by Pintip Dunn
I resume my basking-in-the-sun pose. “We don’t talk at school,” I say loftily. “It’s one of our rules.”
He blinks. “I wasn’t aware we had rules.”
“Oh, yes. They govern our every word and action. I’d be lost without them.”
Up goes that eyebrow again. I hope it gets stuck there, the way body parts always seemed to in the moral tales my parents used to tell us when we were kids. If you hit your elders in one life, you’ll have overly large hands in the next. If you speak ill of a person, you’ll be reincarnated with a pinhole mouth. Surely there’s got to be a karmic consequence to arrogance.
“Where are these so-called rules written?” he asks. “Let me guess. In your diary, where you pour your heart out every night, rhapsodizing about yours truly.”
He’s kinda right—and also entirely wrong. Once, a couple of years ago, I jotted down the rules in my journal, next to a drawing of Mat with the devil’s horns and a forked tail.
But I’ve never, ever waxed poetic about him. Unless you count “dirty, rotten rat bastard” as lyrical.
“I don’t need to write the rules down,” I say. “They’re imprinted on my brain.”
“This I’ve got to hear.” He plops down next to me. Not touching, but entirely too close for comfort. Mere inches separate our hips, and I can feel the heat rising from his body.
I scoot away a full foot. I hate to admit that his proximity affects me, but I can’t think straight when he’s that near.
“One, do not speak at school.” I tick the rules off on my fingers. “Two, if we pass in the hallway, look the other way. Three, interact at Thai events only when necessary. Last but not least, never, ever forget that we hate each other’s guts.”
He doesn’t respond. A couple of girls from art class walk by, peering at us curiously. Either they’ve heard about our intense dislike for each other…or they think he’s hot. Which, ew. But you never know how hours locked up with paint fumes can alter your perspective.
I shift on the wall, scraping the skin at the back of my thighs. Minus one for the cutest skirt on the planet. I cross and recross my ankles, and the suede boots whisper through the blades of grass.
And he’s still lost in his reverie.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” he says after a minute or ten. He lifts his face, and our eyes lock. For the briefest moment, I flash through incarnations of those deep black eyes. Glinting mischievously as we crawled under the table at our parents’ dinner parties. Wide with horror when Mama caught us sneaking an R-rated movie. Blinking furiously at his mother’s empty place mat after she left for Thailand.
“But you’re wrong,” he continues. “I don’t hate you. I never have.”
My heart raps against my chest. He doesn’t? But that can’t be right. He’s implied as much on countless occasions, even if he’s never come right out and said it.
He smiles. “I only loathe you.”
Of course. I knew that’s what he meant.
I bare my teeth. “Well, I loathe you, too. With the heat of a thousand suns, over the span of a thousand lives.”
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Taran. Great. He picks now to finally show up?
Too late I realize my mouth is still arranged in a snarl. Deliberately, I close my lips for a beat before attempting to talk. “Taran. Hey. How are you?”
In the space of one night, I’ve forgotten how attractive he is. His jeans are freshly pressed, the top button of his shirt artfully undone. His face is a model of symmetry—even if those full lips seem a little frozen.
“Is everything okay?” the best-looking transfer student in the history of Lakewood High asks.
Huh? Why would everything—? Oh. Gotcha. Mat and I are turned toward each other, our knees almost touching. His eyes are wild; we’re both breathing hard. I suppose, from the outside, the scene looks rather intense.
“Of course. What could be wrong?” The laugh that comes out of my mouth is as fake as the pad se-ew at Thai chain restaurants.
“We’re good, man.” Mat gives me a distinctly withering look and gets to his feet, his pants leg brushing against my knee. I jerk away, but that slight touch lingers like a burn. “Just having a few words with my best girl.” His voice drips with sarcasm.
I wince. This is so embarrassing. Now Taran will know that the first guy he bonded with finds me disgusting.
But Taran’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any problems.”
