by Pintip Dunn
Regardless, he’s lying. I know for a fact that emerald green used to be his preferred hue.
Emerald, as in the color of his cell phone case in middle school. And backpack. And winter coat.
Emerald, to reflect the day of the week on which we were both born: Wednesday. According to ancient Thai custom, each day of the week is associated with the color of the god who protects that particular day.
Emerald, as was the stone in the delicate necklace he gave me for my twelfth birthday. I still have it, packed away in a velvet box at the back of my drawer. Maybe it’s not healthy to hold on to such a sentimental gift from my ex-friend. But I couldn’t bear to get rid of the first piece of jewelry I ever received from a boy.
Kavya places a hand on her hip. “I’ll be sure to file that away under classified information. Mat’s favorite color: not green.”
She looks at me, and I shrug. I wish she could help me sort through my confusion, but I don’t think the Budha himself—the deity who protects Wednesdays, not to be confused with Buddha—could untangle this complicated web.
“I’ll call you later, okay?” I say to Kavya. “I need to, uh, talk to Mat about something.”
She nods and squeezes my hand. With a final lingering look at Mat, she departs.
She’s barely out of earshot when Mat straightens. “You were asking me about the dressing room,” he says abruptly. “By that, I’m assuming you want to know why I acted the way I did.”
Caught off guard, I nod, my brain trying to catch up with this shift in conversation.
“I’ll tell you,” he says. “But you’ll have to come closer.”
“What?” I frown. In spite of the background din, I can hear him just fine. “I’m plenty close.”
“No. Come around. I don’t want to miss a detail of your reaction.” He gestures impatiently for me to stand, and it’s such an odd request that I comply.
As soon as I’m on my feet, however, he tugs me forward so that I fall sideways into his lap.
I yelp, but then his arms go around me. They’re warm. As are his legs. And his chest. Any further protest dies in my throat. I’ve never been held like this, ever. So much of my body is in contact with his. His jeans-clad thighs are slabs of rock underneath my legs; his fingers sear into the small of my back. As if pulled by a magnet, my hands find their way back onto his chest.
Embarrassed, I smooth out his shirt where I creased it earlier. But that doesn’t help my mortification because I end up sorta petting him.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“You want to know why we almost kissed?” he whispers, his lips brushing against the lobe of my ear.
I shiver. I can’t help it. I have no more control over my reaction than an ocean has over its swells.
“It’s because…” he continues. Voice, still whispering; lips, still brushing. “I made a bet with my buddies. That I could get you to fall for me before our fake dates are over.”
The world tilts. It must, because I’m tumbling off his lap, gripping onto the sticky countertop to stop my descent off the edge.
Did I hear him properly? Did he actually say what I thought he said?
Vocabulary flees my brain.
“So all of this… It was…”
I can’t even put a sentence together. But it doesn’t matter. The smug expression on his face says it all.
I’ve been played.
Chapter Fourteen
“Holy crap. Is this target practice or a shrine?” Kavya sails into my bedroom later that afternoon, her hair flowing behind her like there’s a fan held up to her face. I swear, she’d look like a model if she were on her hands and knees, digging in the dirt. I know because last spring, we overturned a garden at a retirement home as part of our junior service project.
“It’s about to be a graveyard,” I snarl, holding the sight of the Zombie Sidestrike up to my eye.
Pop, pop, pop.
A single picture of Mat isn’t enough this time. A whole series of sketches lines my wall. His face. His long, lean body, which spans three pieces of paper. Next comes a close-up of his infuriating eyebrow. Guava of a nose. Lips like big, lumpy pillows. Biceps, chest—and abs. Can’t forget those. Drawing those body parts evoked so many emotions that I broke several pencils. Which only serves to fuel my rage.
“There must be ten drawings here.” Kavya surveys the lineup. “Obsessed much?”
Instead of answering, I let loose a succession of foam bullets.
