Playing With Matches

by Suri Rosen

  “Let’s talk about you, not me!”

  “It’s just that Aviva, you know that friend I mentioned who went there her senior year, is now teaching there —”

  “That’s not as interesting as you,” I said. The back of my neck was starting to burn. “Tell me when the wedding’s going to be and where!”

  We talked wedding and my stop came too quickly. All morning, I wandered the school halls wired, running on a tank of mazel tov. I arrived in English class, full of matchmaking energy, ready to fill the world with love. I was giddy with excitement over tonight’s date. After my emails, Jonathan and Ilana were going out and I had to be on call in case of any problems.

  Today’s class was in the computer lab where Miss Weiss was going to give us a lesson on online scholarly research. I charged through the room and planted myself in the distant corner as groups of chattering girls skipped through the room, claiming clusters of computers. (So they could compute communally, of course.) A blade of light escaped from a gap in the drapes and painted a stripe of heat down my back as I signed into my Matchmaven account.

  Miss Weiss sat at the teaching computer, with the browser projected onto the tattered screen pinned to the wall.

  “Everyone ready?” she said over the hum of the machines.

  A loud rap on the door brought Miss Weiss to her feet. She pulled it open to reveal Mrs. Levine looming in the entrance.

  That’s the thing with Mrs. Levine, she didn’t just stand — she loomed. And as loomers go, Mrs. Levine was a pro.

  Mrs. Levine stepped inside and scanned the room until she cut her eyes on me and then whispered something to Miss Weiss. Miss Weiss bent down to Dahlia Engel, who was predictably sitting at the computer next to hers.

  Dahlia gathered her papers in her knapsack and trudged back to the corner of the lab. My cheeks tingled as she dropped into the seat next to me, rolling her eyes. Shira and Natalie watched the sequence from the other side of the bank of computers, giving each other knowing looks.

  “Can I help you with your searching?” Dahlia said, her voice like ice.

  “Nope. I’m good,” I said, rolling my eyes. With huge gold-framed glasses and shoes that looked like they’d been sitting on the shelves of Value Village the last two years, Dahlia was your garden variety brainiac. You just knew that if she had a pet it would be an educational animal like a snake. Or a gecko.

  “Miss Weiss said that you’d probably need help,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “I really don’t mind.”

  “Actually, you could let Mrs. Levine know that I’m pretty good on the computer. In fact, do you need my help?” I said, rolling my eyes in response.

  There was so much eye-rolling going on between the two of us that pretty soon we’d have to move this conversation over to the waiting room of the nearest ophthalmologist. Dahlia must have had the same concern because we switched to scowling and after a full minute of mutual glaring we established a silent pact to ignore each other.

  I returned to Matchmaven where there was an email from Jonathan.

  Hey Matchmaven,

  Thanks so much for setting me up with Ilana — can’t wait to meet her. I’m so sorry to do this but I have a midnight flight to Chicago, so I need to move the date up an hour earlier. Can you let Ilana know that I’ll pick her up at 7:00? Otherwise we’ll have to leave it until I’m back in town. Let me know as soon as you can, since I’ll be offline all day.

  Thanks so much,

  Jonathan Sandler

  I emailed back. No problem.

  Unfortunately however, there was a problem. Ilana’s email bounced back with an automatic, “out of office” message. The string of emails between us was generated from her work address.

  I emailed Jonathan but he was out of reach already. I examined Ilana’s email, which had her contact information, including her cell phone number, on the bottom. I had no choice so I texted her with the update.

  Me: Matchmaven here. Change of time. Jonathan’s picking you up at 7.

  Ilana: Can’t wait! Thanks for your help, Maven.

  Me: Good luck!

  Mrs. Weiss was at her computer, showing the class something about library databases. Checking my inbox was becoming an obsession now that I had a mission to match Leah, so I peeked again and noticed another email. This one was a ­thirty-three-year-old female with a penchant for risk-taking. (“I need someone who really gets me. Like they should also enjoy off-trail skiing, urban tree-climbing, and running up the down-escalator in department stores. You see what I’m saying?”)

  Actually I didn’t. I shook my head and much to my surprise heard Dahlia giggling. She was reading my monitor.

  I glared at her. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you like a matchmaker or something?”

  My back went rigid; the muscles on my face taut.

  Dahlia shrugged and returned to her computer.

  My life was over. It was the way of the grapevine. Once Dahlia exposed me, news would migrate and travel and eventually Leah would find out and feel that I’d been lying to her, which I had been, but that’s beside the point. She would never ever trust me again.

  I had to admit the obvious — I was an idiot for checking the Matchmaven account in public. I could hardly blame her for glancing at a huge desktop computer monitor that was positioned twelve inches from her face.

  I can be so dumb. It was impossible for me to stay in the room. I signed out of my email, threw my papers into my knapsack, and lumbered to the front of the class.

  “Miss Weiss, I feel really sick. Can I leave?”

  “Of course.”

  I clomped down the corridor in search of some corner where I could crank up to maximum misery with minimum distraction.

  Somebody was following me.

  It was Dahlia. “What?” I said.