Wait—what? He can’t possibly think that Mat was serious?
“No.” I shake my head so vigorously, it might screw right off. “You’ve got this all wrong. Mat and I—we’re not together.” My voice rises. “We’ve never been together. We never will be. Not unless I were dead. And if I were, and he was still into me, which, let’s be honest, is a distinct possibility…then, gross.”
I’m babbling. This is what happens when I’m nervous. And upset. And hungry. Unfortunately, I’m all three at the moment.
I whip around, giving Mat my best glare (which, admittedly, is probably less effective because we also practiced this look for hours in front of the mirror).
“Tell him,” I spit out. “Tell him how little we mean to each other.”
An expression I can’t read crosses Mat’s face. We look at each other for a few confusing seconds, and then he turns to Taran. “Oh, she means less than nothing to me,” he says stiffly.
I asked him to say the words. Hell, I practically demanded it. And yet, his statement makes me feel less than the worms crawling beneath our feet.
“But that wasn’t always the case.” He lowers his voice. “Once upon a time, we were close. Very close.” He rubs his neck. “I probably shouldn’t be admitting this, but what the hell? We’re all friends here, right?” His gaze moves from Taran to me—and stays there. “Winnie and I are so close that we’ve even seen each other naked.”
Chapter Seven
Time seems to stop. The wind ceases blowing; the flag above us freezes mid-wave. Did he actually say we had seen each other naked? Oy tai, he did.
Heat rushes to my face, and my heart roars back to life, pounding and twisting. I won’t look at Taran—I can’t! And even if I did, I probably couldn’t see past the red film blurring my vision.
Mat’s smug, annoying face comes into focus. He leans over, so close that his hot breath caresses my skin. “Gotcha,” he says very, very softly.
Two syllables, one word, but it splits my head right open. So this is why he broke one of our rules. This is why he deigned to approach me at school. He only wanted to torture me.
As if I needed any more proof that Mat Songsomboon is a demon in disguise.
He straightens, and I swear his skin has taken on a burnt-sienna tint. If I looked in his mouth, his tongue would be forked. If I sliced open his stomach, his bowels would definitely be fire.
“Well, I’d better let you two get to your tour,” he says mockingly. “Have fun.”
He saunters away, and Taran and I both watch him leave. At least, I assume Taran’s staring after Mat, because we’re certainly not facing each other. The new boy’s not laughing at one of the half dozen witticisms I’d prepared last night. (Although, come to think of it, maybe a crack about how he’s not in Kansas anymore isn’t particularly witty?)
I take a deep breath and turn to him. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s looking everywhere but at me: the fluffy cloud formations; the school crest carved into the stone facade; Maria Ruiz’s shapely legs underneath her super-short skirt. Not that I can fault him for the last. Everyone checks out Maria’s supermodel limbs—even me.
“Listen.” Mustering up my courage, I put my hand on his arm. My stomach doesn’t churn wildly, and my nerves aren’t even slightly frazzled. But that’s a good thing. That means our relationship is normal. Not p
lagued by rampant confusion and fluctuating emotions, unlike some other relationships I know.
“I’m really sorry about Mat,” I continue. “He’s an old friend.” Well. He’s probably more accurately described as a preta, which is a spirit cursed by karma and returned to the world of the living, with an unquenchable hunger for human waste. But potato, potahto. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, and he was referring to the fact that our moms used to give us baths together when we were little. Not—” I flush as an image of a naked seventeen-year-old Mat, with water dripping down his taut brown skin, flashes through my mind.
“Not any time more recent,” I finish. “He was trying to embarrass me—what can I say?” I shrug helplessly. “It worked.”
Finally, Taran looks at me. I fully expect him to scan me dismissively under raised brows. That’s what Mat would do. Instead, he covers my hand, which is still resting on his forearm, and squeezes. Startled, I realize that I’ve been touching him for way too many seconds—when Papa would have had a heart attack over just one—and snatch my hand away.
