The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  “So I’m thinking people will be really desperate and prime targets for the app.”

  I frown. “It sounds so bad when you say it like that.”

  “It’s true though.” He leans against the counter and picks up his wineglass.

  I give in to the game of it. “Plus, there’s the whole no-one-to-kiss-at-midnight thing with New Year’s Eve.”

  “Exactly!” He raises his glass. “See, I knew you were a little evil genius too.”

  I roll my eyes but take the compliment.

  He puts a lid on the food. “Let’s go take a picture,” he says. “While it cooks.”

  “Uh, okay,” I say. I set down my glass and follow him out the door to the balcony.

  “Over here,” he says, pointing to the railing. I walk over the slats, hoping the wine or my shoes won’t make me fall.

  “Stand like this, against the edge... Okay, put your arm on it like this.” He positions my left arm so that it’s resting against the railing, as if I was just chilling here casually, for some reason facing away from the beautiful view. Nothing about this feels casual though. “Okay, good. And then turn like three-quarters toward me—perfect.” He backs up and snaps a few pictures on his phone.

  “Pretend like you are laughing,” he says. I do so and feel super awkward. “Yeah like that, act happy.”

  I thought I was.

  “Yeah, one of these should work,” he says without looking up from the screen.

  “How do I look?” I try to catch a glimpse of the picture, but he doesn’t turn the screen toward me.

  He swipes and taps at the screen, gaze glued to his phone.

  I clear my throat and try again. “Can I see?”

  “Yeah...” He clicks a few more buttons. “Here.” He smiles and hands me the phone.

  It’s open to his Instagram account. The girl in his most recent post—me—stares back at me.

  I almost don’t recognize myself. He’s done a great job editing me, changing the light and shadows in the right places to highlight my curves and hide my flaws. And my skin looks radiant... Did he airbrush me?

  A perfect place with a perfect girl, the caption below reads. It was posted a few seconds ago but already has forty-two likes. I scroll to the top of his account and gasp.

  “You have twenty–two thousand Instagram followers?”

  He nods. “Actually it’s twenty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty...nine,” he says, looking up. “Or at least it was this morning. You have to use another app to get the exact amount when you have this many.”

  I laugh. “Are you, like, famous or something?”

  “Nah.” He brushes this off. “Just popular.”

  A repetitive beeping alarm sounds behind us.

  “Oh shit.” Braden turns and runs into the house. I follow him into the kitchen, now filled with gray smoke and a burning smell.

  Eyes burning, I blink through the smoke to see that a small fire has engulfed the frying pan and half the stove with it.

  “What do I do?” I yell over the beeping alarm.

  Braden is opening and closing cabinets again, this time aggressively, the door making a snap each time. “I know there’s a fire extinguisher somewhere.”

  Oh my god there’s no time, I grab the nearest liquid, my wine, and throw it on the fire.

  The flame bursts upward. “Ahhh!” I flinch away.

  “Alcohol is flammable,” Braden says through gritted teeth. He steps forward, fire extinguisher now in hand, and doses our dinner with puffy white foam.

  When the fire wanes to nothing, he sets it down and turns back to me. “How do you feel about cereal?” he asks. He looks at me with puppy dog eyes, his hair askew and a little bit of black soot on cheek.

  “Right now, it’s my favorite food.” I smile.

  * * *

  We pour bowls of sugary cereal and new glasses of wine and head outside to our overdressed table.

  “Breakfast for dinner was always my favorite as a kid,” I say, scooping a spoonful that has the perfect ratio of marshmallows and oat pieces.

  “Mother would never let one of us do that,” Braden says. “But sometimes our nanny, Marie, would, when my parents were out of town. We’d make pancakes with chocolate chips.” He smiles at the memory. “She knew she might get in trouble if they found out, but she always said kids should get to be kids.” He pauses to take a bite, then says with food in his mouth, “She was like a second mom to me.”

  I nod like I know, even though I don’t. Braden is so confusing to me—a moment ago it was just her job and not nice for his housekeeper to set this special table for us. But now he’s saying his nanny was like his second mom. How can someone be so spoiled and so sweet all at once?

  I turn to look at the water. We are close enough to hear the waves crashing against the cliff below.

  “God, it must have been amazing coming here when you were a kid,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Yeah,” he says. “But we only came a few days a year, if that. It’s mostly an investment.”

  I study his face while I take another sip of wine and try to imagine the sort of life where you own a house you use only a few days a year.

  I shake my head and reach for my water, thinking maybe I should ease off the alcohol for a little bit.

  “I love the ocean.” I set down my glass. “I just feel...right, when I’m by it.” I close my eyes for a second, taking it in. “It’s so easy to get caught up in the little stresses of life. But the ocean is so big. You know? It doesn’t know who you are. It doesn’t care about your college apps or what internship you get next summer.”

  “It’s pretty great,” he says. “Although I must say, I think I like the Mediterranean Sea better than the Pacific.”

  “Really?”

  Braden nods.

  “I don’t know—I think this is pretty great.” I gaze over the water again. “But I’ve never seen the Mediterranean, so I have no point of comparison.”