  “Are you coming back to class?”

  “No, Dahlia, I’m done, thank you very much,” I said.

  She stepped in front of me, blocking me, then folded her arms. “You have to come back. Like, immediately.”

  A shot of anger poked my chest. “Are you for real?” This is a person who took her babysitting responsibilities pretty seriously if she was now giving orders. “Do you have a problem?”

  “Actually, I do. My problem is Mrs. Levine,” Dahlia said.

  “Why, you going to lose community service hours or something?”

  “No. I’m just going to get called into her office — again — because I didn’t help you. And I’ll get harangued. Again.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re the poster child for the Levine Educational Model.”

  Dahlia’s stare hardened. “You just have no idea, do you?”

  “Look, I don’t know what your problem is. All I know is that she’s constantly punishing me for being a bad person and a bad student.”

  “Well, she’s constantly punishing me for being a good student.”

  “Huh?” I slid my knapsack strap off my shoulder, and let it drop between my feet.

  “She wants me to ‘be challenged,’” Dahlia said, making air quotes, “so she gives me extra work. And she thinks that if I ‘mentor’ you,” more air quotes, “that it will solve my perceived social problems. She’s trying to get me to connect with the new girl.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Like I’m supposed to help you make friends?” I was after all, completely invisible at Moriah. I waited to say more until a group of three girls had passed us to enter the bathroom door behind Dahlia. “That woman has made my life miserable since the day I got here.” And of course, becoming immersed in matchmaking wasn’t exactly having a positive impact on my grades.

  “That’s because she lives in this alternate universe where tormenting is an expression of caring,” she said.

  “Oh my god, exactly.”

  “Look,” she said. “I’
m sorry that I looked at your monitor.”

  I sighed.

  She cocked her head to the side and peered at me. “Are you really a matchmaker?”

  “It’s a long story and it’s very confidential.”

  “It’s in the vault,” Dahlia said as she zipped up her lips with her fingers.

  “And I’m sorry that I fell asleep during your presentation,” I said. “I was up all night worrying about stuff.”

  “I understand. Ancient Mesopotamia is so … 2000,” she said.

  “BCE, of course.”

  “Listen, if you want me to set up a spreadsheet for your matchmaking, I could do a little database, like those big singles’ sites. Would that help?”

  “I’m okay.” Even though it was slightly tempting.

  “Just please come back to class with me,” she said. She shrugged and turned around. “I don’t want to mess with the Law of Levine, if you don’t mind.”

  chapter 13

  A Date with Disaster

  That night I knocked off a barely passable essay for history class in less than three hours, while ignoring the rest of my schoolwork. I still had to study for the math test but of course had saved the worst for last. Driven by my new mission I took a break and returned to the safety and privacy of my bedroom to scour the Matchmaven account for my clients.

  Today’s bounty was excellent — three guy emails. I now understood that it was all a numbers game. The more men I had, the better the choices for Leah. If tonight’s date with Ilana and Jonathan showed promise then I could be fairly confident that I interpreted the emails accurately and I’d be ready to make the best possible choice for Leah.

  I glanced at my watch. It was after 10 p.m. and I hadn’t heard from either Jonathan or Ilana. That was a positive sign.

  As I scrolled through the emails, I was startled by the sound of my phone ringing, a tragically rare occurrence these days.

  “Hi,” a whispery voice breathed into the phone.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “Is this Matchmaven?” she said. “This is Ilana. You texted me today.”

  My chest constricted. Was I insane?

  “I figured it was okay to call.”

  I smacked my hand on the desk. This woman could blow my cover.

  “Ilana,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I have to operate anonymously. You understand?”

  “Totally. I swear I won’t tell anyone who you are.”

  I exhaled slowly.

  “Actually, who are you?” she said.

  “I really need to be anonymous.”

  “Please don’t worry. But Matchmaven, I have an emergency. I agonized before calling you, but I really didn’t know what else to do. I’m so sorry.”

  My grip was so fierce I thought the phone would crack. “Where are you now?”

  “We went for a walk in York Hill Park.”

  Why would he take her to the park in early November in the middle of the community where everyone could see them together? He might as well have taken her to Times Square.

  “Please, I have to ask you,” she said, her voice catching. “Do you mind telling me where you live? I’m desperate.” Was that a sob I heard?

  “Are you … okay?” I said, even though I knew where this was going.

  “Please,” she said. She was definitely crying.

  I lowered my voice, hoping she wouldn’t hear me properly. “I live on Michael Court.”

  “Yes! Finally some good news,” she said. “We’re right here near the gazebo.”

  “Really?” I scurried to the window at the end of the hallway and squinted out into the darkness.

  The fact is, I spent years trying to slay my personal yentas. Okay, maybe not. I admit — it’s been ages since I lost the war on curiosity.

  “Can you see me?” she said. “I’m wearing a long scrunchy skirt and a grey plaid jacket.”

  It was almost impossible to discern her figure. The black park was dotted with balls of gauzy amber light that hung like tiny planets from the lampposts. These were more like show lights that had been muted through a Vaseline-covered lens.

