A Match Made in Mehendi

by Nandini Bajpai

  Sparky—God, they actually have a code word for him. How idiotic.

  Amanda pivots away from me and snaps into sexy mode. She fluffs her hair and flashes her orthodontically perfect smile at Ethan, but his attention is on me.

  “Hey, Simi.”

  I’m pretty sure Amanda’s about to flip out. It drives her nuts when Ethan speaks to other people, other girls, me.

  I give him a big grin, just to poke at Amanda. “Hey. Hope you had a good summer.”

  “Yeah, it was cool. Soccer practice, soccer camp, soccer games.” He’s tall and his face is freckly, the olive tone of it almost dusty, thanks to all the time he spends outside. He wears his hair long and in a ponytail, like some of the famous soccer players I’ve seen on TV. It looks nice against his varsity jacket.

  He turns to nod at Amanda and her groupies.

  “Hey, you,” she says in a flirty voice, sidling up to him.

  He shrugs her off—not in a mean way, but in an I’ve got class way. When he’s swallowed up by the crowd, Amanda aims a poisonous glare at me, then flounces after him.

  “Excuse you,” she snaps, pushing past Noah, who’s heading our way.

  Noah looks confused, then worried. “Did something happen?” he asks me.

  I roll my eyes toward Amanda. “She was rude to Kiran, and I called her out on it.”

  “You did not!”

  My heart still hasn’t slowed. Kiran gives me a grateful nod, but all my courage from moments ago dries up like a smudge of paint left out overnight, and now, I’m not sure I did the right thing challenging Amanda while everyone watched. I might’ve made Kiran a target. Or become one myself.

  “Ethan came by before it got ugly. He said hello to me, and I swear, smoke actually shot out of Amanda’s ears. Then she went chasing after him like a lovesick poodle.”

  “A pink poodle,” Noah says. “With fangs.” He fixes a concerned look at me. “I know we promised to stand out this year… but I wouldn’t mess with her. She’s vicious.”

  “Obviously,” I say. “But her obsession with Ethan… He’s completely wrong for her. Anyone can see that he’s not interested. He deserves someone better, but no girl’s brave enough to go out with him, because she’d become another of Amanda’s targets.”

  Noah grabs my arm, eyes gleaming. “Simi! Ethan needs a matchmaker. Someone to find the perfect person for him. We could do that!”

  chapter five

  I’m already shaking my head. I might have been feeling brave this morning, but taking on Amanda like this? No way, no how.

  Noah’s beaming, like he just aced his final exams. “I mean, think about it, Simi!”

  “Think about what? I don’t even know what you’re saying.” I cross my arms and look at Noah. “You want to start matchmaking? At school?”

  “Yes! And not just with Ethan. Half our school has no idea who they’d click with. Remember what you said about all the Desi kids?”

  “That none of our parents ever dated? It’s mostly true, at least for Mayfield. We only know about dating at all because of our friends or TV, or whatever.”

  “Bingo,” Noah says. “And Desis are, like, a fifth of the school. So let’s help everyone out, huh? Set them up with the perfect match. What do you think?”

  “Dating and marriage are like apples and oranges—two different things.”

  “They are not,” Noah says. “You just have to see if people connect with each other.”

  “It’s not that easy. And it’s not my thing. It’s Mom’s. And Masi’s. And Nanima’s.”

  “You can do it your way.” His eyes are big and brown and full of excitement. “You’ve got this in your blood, coming from generations of matchmakers. If anyone can help people like Ethan and Kiran find matches, it’s you. And anyway, we agreed to take chances this year, right?”

  I mean, yes, we promised each other we’d be our true selves, but that doesn’t mean I don’t mostly like my life. Art and Noah and school, my family. I’m not sure I’m ready to stir things up too much.

  “Think about it,” Noah goes on. “We could connect people. Change lives. The Shagun: High School Edition. Everyone will love it!”

  “We could never get something like that approved.”

  “Who says we have to get it approved? We could just do it. Get the word out and sign students up. We could set it up online, and it’d be free. It sounds like Navdeep’s already done a bunch of it for his development class. Bet we could get him to help.”

