Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  “Oh, Winnie,” Mama says immediately. “You know our love for you is unconditional.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know that, though. That’s part of the problem. But I’m realizing now, maybe that’s my fault as much as anyone’s. Because I never told you how I felt or what I needed. I thought…” I falter again. My sisters nod reassuringly, which gives me the strength to continue. “I thought that I always had to agree with you in order for you to love me.”

  “Not true,” Mama says. “We love you, which means we also love your thoughts and your opinions. Even if they clash with what we think is best.”

  “And we always will love you. No matter what,” Papa confirms. “Even if you girls are responsible for my ever-changing hairstyle. Pretty sure I got the white hair on my left side from worrying about Ari. And the white hair on my right from Bunny.”

  “Oh, Papa.” Ari sighs. “Your hair is completely black.”

  His lips twitch. “That’s because I dye it.” He turns to me, his mouth sobering. “Just to be clear, you know what you’re asking, right? You’re asking me to increase my supply of hair dye.”

  I want to smile, but it’s too soon. I haven’t received their blessing yet. “Yes, Papa. Because you and Mama can’t save me from my mistakes, from the inevitable heartache. From all the hurts that are just part of growing up. My life is going to happen, whether you like it or not, and you have to let me live it.”

  I pick up both my parents’ hands. Never ones to be left out, Ari and Bunny join our circle.

  “I’m not Ari or Bunny,” I continue. “I’m not even you, Mama. You can’t correct the pains of your past through us, and I’m begging you. Please let me forge my own path, whether it be with dating or school or my career.”

  With my newfound realizations, I’m now well and determined to pursue my art next year at Northwestern. But I can’t push my parents too hard. That’s a conversation for another time, another day.

  My parents engage in another eye consult.

  “You’re right,” Mama says finally. “It hasn’t been easy to reconcile the way I was raised with the pace of life here in America. But I do love you, Winnie. Don’t ever doubt that. I love you for who you are, not as a substitute for the twins. Not as a do-over for myself. If you’re willing to meet us halfway…well, I think we can allow you to date Mat. At least, we can see how it goes.”

  My heart leaps. Am I hearing correctly? Or did my brain blank out during some vital phrases?

  “I need to whiten that middle stripe, after all,” Papa adds. “As it stands, my natural hair color resembles a reverse skunk.”

  Holy moly. I did hear correctly. My parents are letting this Tech girl date in high school. For real this time.

  I collapse against my chair, dazed. I can’t believe I’ve won this first battle. There’s another battle to be fought, one whose outcome I’m not at all sure about. But I never truly thought I would get even this far, so I have to celebrate this hard-won victory for what it is. For what it means.

  “Don’t think you’ve seen the end of the composition book,” Mama warns. “There will be rules.”

  “Very strict rules,” Papa adds.

  I gather enough energy to smile. “I wouldn’t know what to do without them.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  For the fifth (and final) phase of my art project, I’ve outdone myself.

  Across her grille, Mataline wears a plastic bib depicting a lobster. I’ve attached long pandan leaves—the kind you use to wrap Thai desserts—on each passenger door. A shopping bag hangs from one sideview mirror, and a particularly hideous yellow sweater is draped over the other.

  In addition to these symbols of our fake dates, I’ve fastened mementos from our childhood all over the car windows: photographs of Mat and me making silly faces, foam bullets from our Nerf gun battles, even my lunch box from the seventh grade.

  Essentially, I’ve turned Mat’s Jeep into a collage of our entire relationship.

  It’s Monday afternoon, and my sisters spent the entire weekend helping me plan Mataline’s new look before returning to Wash U on the Sunday night train. My art teacher, Mrs. Woods, excused me from seventh period so that I could put the whole ensemble together before school let out for the day. After I finished dressing Mat’s car, I changed into a particularly cute burgundy skirt with cat heads printed all over it. Not because Mat likes this item of clothing but because we both do.

