Dating Makes Perfect Read online

  He drops his gaze to the egg roll drenched in red sauce, just a few inches from his mouth. I stifle a laugh. The sauce is perfectly safe, a traditional mix of simple syrup, vinegar, and crushed chilies. But he doesn’t know that.

  “The bathroom is right around the corner,” I singsong. “In case you need to find it in a hurry.”

  Mat puts down his plate on the window ledge and steps menacingly in my direction. I gulp. Every fiber in my body screams at me to back away. To run. But I can’t. I will never admit defeat to Mat.

  I stand my ground as he continues to approach. We haven’t been this close in months, maybe even years. I can feel the brush of his khaki pants against my knees, torn tights and all.

  “You forget, Orrawin,” he says silkily, using my formal first name. Reminding me that we’re not friends—will never be friends. “I know this house like I know the fifty-nine letters of the Thai alphabet. I know the location of every bathroom. Every bedroom.” He drops his voice. “I know exactly where you sleep at night.”

  I shiver. He doesn’t mean the implied threat. In all these years, he’s never physically hurt me. And yet, my pulse races all the same.

  He reaches out and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. I almost scream. The gesture is mocking, an empty facsimile of what the real action should be. It’s like he’s telling me what I’ve always feared. I’ll never experience real dating in high school. Never have a romantic memory other than what I observe vicariously. Never have a person touch me, with interest in their eyes and feeling in their heart.

  And if Mama has her way, and I have to fake date Mat? Well, I’ll have no hope of turning my dreams into reality before I graduate.

  “Sweet dreams tonight,” he whispers. His voice is low, rough. “If you need any more inspiration—you know where to find me.”

  Sweeping up his plate, he takes off. I stare after him, emotions jumbled, knees weak. Baffled as usual over our interaction. There’s always so much animosity between us, so much hate. Sometimes, I wish we could just peel away those complex layers and be what we used to be: friends.

  Yeah, right. I’ll be friends with Mat Songsomboon when thunder manages to catch the lightning across the sky.

  Chapter Four

  I hate him. I hate his annoyingly straight eyebrows that waggle on his forehead like worms. I hate his arrogance. His suave manner, his easy confidence. I hate how he can drop that bombshell of a line on me, without blushing or even flinching.

  I stomp into the kitchen. The new guy is gone, but Bunny and Ari lounge by the marble island, their bodies casting shadows on the stainless-steel refrigerator. Pots of green curry, five-spice pork stew, and tom yum goong sit on the induction cooktop, with dirty plates and empty glasses stacked to the side. But my sisters aren’t cleaning—not yet. That will happen later, after the guests leave. Bunny will put on her latest playlist, and Ari will bump me with her hip, and the three of us will laugh (loudly) and sing (badly) and wash dishes (slowly) until the wee hours of the night. I miss cleaning with my sisters almost as much as I miss having their presence at these parties.

  My elbow catches on a plastic cup of wine, and the burgundy liquid spills all over my white blouse. “Look what he did to me,” I moan.

  “Who?” Bunny grabs a sponge and begin to mop up the spill on the tile.

  “The guy Mama’s selected to help me be marriageable, that’s who,” I snap. “Freaking Mat Songsomboon.”

  Ari blinks. “He’s not even here. Are you seriously suggesting it’s his fault you spilled wine on yourself?”

  “Oh, Winnie blames him for everything,” Bunny chimes in from the floor. Her shoulders vibrate as though she’s trying not to laugh. “Sleeping past her alarm clock. The yogurt going bad when it’s been left on the counter. Even climate change.”

  My lips twitch. “Well, overpopulation does contribute to global warming. If Mat had never been born, that’s one less person using fossil fuels.”

  Ari grins so widely that I can count her teeth. “You know? I’m beginning to think that Mama picked the right practice boyfriend for Winnie.”

  “Don’t be gross. I just ate.” I lift the soaked shirt away from my skin. “Help me get this stain out before someone sees.”

  Someone, of course, is code name for the new guy, Taran. Luckily, my sisters don’t make me say his name out loud.