  I frown. “Okay, what have you done with my best friend who would never suggest anything so stooopid? And anyway, the app didn’t work perfectly. There were glitches.”

  “So we’ll help Navdeep fix it.”

  Oh, yeah, with all our tech wizardry or whatever. I just love all things tech.

  The bell rings. “Let me think about it, okay?” I say. “We’re gonna be late.”

  I check my schedule and push through the crowd; today I have art first period, which is the best way to start the day. The art room is my home away from home. My sanctuary. Last year, I took Intro to Art and Ceramics. This year I’m taking Honors Art Portfolio. They don’t usually let sophomores enroll, but Ms. Furst, whom I had for Intro last year, recommended me. It’s an all-year course where you can explore different media, have open-ended assignments, and work independently, plus complete a signature project, due at the end of this semester. My heart flutters at the thought of it.

  I walk into the art room. It’s massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the morning light. There are different stations with easels, clay, watercolors, oil paints, and paper, and even a darkroom. It feels like magic to work in here, cocooned in all this natural light and the smell of paint, paper, and clay.

  “Welcome, welcome, my young apprentices,” Ms. Furst says from the doorway. Her grizzled gray hair is a mane around her pale white face. Her tunic hangs long and loose, the hem touching the floor, and she wears a glittery dragon pendant.

  “Hi, Ms. Furst,” we chorus.

  “Find a place to work,” she directs. “Your first assignment is to tell me all about your summer—through art. Choose your medium and get to work.”

  Everyone settles onto stools and workbenches and takes out sketchbooks. A hush falls over the room. I look down at my sketchbook and then up at the blank canvas in front of me. A shadow falls over it, blocking my light. I glance up, then grin.

  “Hey, Aiden.”

  “Hey, Simi.”

  Aiden James stands next to my stool. He’s taller and leaner than he was at the end of freshman year. His dark waves hit his shoulders now, and his pale hands still hold the trace of a summer tan, marked with those familiar spray paint speckles, reminding me of the scrawny little kid I met in first grade—though, back then, tempera paint streaked his hands. In elementary school, Aiden and I were the two creative kids who carried sketchbooks and hunted inspiration in the strangest places. He stuck with me, my art-class friend, even after he morphed into one of the cool kids.

  My heart does a weird flip as he stands there watching me. “Wow, you must’ve gotten five inches taller over the summer,” I say.

  “Five and a half.”

  Well done, puberty.

  “How was your summer?” he asks.

  “Good. Pretty busy.” Not really true, but he doesn’t need to know that I spent the bulk of my time at home with Sweetie. And I checked out his social media all summer and watched with jealousy as he took art classes and worked in a museum. “How about you?”

  “It was cool. I did that museum internship, and it turned out to be all right. You should do it next summer. Pretty sure the director will hook me up with a letter of recommendation when it comes time for college apps.”

  “Wow—so cool.” I’m kind of envious—maybe I should have spent the summer interning, too—but Aiden’s a great guy and a talented artist; he deserves any letters of recommendation he gets.

  “Right?” He grins again, reaching over me to grab some cerulean paint. �
�Oils for me.” He looks at my canvas. “What’re you thinking?”

  I shrug and stand. “Guess I better figure it out.”

  I do a lap around the room, running my hands over various art supplies, that familiar buzz working its way through my fingertips and into my system. I’m so lost in thought I knock over a can of brushes. Being klutzy is a side effect of getting excited. “Oops! Sorry, Ms. Furst.”

  “No apologies! It’s okay to touch,” she says, waving an arm.

  Back at my station, I study the blank canvas. My summer, in art.

  Nothing’s coming to me.

  My summer was a blur of suburban boredom: lounging in the yard with the dog, playing video games with Navdeep, watching Bollywood movies with my mom. Then it hits me: shattered vases. I reach for a charcoal pencil and start to sketch: first the swirls and twirls of the vase, then a rani and her raja, a royal pairing that looks an awful lot like Preet and Jolly.

  Ms. Furst approaches me. “Henna,” she says in a low voice, and points to my hands. “Did you do that yourself?”

