A Match Made in Mehendi

by Nandini Bajpai

  “I honestly don’t know why I even filled out that quiz,” Teá says, moving her hands as she talks. She’s a ball of energy.

  “So many people say that,” Noah says, using his most soothing voice. “But you took it. That’s cool. Why not see it through?”

  She pulls the hair tie from her ponytail, and her glossy hair falls around her face—she’s gorgeous. Lots of freckles on her light brown nose. She shoves her seat back and bounces up. “I just—I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  “No, no.” I wave her back into the chair, thinking maybe we should get her comfortable talking to us before we bring up her actual match. “How are you liking Mayfield, by the way?”

  “It’s great,” she says. “We moved here for the soccer program. The Nunezes are legendary coaches. At my old school there weren’t many kids playing at my level.… Oh, that sounds like I’m bragging!” She flushes in embarrassment.

  “No, no, it makes sense,” I say. “I bet the Nunezes are thrilled to have you.” Noah clears his throat, and I keep going. “Let’s talk about your match. Why are you worried about talking to him?”

  Teá looks doubtful. “Is there really a match? Or does the app make everyone think they’ve got a chance?”

  Noah and I exchange a smile. “There’s definitely a match,” he says.

  “And not just any match,” I add. “We’re really psyched about it because it’s almost perfect—the highest percentage of compatibility we’ve had so far, right, Noah?”

  “It’s really impressive!” he says, beaming at Teá.

  “I wonder who it could be. I’ve been spending all my time with the girls’ soccer team, so I haven’t really met a lot of people,” she says.

  I pull out my match sheet and start reading. “This is some of the information entered by your match,” I tell her. “Favorite athletes: Wambach, Pelé, Hamm, Messi, Ronaldo—in that order. Favorite song: Shakira’s ‘Waka Waka (This Time for Africa).’ Favorite movie, Victory.”

  Teá’s eyes are wide. “That’s… almost exactly what I entered!”

  I fold my arms and give her my I told you so look. “I’ve got more, but do you see what we mean?”

  “I’m starting to. But I’m surprised. I didn’t think there could be anyone who I could have so much in common with.”

  “There is.” I look at my watch and realize our next class will start in a few minutes. “So the question is: Would you like to meet him?”

  Teá runs her hand through her hair. “It just feels so… awkward!”

  “Maybe for a few minutes,” Noah says. “But no risk, no reward.”

  Teá sits up straight, throwing her shoulders back. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll meet him.”

  Today’s the day. Introductions twenty-one to thirty, including Teá and Ethan, Kiran and Marcus, and Aiden and (ahem!) me.

  Noah is at our table by the window in the library, in charge of any frantic last-minute texts from our couples. I stop by to say good morning and to leave The Shagun Matchmaking Guide with him—I’ve started bringing it every Match Day, for luck.

  I leave my backpack at the table, too, and head to the art section of the library in search of Graffiti Art Styles by Unknown Urban Artists. I’m curious because Aiden is into urban street art in a big way. I’ve never tried anything like it, never even held a can of spray paint, but he’s amazing at this stuff.

  I pull the book from the shelf and flip through it. I’m early, but worried that Aiden isn’t here yet. I’m admiring the glossy photographs of colorful street art when my phone beeps. I pull it from my pocket. The app is set to intro mode, and the alert on it tells me that Blue Seal (aka Aiden) is in the area. I try not to fidget. Or throw up. I focus on my feet and the little sun tattoo I’ve hennaed onto the top of my left foot.

  It’s silly to be nervous—Aiden and I are already friends. Just friends. But it doesn’t keep me from getting all sweaty and feeling like I’m about to knock down a whole shelf or something. My feet even feel like they’re about to get all tangled up and I’ll trip over my own shadow.

  When I look up, he’s standing in front of me with a smile on his face, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He points a finger at me and raises a questioning eyebrow. I tap the Say hi! button on the app, and my MI, a silver unicorn, turns into an actual picture of me with the word Hi! on it. Aiden laughs. His blue seal turns into a picture of him. Chat channel initiated, the app says. I put it on silent so we can talk IRL—far less awkward.