His lips curve, and the breath gets caught in my chest. Holy wow. That smile is more potent than a weapon.
“No worries,” he says. “I’m the youngest of three brothers, and I’m pretty sure they live to torment me.”
I blink. “You are?”
“Oh yeah. One of my brothers is a senior in college. The other’s a sophomore.” He leans forward. “You probably know how it feels to be the forever recipient of hand-me-downs. Not just clothes but also advice, parties, rules.”
“Mrs. Granger, my math teacher, still refers to me as ‘Ari or Bunny,’” I confess. “Sometimes, she gets confused and calls me ‘Arunny.’”
His eyes crinkle. “Up until we moved, my parents assumed I would attend KU. They never even asked what I wanted. Because that’s where my brothers go. And that’s where they’re succeeding.”
I’m grinning now. I don’t often meet someone who understands me so thoroughly. “I’ve never had a new formal dress, ever. Why should I, when I have not one but two sisters’ prom dresses to choose from?”
“You! What about me?” he asks. “I’ve never had a new baseball mitt.”
“School supplies,” I counter.
“Underwear,” he says, and this stops us both.
“Ewww.” I wrinkle my nose. “Are you kidding?”
“Dear God, I hope so. My parents always presented them to me as new, but you never know. Maybe they just recycled the plastic wrap.”
We catch each other’s eyes and burst out laughing. The students weaving around us turn to stare, and I realize that the crowd has doubled in the last few minutes.
“Should we start the tour?” I ask, and the words actually sound natural. “Wait until you see our cafeteria. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried our school’s rather unfortunate version of deep-dish pizza. They serve it in an extra-tall container, as if that will somehow trick us into thinking that the toppings are more than paper-thin.”
He laughs. Again. Maybe this tour can be salvaged after all. No thanks to Mat.
Cheered, I lead him into the building, chattering about the size of the student body (1,200) and the teachers to avoid (Mr. Mercer, who doles out paragraphs like candy—handwritten, no less). But now that my thoughts have conjured up Mat, I can’t seem to exorcise him.
We’ve seen each other naked, he said. Naked. Naked. Naked.
“And here are the locker rooms. Where you get—” Naked, my mind screams. “Changed,” I finish. My cheeks, my neck, even my ears blush.
The tour goes downhill from there. My attention keeps wandering, and as a result, I may have missed a couple of Taran’s questions. I definitely walked past the aforementioned cafeteria altogether.
By the time the first bell rings, I’ve managed to cover only one of the three sprawling floors.
“Oh no. I’m sorry we didn’t get to everything,” I blurt. “You’ll have to figure out the rest on your own.”
“Not a problem.” He gestures at a sign featuring the unisex symbol. “Let me guess. Using my vast powers of deduction, I’m going to say this is the bathroom. Am I right?”
It’s impossible not to smile back. “Why, Taran. You’ve been holding out on me. Guess you didn’t need my dubious tour-guide skills after all.”
“Maybe.” He reaches out a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I sure enjoyed the stories. In fact, I’d love to hear more. Rain check?”
My mouth parts. I lift my hand, brushing the ends of my hair. And here I thought no boy would ever perform that gesture sincerely. Guess I haven’t ruined everything with Taran.
“Yes!” I practically shout.
I would be embarrassed, but Taran’s grin widens, as though he finds me incredibly amusing.
Not gonna lie. I skip all the way to first period.
Now I just have to figure out how to get even with Mat, and my first day back without my sisters might not be a total disaster.
Chapter Eight
Later that afternoon, I fasten construction-paper eyelashes over the headlights of a Jeep Wrangler, fighting back a giggle.