  “Yeah. Just playing around. Though my mom hates that I do it. Says mehendi—that’s what we call henna—is special and only for important occasions.” I pull my knee to my chest and brush off the last of the dark dried paste on my ankle. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’d like you to do one for me,” Ms. Furst says. “Whenever you have time.”

  “Absolutely.” I smile at her. “I have some spare mehendi cones in my locker. I can bring them in next class.”

  Her eyebrows lift as if she just thought of something. “This might be an interesting medium for you to explore when you start thinking about your signature project.”

  I never thought of mehendi as a medium for art somehow. There’s no reason why it can’t be used that way, though. It could be really interesting to experiment with.

  I start swirling my paints—a rusty red, rich like henna—in paisleys first, like I would with my mehendi. I grin at my handiwork, filling in the details. Soon the image morphs, and there are two figures, a queen and her king. A match made in mehendi.

  At lunch, Amanda Taylor swans into the cafeteria with Cami and Natasha while I’m in the line. She’s like the rani and raja in that sketch I drew in art class. Actually, scratch that. More like a lion on the hunt for its lunch. She must not find what—or who—she’s looking for, because her eyes dim and she gets in line with her friends, a few people behind me.

  The cashier up ahead must be new because she’s cashing people out at a sloth-like pace. I try not to tap an impatient toe, but I’m starving.

  There’s a burst of giggles behind me, and then I hear my least favorite nickname: Gummy.

  I try not to bristle as Amanda, Cami, and Natasha talk about me like we’re back in middle school.

  Three against one.

  “You should’ve seen it,” Amanda says, her voice getting louder and louder now. “It was everywhere—pink and sticky and so gross. All up in her hair.”

  The Gummy Incident hits me like a hot flash. I suddenly feel all feverish—my empty stomach combined with the lingering mortification that resurfaces whenever I’m reminded of the time Amanda Taylor stuck a mega wad of bubble gum in my ponytail.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t have to chop off her hair to get it all out,” Amanda says with a laugh. “I mean, it was an accident, of course, and I probably shouldn’t have been chewing that much gum, but honestly—I wasn’t exactly sorry.”

  I peek behind me. Cami’s laughing, but nervously. Her tense shoulders give her away. Natasha looks confused, like she’s missing the joke, except she’s not. Being a bully is never funny.

  Amanda catches me looking and smirks. “Remember that day, Gummy?” she calls out. “How could you forget?”

  I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and turn to face her. “I sure do. Tell Natasha what happened next—you know, the part when Ethan found out what a monster you are and dumped you?”

  The snotty smile vanishes from Amanda’s face.

  The memories come fast. She’d bumped into me in the locker room and put all the gum in my hair while we were changing for PE. But I didn’t feel it because my braid used to be super long then. During our volleyball game, she and three other girls kept laughing at me. Amanda was in tears from all the giggles. Ethan stopped his basketball game on the other side of the gym to see what his then-girlfriend found so hilarious.

  When she told him and he saw it, he looked absolutely horrified. He took me to the side and told me. It was all I could do to keep from crying. Amanda must’ve chewed half a dozen pieces, then worked the wad into the end of my ponytail when she “accidentally” crashed into me.

  Ethan got a pass from his PE teacher and led me out of the gym. We went to his locker, where he pulled out his brown-bag lunch. Inside was a small container of peanut butter. He rubbed it into my hair, working the gum out, all the while telling me a story about how when he’d been at soccer camp a few years before, a couple of older guys had given him a hard time.

  “They were probably jealous,” I said. “Because you’re so good.”

  He shrugged, humble. “Maybe. Doesn’t really matter, though. There’s never a good reason to be mean to other people.”

  “You should tell your girlfriend that,” I said.

  I was furious with Amanda, but I didn’t feel so sad anymore. It helped to know that someone as popular as Ethan had once been bullied, too. Also, he’d gotten almost all the gum loose, and he was gentle about it. I wouldn’t have to cut my hair, and I was grateful.

  “She’s not going to be my girlfriend after today,” he said.