  The timing was tight, but that’s not why I wipe my sweaty palms along my skirt.

  The truth is, getting my parents’ permission to date Mat was only half the challenge. Because I’m really, absolutely not sure if Mat still wants to date me.

  During our last conversation, he expressed his disappointment in me. He said that I wasn’t the Winnie he thought I was. The brave girl he knew from childhood, the vulnerable one he’s reconnected with these last weeks. By all outward appearances, he’s moved on, to Delilah of the perfect skin. It may already be too late.

  But still, I have to try. I want to fight for him.

  Mataline’s costume isn’t enough. Words speak loudest when they’re combined with actions, and I want to shout to him—to the rest of the world—that I care. That I’m not content to linger in the shadows anymore. That I’m willing to turn the spotlight on myself, in the most public way possible.

  Matt’s Jeep is parked in the third row of the school’s front lot, and I’m hanging out by the headlights, again with their long, curly lashes (not technically representative of our relationship, but I couldn’t resist).

  The final bell rang a few minutes ago, and I squint at the front entrance of the school. Watching. Waiting. Students pour out of the building only to get snagged by the crowd that’s forming around me. I can hardly blame them. I’m nothing short of a spectacle.

  “Whatcha doing, Winnie?” Julia from trig asks.

  “That’s Mat’s car,” says Aziel, one of his friends. “You were the one behind the costumes? He never let on who it was.”

  “Are you and Mat together?” Lily, a particularly shrieky girl, shrieks. “Like, together-together?”

  “Whatever is about to happen, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” J.D. claims. “Don’t care if Coach makes me run extra laps. Where’s the popcorn?”

  I tune them out as well as I can, rising onto my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. My eyes are trained on one spot and one spot alone: the front door. What if he left school early? Or took another exit? Chib-peng, what if he and Delilah found an empty classroom and are making out?

  My stomach executes a front handspring. No. I can’t think that way. I can’t even allow that image to enter my mind or I’ll tear into the streets, screaming.

  Besides, I’m standing next to his car. He has to show up sometime. And I’m willing to wait. The crowd, however, may not. And I need them for my plan to achieve the full effect.

  Just when I’m beginning to despair, the glass door swings open, and there he is. Tall, lanky. Black hair that falls into his eyes. A heart that may not be solid gold—but glittery enough to capture mine.

  I push a button. Music streams out of the speakers I hooked up to Kavya’s car, parked next to his. The karaoke machine throws lyrics on the screen, and I begin to sing.

  Okay, to be fair, I screech more than sing. My pitch is only a tiny bit better than Cameron Diaz’s in the iconic scene of My Best Friend’s Wedding. I’m singing the same song. My voice warbles in a similar way. And I’m humiliating myself, just like her.

  As if on cue, the crowd cheers. I don’t know if they’ve all seen the movie or if they just enjoy seeing someone make an epic fool of themselves.

  Because I’m a fool, all right. My voice cracks on the high notes, and the crowd laughs, not necessarily with me. Adorable Cameron, I am not.

  But that’s a good thing. The only person I’m trying to be is me. Winn
ie Techavachara and no one else.

  Still, I can’t stop the doubts from sneaking in. Oy tai. What if this doesn’t work? What if Mat doesn’t forgive me and I’ve embarrassed myself for no reason?

  I tighten my grip on the microphone. Stay positive. Even if I don’t get the guy, I will have been true to myself. To my feelings. I have to hold on to that.

  I mangle the song, keeping one eye on the lyrics and the other eye on Mat. Halfway across the lawn, he stops. He must’ve just caught sight of the crowd surrounding his Jeep. He looks around, as though he might bolt, but then—to my immense relief—he continues his approach.

  Whispers zip through the onlookers, faster and more frantic with each of Mat’s steps. And then the crowd parts to let him through.