  Ari picks up the edge of my shirt, squinting at the red blemish. “Don’t worry. Taran’s making his rounds. He won’t be back in the kitchen for a while.”

  Bunny wets a paper towel under the faucet and scrubs at the stain. “We were right. Taran is a senior, and he starts at Lakewood High next week. His family just moved here from a small town in Kansas. He’s a total math geek, is kind to his mother, and looooves our egg rolls!”

  In unison, the three of us snicker. These qualities make up the holy trinity of a perfect mate from Mama’s perspective. Still, when a boy looks like Taran, even I have to admit it’s not a bad foundation.

  “Will you stop?” Ari grabs her twin’s hands. “The paper towel’s disintegrating. You’re making the stain worse.”

  “What do you suggest?” Bunny retorts.

  “I could go upstairs and change,” I venture.

  Ari snorts. “Yeah, right. Do you know how long it would take you—or even us—to make it through that crowd of our parents’ fifty closest friends? By the time we finish paying our respects and satisfying their curiosity, the party will be over.”

  They both study me.

  “We could cut it out,” Bunny suggests. “You would look cute in a midriff shirt. Plus, it would match the holes in your tights.”

  “Not you, too.” I groan. “Have you been talking to Mat?”

  She raises a brow. “Um, I didn’t have to talk to anyone. Those runs are practically assaulting my eyes.”

  Right. Maybe I should rethink wearing tights ever again.

  Ari snaps her fingers. “White vinegar! If you pour white vinegar over wine stains, it neutralizes the red and purple pigments.”

  “How would you know?” I ask.

  “You sound just like Mama.” She winks. “Let’s just say we’ve been learning more than just the core curriculum at college.”

  Bunny is already opening the pantry door. “There’s only one problem,” she says, surveying the contents. “We used the last of the white vinegar to make the prik nam som.”

  Ari picks up a jar of jalapeños marinating in vinegar from a tray of traditional Thai condiments—and sniffs it.

  “Oh no.” I back away. “I’m not pouring that on my shirt. It has jalapeños in it.”

  “So you’ll feel a little spicy.” Bunny grabs ahold of my shirt tail. “We could all use more heat in our lives.”

  “You don’t want to sacrifice that shirt, do you?” Ari wields a cooking brush like a weapon. “It was one of my favorites, and I just gifted it to you this week.”

  I look from Ari’s bright eyes to Bunny’s playful smirk and sigh. I’ve never been able to resist my sisters, ever. “Just be quick about it,” I mutter.

  They get to work.

  …

  Bunny pours a spoonful of jalapeño vinegar onto my shirt. A few drops splatter onto my skin, and I clench my jaw. Maybe I should’ve taken off my shirt first. Possibly, we could’ve found a more private location than this kitchen. Best of all would’ve been if I hadn’t jostled the wine to begin with.

  “Hold still.” Ari dabs on the vinegar with the cooking brush, her eyes laser-focused.

  I exhale slowly. Clearly, it’s not Mat’s fault that I spilled the wine. Sure, my annoyance at him made me flail more than usual. But the truth is, my limbs have been clumsy ever since I was a kid. The only times in grade school that I wasn’t picked last in gym class was when Mat was a team captain.

  Like a true friend, he chose me first every time. Even if it
meant we wound up losing. Even if our teammates grumbled and shot him dirty looks.

  “Ignore them,” he would say, nudging my shoulder. “I’ve got enough skillz for us both. Which means, as a team, we’re unbeatable.”

  Okay, so maybe the guy was arrogant even when he was ten. But I didn’t mind. In fact, I used to think he was sweet.

  “One…more…should do it,” Bunny mutters.

  More liquid splashes on me, just as the kitchen door swings open and Mat steps inside. He takes in the situation—my sisters crowded around me, my shirt yanked up and around my stomach—and a wide smile spreads across his face. Jerk.

  Even worse, someone’s behind him. A person who’s a few inches shorter, but with broad shoulders and preppy clothes. Aw, chib-peng. It can’t be… Of course it is…

  Crap, crap, crap.

  Taran. The new boy I want to impress. The one I’m meeting for the first time looking like I got into a food fight with a toddler.