Detecting my mood or fearing for her life, Kavya retreats to my bed. She wisely keeps her mouth shut for the next few minutes while I demolish the sketches.
When I’ve done as much damage as my aching shoulders will allow, I slump onto the pink polka-dot comforter next to her. The Nerf gun lies limply on my lap, and her light, floral perfume engulfs me.
She turns to face me. “Wanna tell me why you’re so upset?” she asks.
I do—from the yellow sweater with the floppy bows to the way Mat looked at me in the green dress. From the almost-kiss in the dressing room to his zinger of a revelation—that he’d made a bet with his buddies that I would fall for him.
Her jaw drops, as expected, but her ears don’t steam next. Instead, she tilts her head, considering me.
“Winnie, do you like him?”
“What? No.” My fingers twitch on the trigger of the Sideswipe, even though I’m out of bullets. “We hate each other—oh, excuse me, loathe each other.”
“But you sat on his lap, right?” she persists. “Why would you do that if you don’t like him?”
“Because I kinda fell?”
“I don’t buy it.” She faces me, her knees jabbing into my thighs. “You’ve been snarking at each other for years. But none of your comments was malicious. You never aimed to truly hurt him. In fact, when Delilah Martin told the girls last fall the exact details about Mat’s underwear—that he wears boxers, that he prefers solids—you were the first person to tell her to shut up.”
“Because I didn’t want to hear it.”
“No,” she says softly. “Because the details were too personal. They weren’t meant to be shared publicly. You were protecting Mat.”
I open my mouth and then close it. And then open it again. Because she’s right. “He was my best friend for my entire childhood,” I say weakly. “What else was I supposed to do?”
The sun spills through the window, heating my neck, highlighting the clothes I’ve left draped over chairs and heaped on the floor. I get up and begin to clean, because I don’t want Kavya to think I’m a slob—but also because I need something to occupy my hands.
“How was his lap?” my best friend asks. “Cozy?”
I gather an armful of leggings and T-shirts, the blush spreading through my body. Even my elbows are probably red.
She hoots. “Oh, Winnie, don’t ever change. I love that you’re so innocent.”
“When I was ten, I used to want my first kiss to be with my husband at our wedding,” I confess. “Goodness knows, that would make Papa happy.”
“And now, at the wise old age of seventeen, how do you feel?” she teases.
I toss the dirty clothes into a hamper. “I’m not sure. But I’d like my first kiss to be genuine and not part of a bet.”
She gestures for me to sit next to her. “I don’t care if you have your first kiss when you’re eighteen or eighty. No judgment here. All I want is for it to be right for you.
“I’ll let you in on a secret. First kisses pretty much suck—and not in a good way. Too much slobbering. Too much thrust.” She jabs her tongue out repeatedly to demonstrate. “I only have one word to describe mine: ‘braces.’”
I giggle. Kavya’s parents are as strict as mine, but that’s never held her back.
“I’d love for your first kiss to mean something,” she continues. “But I’d als
o love for it to be with someone who knows what they’re doing.” She waggles her eyebrows. “With Mat, there’s a good chance you’ll have both.”
Is she right? There were some long, sticky moments, in the dressing room and out of it, when the connection between us was a weighty, palpable thing. Is my attraction to him real? Or was I just confused?
I lick my lips. I suppose it doesn’t matter how I feel when he’s made his feelings abundantly clear. He’s flirting with me only because of a bet. Nothing more. “Bet me ten bucks that I can make him fall for me first.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Those are some pretty hefty stakes.”
“Seriously, Kav?” I grumble. “You’re missing the point. I just have to tell him that I made the same bet. Help a girl out.”
“Make it a dollar and you’ve got a deal.”
I sigh. “Fine. A hundred measly pennies. You’re a true friend.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand, accidentally depressing the trigger on the Nerf gun. A foam bullet flies out and hits pencil-Mat’s knee, and we burst out laughing.