  It was then that Amanda came jogging down the hall, still in her PE uniform. “Ethan!” she said, eyeing the peanut butter and the disgusting hunk of oily pink gum that sat on a napkin between Ethan and me. “You’ve been gone so long. I was worried.”

  Ethan wiped his hands on a spare napkin and squeezed my shoulder. “All good now?”

  “Yep,” I said, smiling.

  He faced Amanda. “You and I need to talk.”

  And that was it—they broke up that day.

  Amanda blames me, as if I forced her to stick gum in my hair just so her boyfriend would have an excuse to dump her. She’s messed with me ever since, with that stupid nickname.

  Now her eyes lock on Ethan, who’s sitting out in the courtyard with a bunch of the soccer guys. She flips her hair and leaves the line to join him, Cami and Natasha trailing behind.

  I shake my head. Poor Sparky—he can run, but he can’t hide.

  Thankful to be free of Amanda—and proud of myself for not letting her get the best of me—I buy my lunch and slide in next to Noah at our usual table, near the back corner of the cafeteria.

  “Lots of new faces,” I say, biting into my pizza. “Not all of them are freshmen, either.”

  “She’s a transfer,” Noah says, tilting his head toward the windows. He’s gesturing at a tall Filipina girl who’s stunning—all long, lean limbs and muscle. Her silky, dark hair is tied back in a ponytail. And while she may be new, she’s already found her crew—the girls’ soccer team.

  “Does she play?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Noah says. “I heard she’s really good, too. Like, college coaches are already scouting her.”

  “Wow,” I say. “So the transfers are soccer girl, and that super-hot California guy, and…”

  “And that guy.” Noah points with his half-eaten slice of pizza.

  Suraj—the kid I accidentally waved to this morning. Ugh, so embarrassing. “Yeah, I saw him earlier. He’s from Boston. Marcus knows him from the First Tech competition. I wonder why he looks so ridiculously happy,” I say.

  It’s weird. I mean, what’s so exciting about school in New Jersey?

  Noah raises an eyebrow at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “He looks ridiculously cute.”

  “I guess,” I admit. “He reminds me of the characters in the comic books that Nani got
me from India. The Amar Chitra Kathas.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Noah says. “You’re right. Not the mustache, or the crown, or long hair, sadly. I think he’d look hot in a dhoti… on a horse or something.”

  This makes me choke on my orange juice. I make the mistake of looking over at Suraj and end up laughing even more.

  He waves, but this time I don’t fall for it. I duck my head as heat climbs from my throat to my cheeks. Caught staring. Again.

  Noah grins and waves, and the guy smiles back, right at us this time, before he slips out the cafeteria door. Who’s supposed to be the matchmaker here, anyway?

  “How was French?” I ask Noah.

  “Not bad. How was art?” he asks.

  “Great! Furst gave me a really cool idea of using mehendi for my signature art project. I mean, why not, right? Also, Aiden’s in my class,” I say, my cheeks warming. “He got tall over the summer. And is sort of cute!”

  “Ooooh,” Noah teases.

  “Hey, it’s not like that,” I say. “I mean, we’re art friends.”

  “You’ve always been the two art kids. And things change,” Noah says in his best Mom imitation. “Be open to possibilities if you want to find a match! Especially if you want to find a match in the hot artist you’ve been googly-eyed for since elementary school.”

  I laugh, but I sneak a look around the lunchroom for Aiden anyway. I don’t see him.

  Noah swallows his laugh and freezes.

  I tilt my head and try to read his expression. “What’s wrong? What just happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey, Noah!” a voice says from behind us.

  I whip around to see who it is—California guy.

  “Hey, Connor,” Noah says, turning entirely red.

  Connor smiles and keeps moving.

  Meanwhile, my jaw has, like, hit the tabletop. “You know him? When did you guys meet?”

  “This morning. In French,” Noah whispers.

  “Oooh! Tell me about him. Is he nice?”

  “Yeah,” Noah says. “I guess.”

  I can tell by his face he doesn’t want to talk about Connor, so I let it go, taking another bite of pizza. Sunlight filters through my glass bangles and makes a rainbow on the wall.