  “Well, I’ll have to take you sometime,” he says.

  I laugh, but uneasily. I’m not quite sure he’s kidding. For the hundredth time tonight, I wonder how the heck this is my life.

  Only a few cornflakes float in my milk, now sweet from the sugary cereal.

  “So, uh...” I swirl my spoon around my bowl. “Are we going back to campus tonight or...?”

  “Oh.” His eyes widen. “We can if you want to. But I, um, was thinking we’d stay here.”

  I press my lips together and stare at the water. I was afraid he was assuming that. I look back up at him, my stomach in knots. “I mean, I don’t—I don’t want to create any sort of expectations for—” I struggle to find the words.

  Braden’s brow furrows. He seems confused by how upset I’m getting. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching for my hand across the table. “What’s going on?”

  “I, um, I’ve never uh, been with a guy, you know, and I don’t want to tonight.”

  “That’s all?” He laughs, sounding relieved. “I didn’t kidnap you. You don’t have to stay here. But if you do, we can also just like, make out, and then crash.”

  I just smile, and after a pause, he adds. “Or not that either, if you don’t want to.” He holds up his hands innocently.

  I scooch my chair closer to him. “No, that sounds good.” I kiss him on the cheek.

  A smile begins to form on the edge of his lips, and his eyes sparkle. I lean forward again and kiss him. His lips are soft and he kisses me back lightly, like he’s not sure that I’m sure. I wrap an arm around him and lace my fingers through his hair, then pull him toward me. He takes the hint, and his lips press harder, more eagerly against mine.

  It is my second kiss ever. And it is remarkably, amazingly, like the ones I’ve seen in movies.

  I pull away. “Yeah, let’s keep doing that,�
� I whisper.

  He laughs against my lips and kisses me again, the scent of the sea around us and the taste of wine and sugary cereal on his lips.

  I feel like I’m in a dream.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Roberto

  “Is it thirty-five?” Mateo looks at me hopefully.

  I spin the paper toward me to double-check the question. “Yeah.”

  “Yes!” He pumps his fist. “I’m a genius.”

  I laugh. “All right, but let’s see if you can do this next problem.” I hand him back the paper. I used to tutor him every week when I lived at home, and since I am in town this week for Thanksgiving, I am checking in to see how he is doing.

  He insisted he was “too old” for me to do the problems with him, and I could check his work only when he was done. So I brought my laptop with me, and we’ve been sitting at his kitchen table doing our homework—multiplication and linear algebra, respectively.

  “Want me to check yours?” he asks, leaning out of his seat as he peers over at my screen.

  “Sure,” I say, turning it toward him.

  I hear muffled laughter from the kitchen, where Mateo’s mom is putting away groceries and starting dinner.

  “Nope.” He shakes his head. “All wrong.” A smile missing a front tooth spreads across his face as he sits back down and starts on the next problem.

  The savory aroma of onions sautéing in oil wafts from the kitchen. My stomach pangs. Dining hall food is truly not the same as the real deal.

  Mateo scribbles quickly before dropping his pencil and tossing the sheet back at me. “Forty-five!”

  I shake my head before handing the sheet back to him.

  “Ugh.” He sets his head down on the table. “I’m sick of math.

  “Mom!” he yells toward the kitchen “When is dinner?”

  “No sé.” Mrs. Rodriguez peeks her head through the doorway. “When are you going to finish your math?”

  His eyes go wide and he sits up properly, looking around for his pencil.

  “That’s what I thought.” She laughs as she steps into the living room, picking up extra notebooks from the table and setting down place mats. “Focus on the problems in front of you. Don’t be trying to create more for yourself.” She shakes her head.

  He nods, copying the next problem into his notebook.

  I have barely read my next question when a pencil is jabbed into my shoulder. “Psst,” Mateo whispers. “Is this right?”

  I look. “No.”

  He slumps back into his chair. “I hate math. It sucks.”

  “Hey, hey,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.” I reach under the table for my bag. “And here.” I unzip the front pocket and pull out the brochure. “I was going to give this to you later, but not if you give up on math.”

  He grabs the pamphlet.

  “It’s a camp, for kids your age to learn about computers.”

  “Cool!” Mateo starts to flip through it.

  “It’s over spring break so you won’t have to miss school,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to be listening, his gaze glued to the page.

  Mrs. Rodriguez stops to read over his shoulder, place mats in her arms. “Déjame ver, mijo.” She picks up the pamphlet.

  “And it’s fully funded,” I say.

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “Well,” I say. “I mean, the tuition is covered, but you’d have to get him there, and it’s near LA.” I know that would mean either her or Mr. Rodriguez taking off work, maybe even twice in two weeks, which might not be possible.

  “Can I go, Mom?” Mateo looks up at her.

  “If you get in, we’ll make it happen.” She hands the pamphlet back to him. “But you have to fill out your own application. I’m not going to do it for you.”

  He nods eagerly and reexamines the cover of the brochure, which features kids playing with remote control robots in a sunny park.

