by Pintip Dunn
“Don’t. Don’t touch me the way you touched him. Because you feel sorry for me.”
I clasp my hands in my lap. “I feel a lot of things for you. Sorry isn’t one of them.”
He leans his head back, looking up at the car ceiling. One minute passes. And then another. “Okay, fine,” he says finally. “Let’s say I buy your explanation, that the hand-holding was nothing. Why did you agree to the fake date in the first place?”
“I told you. Mama found out about our kissing.” My voice is calm, even. I wish I could say the same about my quivering insides. “I don’t know how she found out. Uncle Pan must’ve called her. So she decided to replace you with Taran as my practice boyfriend. Taran, for his own reasons, agreed.”
“And you just went along with it?” he asks incredulously.
I stare. “Well, yeah. What else could I have done?”
“You could’ve told her no.”
I blink. And then blink again. “Since when is no a feasible answer with my mother?”
“Since always. You just have to be willing to say it.”
Seriously? I can’t tell if he’s being stubborn or deliberately obtuse. “Listen, I get that there’s a different standard for guys in our culture. I also get that your mom hasn’t been around in a few years. But you have to see how ridiculous that stance is. You know what my mother’s like.”
“I do. Which is why I think you’re not giving her enough credit. She’s way more reasonable than you assume.”
I love sharing Mama with Mat. I love that someone outside of our family gets to benefit from her affection and warmth. I love that she was there to ease his suffering, if only a bit.
What I don’t love: that Mat now believes he understands my mother better than I do.
“She sent you to the deli,” I say, my voice low and controlled. “She knew I was there with Taran. She knew it would hurt your feelings to see us. But she did it anyway, because she wanted to drive us apart.”
“Wrong,” he counters. “She didn’t want to tell me. I insisted.”
I wrinkle my forehead.
“Really,” he says. “She even warned me that I might not like what I see but not to jump to any conclusions.”
My mind’s spinning. I don’t understand. What is Mama’s goal here? Whose side is she on? “Did she ask you about kissing me?”
He shakes his head. “I think she started to, but she cut herself off. I’m not sure why. Maybe she wanted to come to an understanding with you first?”
Ha. This is where he’s completely off base. Mama’s never come to an understanding with me, ever. The normal course of our interaction is that she dictates and I follow.
“So you want me to refuse to date Taran,” I recap dully. “Why? I really don’t think she’ll buy that we’re fake-dating anymore.”
“I don’t want to fake-date,” he says, his eyes glittering. “I want to date for real.”
Oh. Oh. These are the words I’d been waiting for. The ones that would’ve sent me straight into bliss, if they’d been uttered twelve hours earlier. But now, they feel more like fish sauce rubbed in my wounds.
“I can’t ask my parents if we can date for real,” I say regretfully. “They’ll never agree.”
“Why not? You just need to try.”
But I’m no longer hearing him. An image seizes me with startling clarity, and I lean forward, drumming my fingers on the dashboard.
When Papa was twelve years old, he snuck a cigarette from an older boy’s pouch. He got violently ill after he smoked it, he explained to us. So ill that he swore off cigarettes from that day forward.
“What if we admitted that we kissed but only because we were curious?” I ask excitedly. “And then we decided it wasn’t for us. Because first kisses are awful. Everybody knows that. We realized, the moment our lips touched, that we saw each other as brother and sister. Still, I want to keep dating you because I’m comfortable with you.” My fingers drum faster. “What do you think? This could work. I think she might actually buy it.”
He hasn’t so much as blinked. “And then what?”
“Then we get to date. We’ll be able to spend time together.”
“Sneaking kisses when we can?”
I flush. “No. We don’t sneak kisses. That’s what got us in trouble in the first place. I’ve already lost Mama’s trust once. I won’t do it again.”
He opens the door and gets out of the car, even though we’re in the middle of our conversation. Even though he said he doesn’t like to fight in public. It’s as though his feelings, his thoughts, are so big that they can no longer be contained by the Jeep.
I hop out of the car, too, walking around the bumper to meet him.
“You want us to lie,” he says.
“It’s not lying—”
“Pretending? Practicing? It all amounts to the same thing.” His lips are parallel chopsticks. His eyes, clear and utterly solemn. “I’ve already had one person I loved not fight for me. I’m not interested in another one.”
I feel like someone punched me in the gut. I am nothing like his mother—nothing. But if he can’t see that, I don’t have the slightest idea where we stand. “If you trusted me, even a little, you wouldn’t put me in this position.”
“This is hard for me, too,” he says quietly. “I’ve had your parents’ good opinion all my life. That’s not easy to come by. The last thing I want is to jeopardize my relationship with them. But my feelings for you are so strong that I’m willing to take the risk. Are you?”
I shake my head, not just in response to his question but to this entire conversation. “We don’t need to put an official title on what we are to each other. I’m not going to abandon you like your mother did.”
He turns away from me. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Of course it is,” I say. “If your mom hadn’t called this morning, you wouldn’t be doubting me.”