  “Oh, sorry.” His face flushes. I’m not sure what he thinks he’s interrupting, but it’s clear the Tech girls are up to something. “We’ll just leave you—”

  He starts to walk out of the kitchen, but Mat grabs his arm, stopping him.

  “Taran, have you met Orrawin?” Mat practically purrs. On a teenage boy, the dulcet, catlike tone should sound absurd. But he somehow manages to pull it off, which makes me want to punch him all over again. “The youngest Tech sister.” He gestures grandly. “Not as polished as Ari and Bunny. Nowhere near as pretty. But as you can see, she’s got her own charm.”

  “I spilled wine on my shirt,” I mumble to the floor. Might as well address the elephant in the kitchen. “We ran out of white vinegar, so I had to, um, get creative.”

  Oy tai. Right about now would be the perfect time for the gods to conjure up a conch shell for me to hide inside.

  Someone snorts. And then chuckles. And then straight-up laughs. Gathering my courage, I glance up. Taran’s looking at me not like I’m a total weirdo but like I might actually be fun.

  “I’ve had to do that, too,” he says warmly. “My brother once put gum in my hair, and we ran out of peanut butter, so I used the satay sauce.”

  My mouth drops. There are guys like this in the world? Really? I sneak a glance at Bunny and Ari, and they nod, as though telling me to go with it.

  “That’s brilliant,” I say. “There’s got to be other uses for peanut sauce beyond a vehicle for falang to label any meal as Thai.”

  His eyes light up. That’s the great thing about talking to other Thai Americans. I don’t have to explain that “falang” means “foreigner.” “Exactly. They add peanut sauce to a regular old turkey club, and all of a sudden, it’s a Thai sandwich. What will they come up with next? Thai mac-n-cheese?”

  I giggle. “Thai clam chowder.”

  “Thai meatloaf.”

  I gesture ruefully at my shirt. “Thai Cabernet.”

  We grin at each other. Ari and Bunny beam like proud parents, and Mat snorts, as though disgusted by the entire conversation.

  Someone from the other room calls Taran’s name. The high-pitched voice sounds too old to be his girlfriend, so here’s hoping it’s his mother.

  “I have to go,” he says reluctantly. His smile acknowledges all of us, but his eyes remain on me. Pretty sure no boy has singled me out when my sisters were around, ever. “You’re a senior at Lakewood High, right? I’m starting there tomorrow.”

  Bunny stomps on my foot—literally crushes my toes under her sexy black stiletto—and Ari jabs me with her billiard stick of an elbow. Subtle, these two are not.

  “Uh, I could show you around,” I say before my sisters can attack me again. “Give you a tour of the gym. Introduce you to our cafeteria, with its fine dining options such as nachos. With fake cheese sauce. From a squirt can.”

  Taran laughs again, and the sound travels along my spine in a delicious tingle. I could get used to this sensation. “I’d love a tour.”

  “Great,” I squeak. Clearing my throat, I try to sound older than five. “I can meet you by the flagpole tomorrow morning. Around eight?”

  He looks straight into my eyes. “I’m counting down the seconds.”

  He leaves. My sisters leave. And I’d melt into a puddle right next to the soggy paper towels if it weren’t for the one person who remains. The kink in my gold chain, the bubble in my egg-roll skin, the absolute bane of my existence. Freaking Mat Songsomboon.

  He plops on a chair at the small kitchen table and plunks his jaw onto his overly large palm. He faces my direction, his eyes glazed. I can’t tell if he actually sees me or not.

  Ignoring him, I cross to the sink and dunk the bottom of my shirt under the faucet to wash off the vinegar. The stain has faded, but half my blouse is now a sopping mess, and I smell distinctly like Eau de Vinegar. Lovely.

  I peek at Mat. His eyelids are at half-mast, and he looks like he might fall asleep. This, for some reason, infuriates me. Am I really that boring?

  “Will you stop it?” I snap.

  He blinks, stretching his arms back so that his biceps flex. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s got to be. There’s no way I’d notice those rock-hard muscles if he weren’t shoving them in my face.

  “I’m renowned around here for my near-psychic genius,” he says lazily, “but you’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “Stop sitting there,” I say. “Breathing.”