  “I’m on the bench just south of the gazebo,” she said. I searched the darkness until I made out a woman’s shape, illuminated by a blade of pale yellow light.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” she breathed into the phone. “I’m kind of frantic. My skirt ripped when we were swinging on the swings. I’m also freezing. I’m holding it together with my hand, and I’m so embarrassed. Could you please, please, please do me a huge favour and bring a skirt?”

  I snorted. “I’m supposed to show up on your date and hand you a skirt?”

  “No. You walk by. Leave a bag with the clothes in the Porta-Potty and then I go in right after and change. It’s a bit gross but it’ll just take two minutes.” She had it all figured out.

  “I’m not even sure we’re the same size,” I said.

  “Size eight.”

  “Well, there you go, I’m size four.”

  There was silence on the line. “I don’t know what to do,” she said in a quivering voice.

  I had never heard of anything like this. The matchmaker showing up during a date? Besides, I had this huge test, and hours of emails to sort through.

  I glanced down at MathMethods and exhaled a loud and showy sigh. “Fine,” I said.

  What else could I say to a dating wardrobe disaster? “I’ll take a look for a skirt in my house,” I said. The donation bag behind Mira’s door probably had something for Ilana.

  “It doesn’t matter what it looks like. And you have my word that I absolutely won’t tell a soul who you are. Speaking of which, who are you?”

  “I’ll be there in five,” I said, trying to coat my voice in lightness, as I ignored her question. Ilana’s situation had just blown my anonymity.

  She sighed on the other end of the line.

  I could hear Uncle Eli and Leah chatting quietly in the den. I threw on a black hoodie and sweater, then stole into their bedroom where Aunt Mira’s pile of clothes were folded inside a shopping bag behind her door, waiting to be donated. I snatched a stretchy skirt figuring that it was a one-size-fits-all garment. It was probably Bubby’s at one time, but it didn’t matter. It was so dark in the park, Jonathan wouldn’t really notice.

  With my Converse sneakers laced up, I cautiously descended the stairs, crept out the front door, edged around the side of the house, and sprinted past the greying pressure-treated gate at the back of the Bernstein’s yard that opened onto York Hill Park. As the pulse of crickets echoed across the grassy fields, I crunched across dried leaves layered on moist grass toward the park bench.

  When Ilana saw me, she rose from the bench, clapped the palm of her hand on her chest, and released a slow breath. She was shorter than I’d imagined, so she’d probably have to roll up the waistband of the old skirt. Her black hair fell in waves past her shoulders and the black narrow glasses that rested on her angular face gave her an unconventional artsy-geeky kind of beauty. I nodded and walked toward the Porta-Potty but the door was locked.

  Who uses these things? This was one of the new UFO models constructed entirely from titanium metal and produced by a company in Scandinavia. And in case you think that I’m some kind of an ardent Porta-Potty enthusiast, I picked up this information morsel from the Bernstein dinner table. I guess when your house backs onto a park these are the kinds of things you notice.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” I said in a low voice, as I walked back over to her.

  Ilana pointed at the Porta-Potty. I handed her the ­plastic bag, lowered myself onto the cold wooden bench, and wrapped my hoodie tighter around myself.

  She held the bag to her chest and gazed at me. “You’re really an extraordinary person. I am so grateful.”

 
Tell it to Leah. “So what’s this Jonathan guy like?”

  She swallowed. “He asked me if there’s anything I can do about my hair,” she said with quivering lips.

  I shot up from the bench. “He what?”

  She gulped back tears. “I don’t think he even knows my name.”

  “I could smack him,” I muttered, sinking back onto the bench. Had I really blown this match so badly? “I’m so sorry about this.”

  “Well, I did learn that he earns bonuses in the six figures, women are dying to date him, and his bosses at the bank love him.”

  “Ugh. Does he at least look like George Clooney?”

  “Nooo.” She pulled one skirt on over the other, and lowered her torn skirt from inside. When she was done she dropped back onto the bench, gathered her ample hair into a ponytail, and turned to me with an apologetic face. “I am so sorry about all of this. I asked him to take me home so I could change my clothes.”

  “And?”

  “He actually … refused,” she said, shaking her head. “He told me that it doesn’t matter. Like it wouldn’t make a difference to how I look.”

  “What a jerk,” I muttered under my breath. I rubbed my arms; the temperature was dropping by the minute. “How long has he been in there?”

  She glanced at her cell phone. “I called you ten minutes ago,” she said. “And he’d already been in there for a while.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re telling me he’s been in the can for like what, half an hour?”

  She put her glasses on and glanced at the Porta-Potty. “That sounds like a problem, doesn’t it?”

  “You probably should check up on him.”

  “It’s a date.” She looked at me with disbelief. “That’s embarrassing.”

  “Well, what if he’s trapped? Or passed out, or something?”

  She twisted her fingers and gazed at the Porta-Potty. “Can’t you do it?”

  I put my hands on my waist. “How old did you say you were?”

  “Okay, fine,” she said, rising to her feet.

  She sidled over to the Porta-Potty and tentatively knocked on the door.