousand four. Still, I can’t complain. Fireworks aren’t exactly going off here, but I can see why a kiss has become a symbol for affection.

  One thousand five.

  I draw back, triumphant. I did it! I had my first kiss. And it wasn’t even terrible, like Kavya warned.

  I smile at him. “That was really lovely.”

  His eyes fly open. “Lovely?” he croaks.