  When he’s five feet away, I shut down the music, even though I am mid-lyric, and turn off the microphone. We stare at each other silently, and my mouth goes dry. How do we start? What do I say? How long will we stand here—?

  “Hi,” he says.

  I laugh a little wildly. His greeting strikes me as hilarious, when I’ve clearly spent hours planning this scene. Or maybe it’s not funny at all. Maybe my mind’s just on the verge of revolting.

  He studies the car, scrutinizing each piece of the decor, from the photos to the shopping bag to the bib.

  “I was wondering about Mataline’s final outfit,” he says. “Which emotion is this?”

  I flush. I didn’t expect to lead with this admission. But there’s no hiding the answer, since photographs of each of Mataline’s costumes will be on display in the art room.

  “Love,” I say simply.

  His gaze darts sharply to me. As always, his eyes are deep, dark—and indecipherable.

  “I told my parents,” I say. “Everything. How I felt about you. My desire to date you for real.”

  He shifts the brown paper bag he’s carrying from one hand to the other, not saying a word.

  “I was supposed to go on a karaoke date with Taran on Saturday,” I continue. “But I didn’t. Because I realized that you’re the only one I want to reenact ridiculous rom-com scenes with.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Taran in the crowd, standing next to Kavya. He was nothing but understanding when I explained the situation. He might not be my fake boyfriend anymore, but I hope I’ve gained a new friend.

  Taran gives me a nod, and Kavya makes a fish face at me, one that never fails to make me smile. Bolstered, I face Mat once again.

  “I’m not dating Taran anymore,” I tell him. “In fact, my parents and I are done with this whole fake-dating business. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out what I wanted.” I fidget with my microphone. Would it help if I turned it on, if I shouted my feelings to the world?

  I don’t think so. In spite of the public scene that I’ve planned, all Mat ever asked is for me to be true to myself. “I’m done standing in the shadows. I’m ready to embrace the real Winnie. And, well, I want to be with you. This is me, fighting for you.” My hands shake so badly that I almost drop the mike. “I hope you’ll have me.”

  Gently, he takes the microphone from me and replaces it with the brown paper bag.

  “I looked for you at lunch today,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “I couldn’t find you.”

  “I, uh, spent the lunch period putting the final touches on Mataline’s decor.” Do not babble. Please. Not now.

  “What’s in the bag?” someone calls, saving me from asking the question.

  “Bah mee moo dang,” Mat says. Wavy yellow noodles and roast red pork. His eyes are on me, only me, as though we’re the only two people in the parking lot. “Just like my mother used to make. Just like you used to love.”

  My breath makes it halfway up my windpipe—and gets stuck there.

  “I don’t know if it’s edible,” he continues, “but I wanted to make you lunch. I’m sorry that I pushed you away instead of giving you time to work through your feelings. Instead of trusting you. You were right. I got scared that you would leave me. Just like I was scared to talk to my mother. But I don’t want to live my life that way.” He takes a deep breath. “This weekend, I called my mother, and I asked her for the recipe. We didn’t talk long, but it was a start.”

  He steps closer to me. “No relationship is perfect, Winnie. I know that. And our relationship might start and falter. But I hope that it never, ever ends. So yeah. I want to be with you.”

  My eyes are full, my heart fuller. Any moment now, the moisture that’s gathering in my tear ducts will spill out. There’s only one thing that I hate about this situation: that my gain must be someone else’s loss.

  “What about Delilah?” I ask.

  Smiling, he picks up my hand, waves goodbye to the crowd, and helps me into his Jeep. We’re not going anywhere, since my karaoke machine is still attached to Kavya’s car, but at least we’ll have more privacy.

  “Delilah and I were never together,” Mat says as he slides into the driver’s seat, “but I told her on Thursday that I was interested in someone else. After I saw you at the picnic table with Taran, I knew I wanted to try and make us work.”