  Aiden laughs. “Simi!”

  I smile. “Surprised?”

  “Silver unicorn,” he says. “Suits you. And no, not completely surprised. I told you—I was kind of hoping my match would be a certain someone.” He clears his throat and looks down at the floor, then shyly back at me. “In case that someone was you. But you knew we were a match, right?”

  “Right,” I admit. “I was nervous, though. I didn’t want to tell you and have you end up disappointed. That would’ve…”

  “Sucked,” he finishes for me.

  “Big-time,” I say.

  He takes a step toward me, his bashfulness evaporating. “For the record, I’m not disappointed. If I’d known we were matched, though, I wouldn’t have waited to tell you. I guess you had to think about it, huh?”

  I laugh. “Not too much.”

  “I’ll take it,” he says, grinning. “So what’s next?”

  “Most of our matches spend a couple of days chatting. Then decide if they want to go out.”

  “We know each other. So maybe we could skip a step?”

  Noise on the other side of the library catches my attention, and I’m suddenly too distracted to respond to Aiden.

  A horde of soccer types are flooding through the library doors. Ethan was supposed to come alone, but apparently, he decided to bring his friends. Teá is never going to feel comfortable talking to him if they have an audience.

  “Sorry, Aiden. I think another match is about to crash and burn. Noah might need help. Can we talk later?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Aiden says. “Do you want to come over after school tomorrow and help me with a graffiti art project?”

  I imagine spray-painting a bridge or a wall or something and wonder if hanging out with Aiden is worth getting in trouble for. “Is it, um, legal?”

  He laughs. “It’s on plywood panels set up in my backyard. No vandalism involved.”

  “In that case, yes!”

  “I’ll see you around four? Oh, and wear something you don’t mind getting paint on!”

  “Will do,” I say.

  I have my first date!

  “It’s an invasion,” Noah says when I reach him.

  The entire Mayfield boys’ soccer team is milling around the library, disrupting the quiet. “What part of ‘come alone’ didn’t he get?”

  It’ll be a miracle if Teá doesn’t bolt.

  “Where’s Teá?” I ask.

  “In the American History section,” Noah says. “I guess she doesn’t realize these guys are here because of her match.”

  He points to Ethan, who’s taking baby steps toward the section where Teá’s waiting, per the instructions emailed via the app.

  “This is ridiculous. If we don’t get rid of them, she’ll take off.” I text a message to Ethan quickly, in all caps:

  SEND YOUR FRIENDS AWAY! NOW!

  Noah takes my phone from me and adds:

  OR THE INTRO IS OFF!

  Ethan checks his phone, freezes, and then turns around to wave wildly at his teammates. There’s muffled laughter, but they start moving toward the library exit. He turns around, looking relieved, and rakes his hair back with one hand. He heads toward the history section.

  From my vantage point next to Noah, I can see that Teá looks flustered.

  Ethan clicks on his phone, waits a second, and then raises his hand in a hesitant hello. Teá’s lips tug up in a shy smile.

  TRRRRRRRILLLLLLLLLL! A whistle shrieks, and there are
cackles from Ethan’s teammates, who are spying from the windowed library door. Teá looks horrified. She turns around and walks away from Ethan, leaving one of the most popular guys at Mayfield High in a position he’s never been in before. Rejected.

  Face. Palm.

  Noah and I descend on Ethan. “Well done,” Noah says. “That had to be the worst way you could possibly have handled this.”

  Ethan’s frowning. “I’m sorry—I know! Once the guys got wind of why I was headed for the library, they wouldn’t leave me alone. Did I blow my shot?”

  “Maybe,” I tell him. I’m extra grouchy, seeing as how his team’s stunt interrupted my introduction, too. “And after all the convincing Teá needed to give this a chance.”

  A grin lights up Ethan’s face. “So that’s how you say her name? Tay-yah,” he says, trying it out. “I’ve seen her play. She’s the best.”

  “She transferred to Mayfield because the girls’ soccer team is so good.” I lean back and look at him. “She’s serious about it.”