“Anytime, Winnie. Anytime.”
…
The following Friday, I pace my bedroom. What am I going to do? My bet with Kavya was hardly real. I doubt any money will ever change hands. Knowing my best friend, she’ll make me repay her in single-serve chocolate chip cookies, the only kind I’m industrious enough to whip up.
But those were fighting words. I’d like nothing better than to make Mat fall for me. To make a fool out of him, when that’s what he tried to do to me. The only question is: how?
An entire week has passed, and I’ve made no progress toward my goal, other than to beam a cheesy smile at Mat a few times during school. Each time, he gave me a strange look, as though wondering if I was coming down with a fever. Clearly, I need to sharpen my flirting skills, especially because we have a date tomorrow at the Songkran festival.
Groaning, I flop onto my spinny desk chair. That’s the crux of the problem. This is not a fair fight. Mat has a ton more experience than I do. He’s actually dated people. Even—gulp—kissed them. The most time I’ve spent in the back seat of a car is when I didn’t weigh enough to activate the airbag.
I pull out my cell phone. There’s only one place I turn when I run into school problems or friend problems or help-I’ve-lost-my-eye-mask-and-can’t-sleep problems. My sisters.
Me: How do you make someone fall for you?
Bunny: Send nude pics?
Ari: Bunny!!!
Me: Bunny!!!
Ari: Seriously? This is our baby sister who’s asking
Bunny: Yes and she happens to be 20 months younger, not 20 years
Me: Good thing, too. Because then I wouldn’t even be born
Bunny: Neither would we. We’d be having this convo in the womb
Ari: Focus, please. Winnie asked a serious question. She deserves a serious answer
Bunny: Oh, so now you wanna talk about nude pics? Who’s the pervert this time?
Me: LOLOL
Ari: Noted. And ignored. You’re fabulous, Win. Just be yourself
Me: But I’ve been myself for seventeen years. And he hasn’t fallen yet
Even as I type the words, I gnaw on my lip, remembering Mat’s comments in the dressing room. According to him, I haven’t been my true self for four years. Is there any basis to his claim? Or is he just messing with me once again?
Bunny: Holy guacamole. Are you talking about Mat?
Ari: She’s totally talking about Mat
Me: I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT MAT
A minute passes, with no response.
Me: Ok. I might be talking about Mat
Bunny: Ha! I KNEW it!
Me: It’s not what you think. I made a bet with Kavya—since he made a bet with his friends—basically, it’s a race to see who can make the other fall first
Ari: That makes no sense
Bunny: And needlessly complicated
Ari: Why don’t you just keep it simple? Tell him you like him. Maybe he’ll respond the same way
Bunny: Oh, hey, I have an idea. Send a pic! Doesn’t have to be racy. Never underestimate a photo of a nice pair of knees or a crumpled-up dress on the floor
Ari: Less is sometimes more
Bunny: Especially, you know, when it’s LESS
Me: I have no idea what that means. But thanks. You’ve given me a lot to think about
I text them a row of heart-eye emojis. Are they right? No clue. No doubt my sisters have more experience than I do. A better understanding of this whole romance thing. They might not have dated in high school, but they’ve been in college for seven whole months, without parental supervision, surrounded by gummy penises. I know of at least four kissing sessions—and those are only the ones they bothered to share with me.
Mat has more layers than the comic books we used to devour. There’s no telling what will make him fall. Still, I don’t have any better ideas, so I might as well follow my sisters’ advice.
Taking a deep breath, I arrange my new green dress artfully on my carpeted bedroom floor and take a photo with my cell phone.
And then, before I can change my mind, I hit send.
Chapter Fifteen
The doubts start at the crack of dawn the next morning, when I sneak over to Mat’s house to redecorate a certain Jeep in his driveway. I drape garlands of plastic jasmine and pink roses along the passenger doorframe. Was it silly to text a photo of my dress? I fasten a tall golden chada—a headdress worn in classical Thai dance—to the hood of the car. Is Mat laughing hysterically at my pathetic attempt at seduction? I even tape long finger claw nails, like the ones worn in the fingernail dance, to the sideview mirrors. Did he even receive the damn text?