“No, Winnie,” he says. “This isn’t about my mom. This is about us. We can’t control your parents’ rules. But we can control whether or not we even try. The Winnie I thought I knew, the one who made me fall for her without even trying—she may be a rule follower, but she also fights for what she wants. At least, the Winnie from four years ago would have. Isn’t that the real reason why you opened my binder to embarrass me? You were trying to make me notice you again.” His voice is as certain as I’ve ever heard it. “But if you can’t fight for me now…well, maybe you’re not the person I thought you were.”
My eyes sting. My heart aches. My body feels like it’s been wrapped with barbed wire. I can’t take a step in any direction without getting cut.
“You don’t mean that,” I whisper helplessly. Ineffectually.
“I’m going to leave now,” he says. I can’t think of any reason to announce his departure other than to give me an opportunity to stop him.
I want to stop him. I do. I just don’t know how.
He gives me one last searching look. His eyes are pained, but so is my chest. So is my breath. There’s nothing about this moment that doesn’t hurt.
“I didn’t want our friendship to end like this,” he says. “Don’t be a stranger. Okay?”
I nod, no longer capable of speech. And then he gets back in his car and drives away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I slip inside the front door without making any noise, placing my shoes soundlessly inside the built-in shelves. I take the stairs two at a time. And finally, finally, I make it inside my room and fling myself on my bed. Without my parents seeing. Without breaking down.
I’m used to swallowing my feelings, to letting the tears rain inside me. I don’t think even Taran guessed how upset I was, and he was the one who drove me home. (Proving, once and for all, that he is a good guy.)
But now that I’m alone, I let the cries come in huge, sha
king gasps. So loud, in fact, that I have to shove a pillow against my mouth to keep my parents from running up the stairs.
You’re not the person I thought you were.
Eight words. A simple sentence. One that’s not even intrinsically unkind, if you take it word by word.
How can they hurt so damn much?
Those words slice into my heart, severing my arteries, piercing my soul. I’ve cried over Mat before, from the silly squabbles we had as kids to the very real loss of our friendship four years ago. But never like this.
The ache sits on my chest like a tangible toy, useless and broken. I wish it were an object, because then I could remove it. I could put it somewhere far away, so that I don’t have to feel this way anymore. So that I don’t have to endure this pain any longer.
Our good times play through my mind like a movie reel. The moments he made me laugh, the looks that warmed me from the inside out. The way he kissed me like I was someone more than I ever dreamed I could be.
I don’t know if he’s right. Or if I am. Or, hell, maybe, probably we’re both wrong.
The realization doesn’t help. My heart doesn’t hurt any less because the assignment of blame doesn’t change the situation. It won’t bring Mat back to me.
Later—twenty minutes? an hour? two hours?—there’s a soft knock at my door.
“Winnie, are you okay?” Mama’s voice drifts through the wood. “I made tea for you.”
I attempt to sound like a human being. “Thanks, Mama. You can leave it at the door. I’m not feeling well.”
“I knocked earlier. You didn’t answer.”
“I must’ve been asleep.” I was most definitely crying. We must both know that. But, as always, it’s easier to tell a white lie than to wade into the messy truth.
“I’m coming in.” She doesn’t usually give a verbal warning. Usually, she barges in after a quick knock. I think of Mat, announcing his departure, and my eyes sting once again.
Mama walks inside, places a mug of tea on my desk, and sits on my bed. For a moment, we consider each other in the dim light. And then I dive into her arms.
I don’t know if she’s mad at me. I’m not sure where we stand, because we still haven’t discussed the kissing. But she’s Mama, and she’s here, and at this moment, that’s all that matters.
“Shhhhh,” she says into my hair, rocking me gently. “Shhhhh.”
When I was younger, I used to respond to her shushing with, “But I’m not saying anything!” Now, I know that this is just her way of soothing me.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I mumble against her shoulder. “You and Papa trusted me not to kiss him. And I did it anyway.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she says simply. “My entire goal was for you to avoid feeling this pain. If I contributed to your heartbreak by choosing the wrong person…well, then I’ve also failed you.”
I lift my head so that she can see my eyes, bloodshot and all. “You didn’t choose wrong. Mat’s always been a good guy. He still is. We just didn’t work out.”
I wish I could say more. I want to unload to her everything that’s happened. But that’s not how our relationship works. That’s never been the way it functioned.
I still remember Ari patiently explaining to me, in our early teens. Keep your mouth shut when our parents lecture you. The only thing you’re allowed to say is “chai, ka” or “kao jai, ka.”
“Yes” or “I understand.” Didn’t matter if I meant it. These answers merely symbolized that I’d listened. That I’d heard their instruction. That I’d shown the proper respect.
Sometimes, I get so bored of this respect. Yes, it’s important, and yes, it’s my parents’ due. But respect also prevents us from admitting our infractions—and talking about them. That’s what I want. For us to talk. Not as friends, exactly, but certainly without this yawning chasm between us.
Wishes are pointless, however. She’s the only mother I have, and we love each other. That has to be enough.
“What did Papa say?” I wet my lips, a little surprised I have any moisture left in my body. “Is he very mad?”
Mama might be the loud one, but it’s Papa’s reaction that concerns me more. He withdraws when he’s angry, and that’s a whole lot scarier because you don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know if you’ve disappointed him—permanently.