  He turns to me. His gaze is a warm caress over my face—my eyes, my nose, my lips. He’s close, and one blink later, he’s closer still. Now I understand why he wanted to retreat to the car. The crowd can still see us, but there’s a thick windshield separating us from them.

  He did this for me. Because of my discomfort with PDA. Because it’s a compromise between our two positions, much like our relationship.

  My heart swells. Pretty soon, it won’t fit inside this car.

  We kiss, and it is soft and chaste and perfect.

  Outside, the crowd cheers, and our hugely public display doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

  I ease back a few inches. “I’m curious. How did you get the idea to make me lunch?”

  He grins. “From your mother, actually. Last time we talked, she was raving about the ending of Crazy Rich Asians. And, well.” He shrugs. “I don’t have my mom’s ring, so I decided to go with the next best thing. Her recipe for bah mee moo dang.”

  The laughter that bubbles out of me is full of joy. “I’d rather have this lunch over a ring any day of the week.”

  Epilogue

  A few months later…

  Me: Where are you today?

  Mat: Kuala Lumpur. Wanna see?

  A photo arrives of Mat in front of two silver skyscrapers, connected by a bridge. His right arm is out, as though it’s draped around the air’s shoulders.

  Me: Good-looking girlfriend you’ve got there. So nice and…airy

  Mat: I tried to explain to the locals that I was going to photoshop you in when I got home. They kept asking if you were fake

  Me: And?

  Mat: I said you used to be fake but now you’re real, and that confused them even more

  Me: Maybe you’d better stick with the invisible girlfriend. Easier to explain

  Mat: Oh, her? She’s great. Takes up no room and doesn’t steal my food. She’s not constantly knocking over water glasses, either

  Me: You were the one who spilled the water at Lowcountry

  Mat: That was once, Winnie. Once. You’ve done it how many times? Fifty?

  Me: You wish you’ve had fifty dates with me

  Mat: Isn’t that a movie? Put it on the list. We’ll watch it when I get back

  Me: It’s called 50 First Dates. Drew Barrymore has anterograde amnesia and Adam Sandler has to convince her to fall in love with him every day

  Mat: Easy-peasy. All I’d have to do is ply you with food. Works every time

  Me: I resent that

  Mat: Khanom krok. Bah mee moo dang. Nam phrik kapi. Are you drooling yet?

  Me: Yes, but only because you sent me all those photos of the food stands in Bangkok. Also? I’d like to think I
’m not that easy

  Mat: Hey, you’re not as easy as I am. All you had to do was smile and I was a goner

  Me: Mat?

  Mat: Yes?

  Me: I miss you. Hurry home, okay?

  Mat: Two more weeks. As much fun as I’m having, I’m counting down the seconds until I can see you

  Me: What should we do first? Oh, I know. Let’s have a marathon

  Mat: A make-out marathon? *falls to knees, prays to the god who protects Wednesdays*

  Me: I was going to say movie marathon, but we can probably slip in a kiss or two between shows

  Mat: How about during the commercial breaks?

  Me: They’re movies, Mat. They don’t have commercials

  Mat: Let’s get the kind WITH commercials

  Me: Okay

  Mat: O-KAY? That’s it. I’m changing my plane ticket right now. In the meantime, tell me

  Me: Tell you what?

  Mat: Anything. Everything. What you did today, what art courses you’ve decided to take at Northwestern. So long as you’re saying it, I want to hear it.

  Smiling, I curl up on my bed, readying myself for another text session with the boy who’s occupied a number of roles in my life. My childhood best friend. My sworn enemy. My fake date. Even my first boyfriend.

  And maybe, just maybe, if we keep making each other this happy every day, he’ll also turn out to be the love of my life.

  Practice makes perfect, after all.

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  Acknowledgments

  In these uncertain, harrowing times, I turn to stories to give me a little respite, a temporary escape, a few stolen moments of entertainment. It is my wish that Winnie (and her sisters—and her parents—and of course, Mat) will offer you these same bits of joy.