He must have.
There’s been no response, but a few times, I saw dots appearing on the screen only to disappear again, which means that he started composing a message—and then changed his mind.
Not that I was staring obsessively at my cell phone or anything.
A few hours later, Jeep decorated, I meet up with Kavya to go to the Songkran festival. By the time she turns into the parking lot of the wat Thai, my stomach’s tied itself into macramé—and it has nothing to do with the orange cones (and a bumper or two) that she almost took out.
“Are you positively sure no one’s going to dump water on me?” Kavya asks wistfully. Her chin-length hair is pulled into an itty-bitty ponytail, as though she’s prepared for a torrential downpour. “Not even a cup?”
I smile, in spite of the churning in my torso. “If it means that much to you, I’ll happily pour my iced tea over your head.”
“That’s okay.” She sighs dramatically. “I just can’t believe there’s no rowdy water play at a water festival.”
“It does take place at a temple,” I point out. “And there’ll be so much food, I promise you won’t notice.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” She pulls into a narrow parking spot, her brows creased in concentration. “How come you’re meeting Mat here when you have a date with him?”
“Mama’s very literal,” I say ruefully. “In Always Be My Maybe, Randall Park arranges to meet Ali Wong at a farmer’s market in San Francisco. It’s the closest scene in a rom-com that Mama could find to a Songkran festival, so here we are. Fake date number three.”
Kavya turns to me, mouth open. “Isn’t that the scene where she tells him that she has insane, freaky sex with Keanu Reeves?”
I cringe. “Oh, please don’t remind me. That detail must’ve slipped her mind when she was planning the date.”
“She’s using these movies as a dating instruction manual?”
“Something like that.” I take off my seat belt. “I can assure you, though, that there will be no insane, freaky sex on this date, especially since our parents will be there.”
I blush and change the subject. “The Songsomboons used to be fixtures at this festival. But that was before Mat’s mom went to Thailand to take care of his sick a-ma. She used to make the best Thai curry puffs around,” I say longingly. “Flaky pastry crust, stuffed with tender potatoes, curry, onions, garlic. Kinda like bajos.”
Bajos are the Konkani word for pakoras, and Kavya’s mom has made them for me often, sometimes using cauliflower, other times using bell pepper, or onion.
“Oh, look!” Kavya points. “Mat’s already here.”
My stomach flips as we stare at the Jeep tucked in the corner of the parking lot, the Thai flag, with its wide central blue stripe, bookended by narrower white and red stripes, on the rear window.
“You match,” she says.
She’s right. The Jeep and I are wearing the same colors. My pink sarong skirt is threaded with gold, cinched at the waist with a thick gold belt and paired with a simple, strapless pink satin top. My modesty is preserved by the lacy sabai thrown over my bare shoulder.
“I’ve always wanted to be twinsies with a car,” I remark.
Kavya pretends to pout. “And here I thought you and I were twinsies.” She’s dressed in the traditional langa (skirt) and dupatta (scarf) of her culture. “Never mind. We can all match. But if you don’t mind my asking, what emotion is Mataline supposed to be conveying?”
I smile. This feeling may not be overly deep or complicated, but it perfectly captures my heart at the festival today. “Pride.”
…
We approach the wat, and Kavya’s eyes light up. I don’t blame her. I’ve been here dozens of times, and my breath still gets short at the detailed architecture. The roof is made up of three ornamental tiers, a practice reserved for temples, palaces, and other important buildings. A long, thin panel, called the lamyong, decorates the edge of the roof in an undulating shape. This serpentine form evokes the Naga, while the bladelike pieces that protrude from the panel suggest both fins and feathers.