  “She reminds me of Tiffany Roberts,” Ethan says. “When she played for the 1999 national team. She’s a college coach now. Recruited my sister to UCF.”

  “Wait. Is that Tiffany Roberts Sahaydak? Teá listed her as one of her inspirations, because she’s Filipino American and a national soccer star. A connection that wasn’t even on your quiz!”

  Ethan gives me a crooked smile. It’s easy to see why girls like him. He’s adorable even when he’s embarrassed and wearing mud-crusted soccer sneakers.

  “You know,” Noah says. “You and Teá were the strongest match we’ve had so far.”

  “Whoa!” Ethan says. “With the bizarre answers I put in?”

  “It doesn’t work unless the answers are genuine,” I say. “Don’t tell me your soccer buddies put in answers for you.”

  “They did,” Ethan says.

  “What?” I yell, earning a glare from the librarian. “You’re supposed to fill in your own quiz!”

  “The answers were all mine.” Ethan grips his hands together nervously. “Kevin, Brad, and the other guys—they asked me questions without telling me what it was for and filled the quiz out for me. Said they wanted to see if there was anyone weird enough to like the real me.”

  “Well, there is,” Noah says. “Except Teá isn’t weird—she’s cool.”

  Ethan sucks in a breath, then releases it slowly. “How’s there anyone who likes soccer movies from the eighties in Mayfield that isn’t my dad or my uncle Mark? Much less someone as pretty as Teá.”

  “Relax, we’ve checked,” I say. “Her answers are legit. You guys were a nearly perfect match on the values and priorities section. And the memes and the free-form section, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Like, she said that her best friend is her rescue dog from Buddy Dog—a yellow dog with a curly tail.”

  Ethan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I love Buddy Dog—we adopted my dog, Noel, from them. It’s wild that she has a dog from the same shelter.”

  “Would you like to try another intro with her?” I ask gently.

  “What’s the point?” Ethan asks. “The look on her face when she saw me…” He glances at his phone, and his face drops. “Yup, the app says the introduction has been declined.” He squints at us from under his hair. “I totally messed this up.”

  “We could try to talk to her,” Noah says. “I’m not sure she declined because of you personally. I think your stupid friends scared her.”

  “I don’t want to bother her again. And anyway, this whole thing makes me nervous. I’m not an expert on”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“‘dating.’”

  Figures. Ethan, who’s compassionate and kind and admired by almost everyone at school, is nervous about talking to a girl. He must have the beginnings of a crush on Teá; otherwise why would he care?

  “I have some ideas,” I say. “Maybe it’ll go better if you guys run into each other doing something you both like. Like at a soccer game, or the animal shelter…”

  “Too bad Woofstock got called off,” Noah says. “Would’ve been perfect.”

  “What’s Woofstock?” I ask.

  “The annual fund-raiser for the Buddy Dog shelter,” Ethan says. “It’s a charity soccer game between the Buddy Dog volunteers and the guys’ team from Rutgers. But Rutgers had a game rescheduled because of weather, and they can’t play.”

  Noah nods. “Sucks!”

  “You know about this?” It’s not the type of thing that he’s usually into.

  “Yeah. We adopted Winston from Buddy Dog. I’m still on their mailing list.” He grabs my arm. “Wait!” I know that look in his eyes. A plan is taking shape.

  “Is the fund-raiser just a game? Or was other stuff supposed to go on?”

  “In the past, there’s been an adoptable-dog showcase at halftime,” Ethan says. “Food stalls. Face painting. But none of that works without the game. It’s the main event.”

  Noah grins. “I have an idea. But I’ll need your help convincing Pinter and the Nunezes.”

  “What’re you thinking?” I ask.

  “That the Mayfield soccer teams could play. People could buy tickets to watch a boys versus girls charity match. The proceeds would benefit Buddy Dog, obviously. And after those dudes”—he points to the door behind which Ethan’s teammates are still making silly sounds—“screwed up your introduction, it shouldn’t be hard to convince them to volunteer to play. That’ll give you and Teá a chance to talk. No pressure. Plus you’ll help raise money for an organization you both care about.”