Mama sighs, her entire body deflating. “I didn’t tell him about you kissing Mat. So long as you and I can clear the air, I don’t think he needs to know.”
My heart swells. Not telling Papa is huge. I’ve never crossed the line before, not like this. I’m not sure if he would ever forgive me. It’s a testament to Mama’s love that she’s willing to keep my deception a secret.
“Thank you, Mama,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I broke your trust. The kiss didn’t mean anything. It was just an experiment, I guess you could say. It won’t happen again.”
The lie sits on my heart, weighing me down, trying to pull me into the abyss. Who knew I’d get so good at fibbing? But the truth won’t make a difference now. At this moment, my priority is repairing my relationship with Mama.
She nods, giving me one more hug. “Drink your tea,” she says, dropping the subject. This, more than anything, tells me that she does trust me.
And I cannot, I will not, let her down once more.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Don’t be a stranger.
Those were Mat’s last words to me, and the cliché could refer to any number of relationships, from the intense loathing we previously had for each other to the way Kavya embraces everyone she meets with jazz hands and a jazzier heart.
Four days after our fight, it’s become increasingly apparent that Mat didn’t mean any of those relationships. Because strangers can still treat each other with courtesy. Strangers can exchange banal comments about the weather, such as, “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain”—Bunny’s standard response to just about any question when she was cast in My Fair Lady her junior year. Strangers don’t speed-walk in the other direction when they see you coming. And they certainly don’t brace themselves when you pass in the hall, as though you might be carrying an infectious disease.
So, yeah. Mat’s not acting like a stranger, all right. He’s acting way, way worse.
I slam my locker door. Hell, I shouldn’t even be at school. I should be wallowing in my bedroom, with the blinds closed and the lights off, feeling sorry for myself.
But Mama wasn’t having it.
“The best way to get over puppy break is to distract yourself,” she said Monday morning. “So get up. Get dressed. And get to school.”
“First of all, it’s puppy love, not puppy break,” I said indignantly. “And second, what I’m feeling is most certainly not that.” Now, cat love, I might’ve considered. Especially if it was symbolized by the cat heads printed on my skirt.
“You shouldn’t have any problem going to school, then.” She pointed a finger at my door. “Move.”
Student of the year, I am not. But I obeyed my mother like the good Thai girl that I am.
It’s Thursday morning now, and I’m still here, at least physically if not mentally.
Kavya materializes by my elbow. “What’s up, zinnia?” she says cheerfully.
“What?” I grunt. “That doesn’t even rhyme.”
“I know. But why should buttercups get all the attention? There are lots of yellow flowers, many of which are just as cute, and they never get mentioned, much less have songs written about them.”
I sigh. “You are seriously weird, you know that?”
“So are you,” she says, and I can’t even argue.
My best friend stops in the middle of the hallway and turns me to face her. We’re now a pair of interconnecting boulders in the school’s natural current, forcing students to flow around us.
“Yo
u’ve been crying.” Her tone is almost accusatory.
“A little.” I attempt to smile. “The only good thing about this whole affair is that I got to try the waterproof mascara that Ari swears by. And she’s right. It totally works.”
“You don’t need him,” Kavya says. “I mean, you’ve got me. I can walk you to class, just like he does.”
She curves her arms out to either side—I guess to look broader?—and rises onto her tiptoes. Then she saunters down the hall in an exaggerated version of Mat’s swagger.
I giggle for the first time in ninety-six hours.
“What else?” she muses. “I don’t need to hold your hand, since you don’t believe in PDA. How about I just look at you longingly instead?”
She turns her topaz eyes to me, resting her chin on interlaced fingers and blinking rapidly.
The giggles morph into a full-on laugh. “Are you supposed to be me or Mat?”
She shrugs. “Either, really. You both were pretty gone over the other.”
“Yeah.” Sobering, I close my eyes. Kavya puts my hand on her shoulder and keeps walking, leading me through the throng.
My life is surreal. A week ago, I had a boyfriend. Sorta. Our relationship came together quickly and dissolved just as rapidly. If I spaced out, I would’ve missed it.
“Cheer up.” My best friend marches us to class. “At least you can say you got the full high school dating experience. The falling-in-lust bit, as well as the requisite heartbreak. If your mom’s goal was to give you practice, then she certainly succeeded.”
I sigh. “I think Mama will only be happy if I also practice getting over him.”
“You could try kissing someone else,” Kavya suggests.
I open my eyes just as we walk into trig class. We take seats next to each other. Coaching me through heartbreak is just one more reason why Kavya and I should always have the same schedule. The administration should take notes.
“Does kissing someone new actually help?” I ask curiously.
“Who knows?” Kavya stretches her long legs into the aisle, admiring her silver toe polish. “Believe me, I’ve tried the tactic on a few occasions. But I’ve never really mourned any of my breakups, so maybe I’m not the right person to ask.” One of our classmates comes upon Kavya’s feet and scowls. My best friend apologizes and tucks her legs back under her desk. “Come to think of it, rebounding’s not really your style.”