  The lock turns with a click and Mr. Rodriguez walks into the house.

  “Dad!” Mateo loses his shit, like nearly every kid does when Dad gets home.

  Mr. Rodriguez walks over and ruffles Mateo’s hair before shaking my hand. “Home again, Robbie? Shouldn’t you be out partying?”

  “Ale,” Mrs. Rodriguez says sternly, although he was clearly just messing around. “It’s very good of him to come home to his father.” She looks at Mateo as if to say, You better do the same when you go to college, even though that’s, like, a decade away.

  “All I’m saying is that when I was his age, I was going to plenty of college parties.” Mr. Rodriguez puffs out his chest.

  Mateo laughs and sits taller, mimicking his dad’s body language.

  “Mmmm,” she says. “Were there a lot of parties at Weller Community?”

  “You know, there weren’t before my time, but I brought the party. Really put the community in community college.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez side-eyes him. “Do you mean the trivia nights you used to have?” She turns to us. “He was a total nerd,” she whispers, not very quietly.

  “Hey Robbie, are you staying for dinner?” He expertly changes the subject.

  I try not to laugh.

  “Yes! Stay!” Mateo says.

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I would be happy to, but I should be getting home to eat with my dad.” I click my phone to check the time—6:53 p.m. Shit.

  “I’m actually already late.” I start to pack my things.

  Mateo nods knowingly. If there’s anything a little kid gets, it’s not to piss off your parents when it comes to being on time for dinner.

  * * *

  “Hola,” I say as I push open the door. Dad is sitting at the table, which is already set. It smells great, even though the food has probably been sitting for fifteen minutes. “I am so sorry.” I set down my bag and begin to explain.

  “It’s okay.”

  I freeze. “What’s wrong?” I ask. Nothing says something’s off more than when your parents aren’t mad at you when they usually would be.

  “Let’s talk about it with your mother,” he says. Always insisting on coparenting, even across the miles.

  We fill plates with tortillas and beans and chicken, cooked slowly in the recipe of spices my maternal grandmother left us. He makes it pretty much perfectly now, and I barely remember how it tasted during the first few months after Mom was gone, when my father struggled to re-create the meals he’d eaten for years without ever considering how they were made.

  My father grabs a real sugar Coke for me and beer for him from the fridge while I call my mother, propping the phone against the kitchen wall.

  “¡Mi amor!” she says as soon as her face appears on the screen. She waves at me, the motion pixilated because the connection is poor.

  My father hands me my soda and takes a seat at the table. We fold our hands and bow our heads and my mother says grace, her words traveling up to a satellite floating above Earth and then back down to us in our cramped Oakland kitchen.

  “Amén,” we say in unison, and I reach for my food. Like Pavlov’s dog, nothing makes me hungrier than this signal that it is all right for me to eat.

  The food has the same effect as hugging my dad, or hearing my mom’s favorite song. Home.

  After a few bites, I summon the courage to ask. “So what is this thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “Well.” My dad exhales. “I don’t think we will be able to go to Mexico this Christmas.”

  “¿Qué?” I look from him to my mother on my phone and back. But of course, she does not look shocked at the news. They’ve talked about this already, before telling me. This is the start of my school break, and I assumed we’d be driving down soon. I packed accordingly before I came from school.

  “¿Por que?” I ask. “And why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

>   “We wanted to tell you earlier,” my mom says. “But we kept hoping we could work something out.”

  “Work’s been slow,” my father says. “They’ve been cutting down on how many shifts we can take a week, to get rid of overtime. I’ve been calling every day to see if I can pick up an extra one, but haven’t been very successful. But, of course, they need people to work the holidays. And they made it clear that if you do, you are more likely to make it through the next round of layoffs.” His eyes are sad, apologetic.

  My head falls. Of course my dad is the first one to try to figure out a way to keep his job, even with his company downsizing. He’s the hardest-working person I know. While I’ve been tinkering away with a dumb app, he does real work, every single day.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I say. “Maybe I could get a job at school, at the library or something, and that way things will be less stressful?” But even as I say it, I know it’s no use. No part-time work I do could make up for my dad working every day.

  “Thank you, mijo,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have to worry about this. ¡Concentrate en tus estudios! We will make it to Mexico soon—Christmas just isn’t possible this year.”

  I shake my head and look at my food, suddenly losing my appetite. This is such bullshit. It shouldn’t take an expensive, international trip just to see my mom.

  “And this way,” she says, “we can put money toward a lawyer. The quicker we are able to save up for that, the sooner I can apply. Hopefully as soon as the bar is lifted I will be ready to go,” she says.

  “And if I lose my job,” my dad adds, “who knows how long it would take to save that.”

  “We just have to wait a little longer, mijo,” my mom says.

  It seems like we are always waiting. For the money to apply for the waiver. To hear back about the waiver. And then, when we didn’t get it, for the rest of the bar to pass. And it seems like the whole time, or at least when they are talking to me, my parents are eternally hopeful. They always talk about the things we will do and how it will be when Mom gets back. Lately, it’s becoming harder and harder to feel like that day will ever actually come.