  I’m grinning. “You’re brilliant, Noah,” I say. “We’ll make it happen!”

  If the first meeting sparks interest, arrange more right away. A promising spark may fizzle if fuel is not immediately added to the fire.

  —THE SHAGUN MATCHMAKING GUIDE

  chapter eighteen

  I look over my torn jeans and faded middle school T-shirt that says WILSON WILDCATS for the tenth time. Aiden did say to dress in something I didn’t mind getting paint on, but I still want to look cute. I send Noah a selfie with a question mark. He sends me back a thumbs-up emoji.

  “Mom, I’m biking to Aiden’s to work on an art project,” I yell on my way to the door.

  “Wait, who’s Aiden?” Mom asks, coming out of her office.

  “Aiden James,” I say. “Remember when you volunteered in the lunchroom in elementary school? He’s the white boy with the curly hair that had to sit at the nut-free table because he has an allergy. Plays the clarinet.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mom says. “What’s he like now?”

  “Older, taller,” I say. “Still into art. He’s in my class with Ms. Furst.”

  “I didn’t know you did projects together,” Mom says.

  “We don’t, normally. This is… something new.”

  “But I thought everything in your portfolio had to be made by you?”

  Honestly, what’s with the interrogation?

  “It does. Aiden offered to show me how to use an art technique I’ve never tried, and I might teach him a thing or two about mehendi. I’ll be back by six, okay?”

  “Text me if you’re running late,” Mom says before ducking back into her office.

  Aiden’s waiting for me in his driveway.

  I’m glad I didn’t dress up, because his T-shirt is covered in paint and his jeans have holes, too. He has a bandanna holding some of his long curls back, which makes him look a bit like a pirate. My heart does a little flip at the sight of him. “You ready to tag some boards?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I hit the kickstand and leave my bike in the driveway.

  Aiden leads the way into the backyard, where a large brown dog with a gray muzzle jumps up to greet us with a howl of joy.

  “Down, Rex,” Aiden says. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries,” I say. “He probably smells Sweetie, my dog. Hey, won’t he knock over your boards or get paint on himself?”

  “Oh, n
o, he’ll go back to sleep after he’s done saying hi.”

  Sure enough, Rex goes to his sunny spot in the grass and curls up while Aiden shows me some huge boards covered with street art in various stages of completeness. They look really complicated. I’m super impressed.

  “Do you just throw those pieces together, or do you plan them out?” I ask.

  “A bit of both.” He hands me his sketchbook. “I usually try and do a sketch first.”

  “These are great!” I flip through the pages, each covered with miniature graffiti art made with markers in every color imaginable.

  Aiden points at one of the plywood boards. “I’m working on finishing this one. Want to help?”

  “I don’t want to mess up your work,” I say.

  “You definitely won’t.” Aiden hands me a spray can of green paint. “Before you start, you need protection. Scarf, hat, gloves…”

  “You’re not wearing gloves,” I point out.

  He hands me a set of rubber gloves and a mask. So much for looking cute. “I’m used to it. Ready?”

  He shows me the basics of tagging, and soon we’re working alongside each other. I try some of my mehendi motifs on the plywood board Aiden uses for practice, giving him a few pointers as I go. I’m used to working in miniature, but I love the feeling of letting loose and creating them on a huge scale, reaching high and wide with paisleys, peacocks, vines, and lotuses.

  Aiden seems to be as blown away by my work as I am by his. “That looks fantastic,” he says.

  “Yours, too,” I say. “Though to be honest, I have no idea what that spells out.”

  He laughs. “It’s wildstyle. You’re not supposed to be able to read the letters.”

  “I love the shadows and shading. And the colors!”

  “Want to add some of your motifs around my letters?”

  I hesitate. “Isn’t that your good board?”

  “Nah. I’ll roll paint over the whole thing and start again tomorrow. This is just practice.”

  “Okay,” I say, excited by the idea. I get to work, swirling paint over the huge board, a lot like I swirl henna over ankles and palms. When I’ve had my fill, I say, “Thanks for letting me waste your paint.”