  His lips quirk. “You do know I can’t actually make myself stop breathing, even if I wanted to?”

  “You don’t have to do it so loudly,” I complain. “I can hear you sucking in air and then puffing it back out. And it’s just—”

  “Distracting?” he supplies, wagging his eyebrows.

  “Irritating,” I correct.

  He leans back against the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. My eyes drift to his biceps—again. Gah. What is wrong with me? It’s like the image of him wearing boxers has short-circuited my brain.

  “You’ve been thinking a lot about my breathing patterns,” he remarks.

  “Only because I’d like to change them,” I mutter.

  “Oh, really?” His black eyes turn even blacker. “Exactly how would you like to change my breathing, Winnie? Would you like to…speed it up?”

  For one ridiculous second, an image of us, intertwined, flashes through my mind. What the hell? Has my brain gone on strike?

  I quash the image with a vengeance. “Don’t call me that. That’s a nickname only my family and friends use. You belong in neither category.” I stalk to the chair where he’s sitting, so close that my tights-covered toes (no holes there, thank goodness) almost touch his socked feet. “The only way I’d change your breathing is to make it end. Forever.”

  “Why? For introducing you to the new guy?” He smirks. “For your information, I was trying to help you. He was never going to notice you. I made sure you stood out.”

  His words slam into me, forcing me back a step. “I could’ve done that myself.”

  “How? You’re not bad-looking. Some might even say”—his eyes flicker down my body—“somewhat attractive. But no one will see it, the way you cower behind your sisters.”

  He gets to his feet, making me retreat another step. It’s like we’re partners in a strange dance. No, not a dance, and never partners.

  Heat gathers behind my eyes. But I will not let him see me cry. I’d drink the entire jar of jalapeño vinegar first.

  “I don’t cower.” I lift my chin. “And you’re a jerk.”

  “You don’t cower around me,” he corrects. “And I’m only telling the truth.”

  “You’re still a jerk.”

  He lifts his shoulders in acquiescence. “A jerk your mama wants you to date.”

  I freeze. Chib-peng. She told him already? I thought I had a few hours at least
. Enough time to talk Mama out of her choice. To replace him with…anyone, really. It doesn’t even have to be Taran, so long as it’s not Mat.

  To give myself time to think, I move to the stove and begin transferring food into plastic containers. “Wow. That was fast, even for Mama,” I finally say.

  “I know,” he says. “Remember the time we cut your hair, because you wanted bangs like mine? Your mom found out before we could even get the broom to sweep up the evidence.”

  Do I ever. Mat and I weren’t allowed to play together for a week. At the time, it felt like an eternity. Now, a seven-day reprieve of his company would be nothing short of a blessing.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You turned Mama down before she could even finish her request.”

  Instead of nodding, he just shrugs.

  I stare. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I had no choice.” He approaches the stove and gets to work on the tom yum koong. “You should’ve heard her. ‘Mat, you have to help her,’” he says in a surprisingly good imitation of Mama. “‘You wouldn’t want her to go to college without any relationship skills, would you? She’ll end up alone, with nothing but a bunch of cats for company. And she’s allergic to cats!’”

  I sigh, taking the empty pot from him and placing it in the sink. “It’s true. Cats make me sneeze like I’ve inhaled a pepper grinder.”

  “I know.” He’s laughing, showing off the straight, white teeth that are the result of three years’ orthodontic work.

  But I will not be distracted. “Why are you really doing this? If we have to date, you’ll suffer, too.”

  He sobers abruptly. “I’ve been begging Dad to let me backpack through Asia after graduation. I’ve got the trip all mapped out. I’ll start in Thailand, but I also want to go to Vietnam. Indonesia. Singapore. Hong Kong. He’s always refused…until now.”

  My jaw drops. “Are you saying—?”

  “Yep.” He grins as though he’s eaten an entire plate of sticky rice and mango. “For every day I fake-date you, he’s granting me another day for my trip.” He lowers his face so that it’s inches from mine. “Better get used to these devastating good looks, Winnie. My itinerary is three months long, and I intend to take every. Single. Day.”