“Quick!” Kavya says from the roof of the car, where’s she attaching a jaunty pink bow. She tosses back her brownish-black hair, her eyes glowing in the sun. My best friend is Konkani, which is a group of people from the southwest coast of India. The group is so small, she tells me, that even other Indians haven’t heard of them. As a result of her Persian ancestry, her eyes are the pale yellow of golden topaz. I’ve never seen anything like them, and they’re just as gorgeous as the rest of her. “Only five minutes left until the end of last period. Almost…there…”
We finish up and stand back to admire our handiwork. Mat’s sturdy and rugged Jeep has now been transformed into a cutesy work of art, complete with ruby-red lips, curling lashes, and trailing ribbons. I even painted polka dots on the back windows, because, you know, polka dots.
I rub my hands together. “He’s going to die when he sees this.”
“You killed two birds with a single pair of pouting lips, anyway,” Kavya says. “Now that’s inspired.”
She’s telling me. I’ve been struggling to settle on a medium for my art project, which is to depict a series of five emotions. I’m not sure why I was having such a hard time. Maybe because this is the last art project of my senior year. Who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to explore my art again in such an intense, concentrated way?
I’ll be expected to be serious in college. Focused on my economics courses. Not distracted by “frivolous” pursuits.
When I saw Mat on the list of students willing to volunteer their time to the art department for community service hours, I leaped at the opportunity.
Mat, being Mat, probably thought he would be offering up his good looks for students to paint. Serves him right that it’s his car—instead of him—that’s functioning as the model.
The first expression I picked for the Jeep is coquettish. No doubt you can buy the flirty lashes and hair bow in any car costume kit. But I’m also planning on exploring more subtle and complicated states of mind—another reason I couldn’t pick a medium.
Truth is, I’ve been feeling too much lately. And I don’t want to confess them to anyone, much less display them for the entire school to see. The thought of showcasing the emotions on canvas or in clay had me balking, hard.
But expressing my feelings through a car is unexpected. Playful. It creates both a distance and a shield, giving me space to explore these very real emotions in a safe way.
And if I get to embarrass Mat while I’m acing my art project? All the better.
Kavya slings an arm around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder. She’s so leggy that she makes me feel petite, even though I’m used to being taller than Mama and my sisters. “Thanks for helping me out,” I say.
“It is the last day to declare a medium. I was beginning to worry.” She snickers. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I’ll have front-row seats to Mat’s reaction. We could sell tickets to this event. In fact, we probably should.”
I grin. It’s no secret that Mat considers the Jeep to be his baby. She has a gender, probably even a nickname. He vacuums her carpets once a month. Washes her exterior weekly. Even when it rains. Especially when it rains.
Most pets aren’t this tidy. Except for cats, maybe, since they self-clean.
“What. Is. This?” a voice growls.
It sounds like Mat. It uses one-syllable words consistent with his primitive manners. But the voice is also two octaves lower than normal and more ferocious than anything I’ve ever heard.
I whirl around, and it’s Mat all right. His scowl is so deep that he’ll soon be in need of Papa’s wrinkle cream.
Kavya giggles nervously. “Whoa,” she murmurs. “Is he always this hot when he’s mad?”
I would sigh—if I weren’t too busy keeping a straight face. Is it the height thing? What else could explain my best friend’s bizarre attraction to Mat?
“Winnie,” he says slowly. Deliberately. “Can you please explain why my car is wearing your lipstick?”
Not sure how he has the first idea what shade of lipstick I wear, but okay.
“Meet my new art project,” I say brightly, using the acting skills I developed playing a bird during our middle school play. It’s harder than you’d think to squawk properly.
“Your. What?” He’s back to biting out each word as he walks slowly around the car, getting the full impact of my artistic vision.
“You were on the list of volunteers to help students with their final project. Mrs. Woods was thrilled when I told her my idea of depicting five human emotions via a vehicle.” My throat vibrates with the need to laugh. “I don’t have a car, as you know. So I thought I would use yours.”
He stops by the rear windows, as though he’s particularly flummoxed by the polka dots. Yay, polka dots! They haven’t let me down yet.